Date: Sun, 18 Mar 2007 22:07:09 -0700 (PDT)
From: Matt Wess <cow91387@yahoo.com>
Subject: Michael: Part Three

      Michael lay in an apathetic state and, sitting up to move his
pillow, stared without recognition at the blue wall of the bedroom.  When
he stopped looking at the wall he lay back to sleep, and awoke after
violent yet unrememberable dreams to see the grinning face of his best
friend Adam, hovering above his vision.  He knew it was no use fighting
against the cold weight of his nameless malady, or asking how it came
about.  He did not ask whether he was in such a knocked-out state because
he had drunk too much last night, because such a fact was clearly evident
by the dark circles around his eyes and piercing headache.
      He was in Adam's house.  Michael blinked a few times against the
light.
      "My mom is making breakfast," Adam said, still looking down at
Michael.  "If you're interested."
      He heard the rattle of plates and cups from downstairs, people
walking the streets, radios piercing the air from neighboring houses.
The bedroom window was open allowing a gentle autumn breeze to waft
through.
      Unless he was mistaken, today was Sunday.  The last day of the
weekend.  Tomorrow he would be back in school.  He sat up slowly, feeling
as though if he sat up too quickly his head would explode and he might
vomit.  He couldn't remember for the life of him how he arrived at Adam's
house.  That question was the first one he managed to ask.
      Adam laughed.  "It wasn't easy.  I searched all over that party
looking for you.  I told you at the beginning of the party you would
crash at my house."  He wandered over to his dresser and tossed Michael
one of his clean shirts.  That's when Michael realized he wasn't even
wearing a shirt; he hurriedly pulled on the shirt.  "I eventually found
you passed out in a random bed upstairs."
      Suddenly Michael's stomach clenched.  If there was one thing he
remembered about last night it was the time he spent with Dylan in bed.
Had Adam found him in bed with Dylan?  Michael became nervous.  What must
Adam think of him?
      "It was hard to wake you.  You kept on telling me someone else was
with you and you couldn't leave them, but I am pretty sure you were the
only one." Adam said, as if he read Michael's mind.  "Eventually I
successfully got you back here.  Last night was rough.  My parents don't
know a thing though, which is better that way as you could imagine."
      "And what about Rosa and Carlos?" Michael asked, suddenly
remembering about them.
      "Got that covered, too.  I had my mom call them this morning to
explain that you had spent the night here, well that's half the truth!"
Adam added, noting Michael's look of skepticism.
      He rolled his eyes.  "And I'm sure they believed that."  Michael
could hardly imagine the ruckus that his non-biological parents were
creating.  He would rather stay at Adam's house, but knew eventually he
would have to return to the wretchedness of home.  Michael fell back on
his pillow, releasing a heavy sigh.  On some mornings Michael collapsed
in the most utter despair.  He would lie in bed almost weeping, cursing
the family with whom he lived.
      Adam's mother's voice came fluttering up the steps, interrupting
Michael's train of thought.  "Boys! Your breakfast is getting ice cold!"
It wasn't an offer to eat; it was more of a demand.  "Starving child in
Ethiopia would have enjoyed this hot," she said as we trudged into the
kitchen.  As a career, Adam's mother was a high school principal.  And
while you may think that it would be a laid back job, it was the quite
the opposite.  She was constantly stressed out at home and at work,
rightfully so, too.  But she frequently looked after Michael.
      He ate breakfast, but did not say much, did not fight the
tumultuous lake and whirlpool in his mind.  He never thought to do so,
but waited unknowingly until things cleared.  Every part of his brain
seemed to have separate and private pain.  It was the typical feelings of
having a hangover.  He had a feeling Adam was going through similar
agony, but maybe not as much.
      Adam's mother stood by the oven watching them eat, sipping coffee,
and after a few minutes' reflection walked to the table and refilled
their glasses of juice, saying: "Your father had to run out this
morning.  I'll tell you, ever since he got that promotion the phone is
ringing off the hook.  I'm not saying that his getting the promotion was
a bad thing, not at all, it helps keep this house running."
      Her rambling was not helping Michael's unbearable headache.  He was
glad once she went to go fetch the laundry.  Then, bent over their
breakfast plates, the two of them began to smirk and then broke into a
low chuckle.  "Dude," Adam said, stabbing at his eggs, "I'm sorry I
brought you down here.  I didn't know she would increase our headaches."
      Michael waved away his apology.  "Cheers," he said, smiling, and
together they clinked their glasses, laughing.

After a few hours spent at Adam's home, Michael stood up on creaking legs
and slowly walked home.  The day was cooler, suggesting that the world
was holding it's breath before plunging head long into the chilly days of
winter.  He climbed the steps to the top floor of the apartment building,
advancing quietly up each step so as not to make any warning sounds.  He
turned the knob; the door was locked.  He heard a chair moving, quick
steps, the locks turning-click! click! click!-and then the door opened.
