Date: Fri, 9 Mar 2007 09:38:51 -0800 (PST)
From: Matt Wess <cow91387@yahoo.com>
Subject: Michael: Part One

      The boisterous gang of teenagers who sat on various parts of the
overstuffed sofas saw Michael walk unsteadily to the top of the stairs,
and though they must all have known that he was dead drunk, and seen the
danger he would soon be in, no one attempted to talk to him and lead him
away from the steps.  With several pints of beer flopping around inside
of him, he fell from the top-most stair to the bottom.
      It was Friday night, the best night of the week.  Piled-up emotions
exploded in a frenzy of sequences followed by the effect of another
strenuous week spent going through the tawdry tendencies known as high
school, which lead to the alcohol.  Everyone followed the motto, "be
drunk and be happy".  The boys had their waist around the prettiest
looking cheerleaders and laughed at Michael's stupidity.  Technically he
was still grounded from the party two weeks ago, but his parents allowed
him to go out tonight if, and only if, he returned home by midnight.
      Well, when Michael sat up at the bottom of the steps, nursing a new
wound, it was coming close to one o'clock.  His head was spinning
maliciously as he staggered to his feet, gripping onto the railing
firmly.  The floor beneath him was moving and a few cheerleaders
witnessed as he pushed a chair back and slowly stepped up to the table,
purposefully kicking over filled glasses.  Michael's glazed eyes scanned
the packed basement, as everyone stared back at him.  Some began to chant
his name, but the look on his face made it seem like he didn't know what
foot to move next.  He heard their chanting.
      The blur of Dylan's smiling face was down below him.  Dylan was
hands down the most attractive guy on any sports team.  It didn't matter
if Dylan knew how to play the actual sport, he could just glance at the
opponents and straight or not straight, the opponent would melt.  Michael
bent down low enough to kiss him firmly on the lips.  The glass bottle
slipped from his hands and came crashing down to the ground.  Dylan could
feel the beer soak through his shoes, but an overwhelming urge came over
both of them as he shoved Michael's shirt up over his head.  A few people
around them began to howl as Michael slipped off his pants.  In a sexual
and drunken rage he swept his hand across the table.  Drinks flew every
which way, but the moment was so intense and people were provoking them
that their exploding emotions were epitomized by their actions.
      Dylan was lying on his back on the wooden table, breathing heavily,
still smiling slightly back at Michael.  Both of their pants were down
and the sound of jarring cheers could still be heard along with the
ridiculous laughter.  Before it went any further, Michael stood up high
on the table, rigid, and swaying a bit on the spot, and attempted to help
Dylan up as well.  Their shirts were somewhere lost in the crowd, but
their pants were back up and buckled around their waists.  Together they
took a bow, as though just completing a show.
      More people cheered.  The room was spinning violently still, and
all of the faces blurred together.  Michael could barely make out the
cheerleaders who were holding up their own shirts, exposing their firm
breasts, as if to say they supported the show.  Michael took another bow
towards the cheerleader and she chuckled adorably.
      Michael made it his business to check his watch.  It took him
several minutes to be able to focus his eyes, but once he did he managed
to read that it was a half past one.  Deciding it was time to go, Michael
turned back to Dylan who was still standing on the table entertaining a
few people.  Michael suddenly took Dylan's face in his hands and planted
a kiss on his lips.  He felt an instant erection in his jeans and before
he lost his pants again, he gathered up all his belongings, including his
shirt and pushed through the crowd, smiling briefly back at Dylan.
Impelled by a strong sense of survival he emerged out of the basement
door, sliding his shirt back on.
      It was a mid autumn night, warm, with a wind that carried a heavy
rain.  Michael attempted to clear his head on the walk home.  Though he
was barely coherent of the real world, he understood that he would be in
hot water if he was caught coming home, if his guardians hadn't noticed
already that he was still gone.  He staggered down the sidewalk, trying
not to act conspicuous, while at the same time trying not to feel sick to
his stomach.  He braced himself as the winds shifted and buckets of rain
drenched him in a single downpour.
      The apartment building he lived in was in sight.  To his relief
there wasn't a single light shining from the upstairs windows, which
meant his guardians were still asleep.  Feeling a rush of gratitude,
Michael scurried forward and began to climb the fire escape.  Up, up, up,
Michael thought as he reflected back to what he could remember of the
party, the steps, Dylan, the cheerleader, and then Dylan again.  When the
two of them are completely sober, Dylan and Michael never even talk or
make eye contact, let alone kiss, though Michael always enjoyed using
Dylan as eye candy.
      Michael was almost at the top.  He could see the kitchen window
that he has snuck in through before.  All lights were still out.  He
almost began laughing to himself about how sneaky he was.
