Mikey and the Chickadee

Chapter 8 - Part 1

I spent the first half of Friday judiciously hungover. Marie, Sloan and I ate sushi for lunch (our first meal of the day) at a place near to her condo in Celadon. The sky had remained solidly overcast throughout the night, trapping in a cradling warmth that now accompanied sunlight as the clouds began to part.

We sat out on the restaurant's terrace along with several other souls clamoring for a brief glimpse at weather that wouldn't find its permanence for another couple of months.

"February," said Marie, "I'm beginning not to hate you so much."

"Too late," Sloan said. "March is two days away."

She bore the expression of someone who had been robbed. "That's ridiculous. It's literally not possible."

"It's literally the end of February," he said.

I, too, took unwarranted offense to this revelation. My six week verdict had shrunk surreptitiously to just over one month, a new span of time that felt vastly curtailed.

Sloan sat propped up on his elbows, purple hood pulled up over his head, the top half of his face mostly hidden behind an enormous pair of sunglasses. "Jesus, guys. At least it means summer is one month closer."

We silently agreed.

I returned to my apartment around three o'clock, peered into the closet and fished Mikey's note out of a pocket in the lining of my coat. I lay on my bed, opened it once again and studied the drawing. I discovered no palpable details beyond what I'd observed the first time. However I paid special attention to the way the quick pencil lines had fallen to paper, emerging one by one, less through mindfulness than with an effortlessness that saw me feeling, of all things, pacified. I left the paper unfolded and anchored it with a small, smooth stone on top of my dresser.

I estimated the past day to have spit me out sixty dollars poorer—completely unsustainable, although I anticipated no further haphazard spending.

Mikey texted me about an hour later. "Did you know that Yakima is the Palm Springs of Washington?"

"Could you clarify?" I responded.

"It says so on a billboard outside of town. I can't confirm anything. I've never been to the real Palm Springs."

"I haven't either," I texted. "That seems like a strange comparison though. What compelled you to text me about this?"

"Just thought you needed to know. You're welcome."

"Oh, excuse me. Thank you."

He responded with a smiley face.

I did not hear from him again until just after midnight, when he texted to let me know he'd arrived safely at home. "Sorry for texting so late. I stopped in Seattle to see an old friend. I passed your street when I was on the highway. I wish it had been earlier. Maybe we could have hung out. Hope you are well."

"I'm still up," I texted. "Glad to hear you are safe at home. I am free to hang out tomorrow if you're not busy."

A few minutes later he texted, "That would be awesome. Want to go for a run? I can pick you up if you want."

We relayed a few more messages back and forth, settling on three o'clock because Mikey had work obligations earlier in the day.

As I prepared for bed I recalled a conversation with my dad that had occurred a few years earlier. I'd returned home for Christmas from my first semester at college, where I had morphed into a kind of fortuitous advocate for open communication (something for which my adolescence had hungered in some ways, and by which was completely satisfied in others). I told him how I knew my being gay was not something we had ever truly discussed. I said that if my sexuality made him uncomfortable, we should talk about it. I remembered him foregoing an immediate response to instead stand and tread in his work boots over creaking slats to the fire, where he added a massive piece of chopped pine to the flames, tending it briefly. Once reseated in his worn cloth recliner he turned to me. "If your sexuality made me uncomfortable I would have told you already. That is my responsibility. But it doesn't make me uncomfortable. In fact, I resent the idea that a person's unchangeable qualities would make anyone uncomfortable. That's just not fair, and I hate it."