      "About time you got home," said Joseph, Michael's younger brother.
"Boy are you in trouble."
      He slid back to the couch, rejoining the rest of the family.  On
the television was an episode of the Cosby Show, Theo was arguing for his
freedom, but his parents were not allowing him.  Standing there waiting
for his punishment, he heard Rosa speak in a dry voice.
      "We are not concerning this boy.  He has no concerning for us."
Nobody looked at him.  Carlos, who was usually the one to do the yelling,
just sat there with his back towards Michael.
      He sauntered into his room, closed the door, and lay down on my
bed.  In his head, he saw last nights party.  The bedroom.  Dylan's tone
body in his red boxer briefs waiting for him on the bed.  Their sexual
emotions breaking free from their bodies as their lips locked, running
each others hands down their chest.  Michael's hand found the entrance
through Dylan's Hanes waistband.  The second beat to the story went like
this: Michael couldn't remember.  His hand went limp, leaving his strong
penis fully erected as he tried to remember the rest of the story, but
nothing came to mind.  So he merely replayed the part he very well
remembered over and over in his head like a movie, until his body tensed
up, a short gasp escaped his lips and his body shuttered slightly.
      Michael folded his hands behind his head, and with an exasperated
sigh stared up at the ceiling.  Suddenly there came a knock on his
bedroom door.  "Go away," he muttered.
      But his Aunt Maude was never told to 'go away.'  She opened the
door gently and proceeded into his room, shutting the door behind her.
"May I sit?" Without waiting for an answer she sat gingerly down on the
edge of his bead.  He felt the mattress sag under her weight.  "Well, you
don't have any fresh scars which is a plus."
      Michael rolled over onto his side.
      "I prayed for you today in church, Michael," she blurted out as
though telling a confession.  "I do every day, especially Sunday.  And I
can't imagine what it must be like for a man your age to go through life
without any true parents."  She flattened out her skirt and he could feel
her eyes trying to meet his, but he kept them away from hers.  "I know I
couldn't live without my parents when I was your age.  They use to be
embarrassed of me.  I would choose not to go to church and in my family
that was not acceptable, but I wanted to lead my own life.  Of course, I
realize this is only a mild example of what you kids do today.  Why if I
was ever caught with alcohol I would be out on the streets."
      "Yeah, well, I'm close to it," he responded hotly.
      "That's because you land yourself in these unwelcome predicaments.
If you want to know the truth, they fear you'll be a bad influence on
Joseph."  Michael didn't find this as a surprise.  Joseph was only eleven
and easy to shape and form.
      "My parents thought the same about me," she continued.  "Then my
father died and I'll tell you there is so much I regret ever saying to
him.  The last time he was in our house-before he was rushed to the
hospital that is-I had stormed out of the front door cursing every bone
in his body.  When he died I finally turn towards faith and that kept me
going."  She patted Michael's leg.  "There's still hope for you.  You may
not see it now, but you will sooner or later."
      Michael waited before she left the room before turning back over.
Shadows danced across the ceiling.  His spirit was up there with them,
dancing.  Being free and having fun without him as he lay in a pool of
stagnation.
      With all this, he had neither fear, nor regret, nor shame, nor
self-pity.  He had faced his position, and made a philosophy for
himself.  Being a rebel, he thought, was not his fault, and he refused
either to have any compunction about it or to let it trouble him.  He was
the enemy of society, and quite ready to take to crime if he saw a good
opportunity.  All throughout the year he saves nothing, spending his
surplus earnings on drink, as he did not care about women.
      Reaching into the back pocket of his jeans he retrieved the photo
of his parents.  He held it up to the light, as though he were observing
a magnificent painting filled with joy, hopefulness, and a meaningful
message.  There were his two parents sitting side by side, wearing their
Christmas sweaters.  They were beaming ear to ear, holding a glass of
eggnog.  Michael had his father's shaggy brown hair, but his mother's
deep pools of blue eyes.  Behind them was a glittering Christmas tree.
      The photo was dated December 25, 1987.
      Their last Christmas.
      Their last everything.
      Tears of anguish burned the back of his eyes.  With rage developing
inside him like a lurking monster her angrily tossed the photo across the
room, but it merely floated softly to the ground creating anything but
destruction.
      For the first time in awhile he felt like a helpless teenager.  He
was alone, stuck between the fantasy part of his life and the reality
that eased through his body.  His body ached for alcohol, for the touch
of Dylan again, but for now he was bound to the apartment.
      His stomach grumbling slightly, his head swimming in thoughts,
Michael drifted into an uneasy sleep filled with dreams of his family and
Dylan's perfect body. . .