      Out of nowhere, Michael's foot caught the edge of a slippery step;
he fell for the second time that night.  He felt the hard metal collide
with the side of his head as he slipped.  His hands grabbed frantically
onto the wet hand rail.  The insubstantial fire escape rattled violently
at his fall.  He lay for a second on the steps, listening to a dog bark
in the distance, allowing the rain to fall on him, flushing out another
wound that he wouldn't feel the pain of until the morning.
      That's when the kitchen light flickered on.  A heavy lead balloon
landed straight in the pits of his stomach as a shadow approached the
window.  Michael wished more than anything that he would just blend in
with the steps.  His Aunt Maude threw open the window and poked her head
out.  Anger was spread across her face.
      "Michael!  Is that you?" she hissed.  "Get up here!"  Michael
thought that he would rather not go up there, but in reality it was
better she found him than any one else, especially Carlos.  Obeying
obediently, Michael scampered up the last few steps and climbed in
through the window, blinking against the brilliant kitchen light.  Aunt
Maude was thinking along the same lines as she yanked him in through the
window, "you're just looking I found you and that your parents sleep like
stones."  She examined him up and down.  "Look at you!" she said in a
harsh whisper, her heavy Spanish accent creeping back into her tone.  It
always did when she was flustered.  "You can barely stand on your own two
feet!  I have every right to just leave you out on the stairs!  Eighteen
years old and have no respect for his parents," she muttered.
      Michael heard this sentence, despite the fact that he missed most
of her ranting.  He shook his head.  "They're not mine."  He frowned and
pushed his Aunt's hand away from him.  "They aren't my parents."
      "The hell they aren't, Michael!  Now's not the time to debate
this.  I won't tell your father, but I will tell your mother."
      Ignoring her, Michael took a few steps forward and then stopped
abruptly.  The room started to spin violently like it had at the party.
His Aunt was talking again, but her angry face was blurred by his
vision.  He swayed to the side, then feeling strangely taken up by a
fierce power that he could not control he emitted a belching roar over
the newly washed floor.
      His Aunt Maude shrieked in terror.  "Ay mama!"  She pushed Michael
out of the way.  "Go to bed," she said fiercely.  "Now! Or I'll wake your
father right this moment."
      Michael wiped the corners of his mouth.  "Go tell him," he said,
feeling a lot better.  He stumbled off down the hallway that was lined
with pictures of Jesus, the Pope, and Mother Teresa.  In actuality it was
his Aunt's apartment that he and his alleged family were staying in, and
his Aunt Maude was big on religion.  That would explain why as he headed
towards his room at the end of the hall he heard her muttering a prayer
as she wiped up the mess.

In the few hours that passed between regaining consciousness and opening
his eyes Michael knew he was too ill to actually get up.  From time to
time he intended getting out of bed to see how he really felt, but it
wasn't until well past noon before that was possible.  He rolled out of
bed with a heavy sigh, realizing that he was still fully dressed.  There
was a tear on the side of his shirt, but it was nothing compared to his
face.
      He stood in front of the mirror and delicately touched the scar
that ran the length of his cheek.  His head was throbbing and for the
most part he could barely recall the previous night.  The most he
remembered was climbing up the fire escape and then something about Dylan
caused a slight arousal in his pants, but he couldn't remember for the
life of him.  Michael scrunched up his face and tried to remember what
had been special about last night, yet nothing came to him.
      If it was up to him, Michael wouldn't bother to leave his room
today.  However, the longer he stood in front of the mirror and smelled
the scent of lunch wafting from the kitchen the hungrier he became.  In
the kitchen he found freshly brewed coffee along with various cold cuts.
The apartment was strangely devoid of life.  He had half expected to find
everyone sitting around the kitchen table, waiting for him.  But there
was no one.
      Michael quickly poured a mug of coffee, hoping that he could escape
any kind of wrath.  Then his non-biological mother, Rosa, came in, her
arms weighed down with groceries, followed closely behind his Aunt Maude.
They were talking animatedly, until they spotted Michael standing in the
kitchen.  They both fell silent.
      Without making eye contact, Michael grabbed a sandwich and made to
leave the kitchen.
      "Sit," Rosa said firmly.  With hesitation Michael plopped down into
a kitchen chair and concentrated on his sandwich.  Rosa began unpacking
the groceries, with emphasis, slamming cabinet doors and forcefully
shoving food into its place.  Not once did she turn to face him.  "I
know," she began in a low quivering voice, "you don't consider yourself
part of this family.  But for once I wish you would respect our rules and
at least pretend that you belonged to this decent-caring-family."  With
each word she tossed an apple in the refrigerator drawer.  "How many
times must we go through this?  Do you know how lucky you are the police
didn't pick you up?"
      "It would be for your sake that they didn't," Michael muttered
under his breath.
      Rosa slammed the refrigerator door shut.  She finally turned to
face him.  "Just look at you.  I knew letting you go to that party was a
bad idea.  What do you think your parents would have said?"
      At these words Michael stood up so severely that he knocked his
chair backwards.  His blood was beginning to boil under his skin, but
before he had a chance to respond the front door opened again.
      His non-biological father, Carlos came through guiding their eleven
year old son, Joseph.  Just like Rosa and Aunt Maude had done, Carlos and
Joseph stopped short.  Though they were both males, Michael looked
nothing like either of them.  Carlos was something like the god father of
the Mexican community.  He was heavy set, with little neck, and thinning
black hair.  Joseph was following in the steps of his father by picking
up on the chubby frame, which didn't help much with his baseball
practice.
      Carlos looked Michael up and down.  It wasn't hard to feel the
tension in the kitchen.  He stared from his wife Rosa, to Michael, then
to Michael's scar, then to the chair still lying on the ground.  Joseph
hurried off to join Aunt Maude in watching a rerun of The Cosby Show.
      "What happened to him?" Carlos wanted to know, pecking Rosa on the
cheek.
      "He fell," Rosa said, hurriedly fixing lunch for Carlos.
      "On what?  A razor blade?"
      "No, no on the fire escape.  I-I had asked him to drop the garbage
off down below and he fell.  No big deal.  How was Joseph's baseball
practice?" She asked, quickly changing the topic.  Michael took this time
to slip out of the room before he had a chance to be interrogated any
further.  He knew that if Carlos knew the truth he would bring hell down
on all of their heads.  He may even hire a hit man to go after Michael.
      Instead of sticking around Michael decided to go take a bath.  The
athletic lower portions of Michael's body slid further down into the long
zinc bath.  The water was becoming unreasonably hot, but he gave a sigh
of relief, signifying that it was better this way.
      The warm vapors began to clear his head.  He stared up at the lazy
ceiling fan that spun slowly.  Outside he could hear the busy sounds of
Queens, and then his mind backtracked to what Rosa had said about his
parents.  The truth was, Michael couldn't really say how his parents
would react to last night.  He imagined any parent wouldn't approve, but
Michael never even knew his parents.  Supposedly they are dead, but who
was to really say.  Rosa, Aunt Maude, Carlos and Joseph were something
along the lines of relatives who at the time of Michael's birth were
living in America illegally.  Michael was their link to legalization.  If
the cops ever picked him up and discovered who he was living with there
would be hell to pay. All of them, except Michael, would be deported.
      That's why they absolutely loathed when Michael put himself in
predicaments like last night.
      But Michael couldn't give two shits.  Its nights like last night
when he makes his friends.  He knew Dylan was involved somehow.  At the
thought of precious Dylan, Michael slid further in the tub so that the
water was up to his neck.
      He began to fantasize about what actually had happen.  Had he
kissed Dylan?  Something like that rang a bell.  Michael became almost
instantly aroused.  The head of his penis was breaking through the
water's surface.  Fresh trickles of sweat broke out on his forehead, ran
down his face and neck, and hastened between his small pecs into the
water.  Within minutes, Michael's free hand was grasping the edge of the
tub as the quick motions of his hand displaced some water.  The water
crashed to the ground.  Just as quickly as it had started it ended.
      Michael leaned his head against the back of the tub, touching his
scar lightly.  A short rap on the door startled him out of his fantasy
state and before he had the chance to call out, Rosa's voice came
fluttering through the bottom of the door.
      "Michael can I come in?"  Without waiting for a response she pushed
the door open slowly.  Usually people would consider it an invasion of
privacy, but Michael was covered from the neck down and just like she had
done in the kitchen she kept her back towards him.  She busied herself
putting away towels.
      "You didn't have to lie to him," Michael said.
      Rosa let out a sigh.  "To teach you a lesson I should have told him
the truth, but for the families sake I decided not to.  Oh look at your
shirt," she stopped on her way out and spotted it on the floor.  She held
it up to her.  "It reeks of alcohol and is ripped.  I think I'll just
throw it out."  Before she shut the door she turned to face him.  "The
next time you pull a stunt like this Michael, I won't be as generous.
Your father will know the truth."
      "My father is dead," Michael retorted.  Rosa didn't respond, she
just shut the door with a snap.
      Of course Michael would never tell anybody in this apartment, not
even Joseph, that he had plans tonight.  A reenactment of last night?
Who knew.  One thing he did know is that Dylan would be there as well.