Mikey and the Chickadee

Chapter 8 - Part 3

Half an hour later I knocked on his door and he opened it just a few inches, peeking playfully through at me. "Come in, come in," he said, throwing it open. "You never know who could be roaming the halls at this time of night." He made no indication that I should take him seriously.

I trailed him once again into the heart of his home, where we sat together on the couch. "Your writing," began Mikey quietly. "It's like poetry all the time. Even when it's technically not. And I enjoyed the two chapters but I don't have much to say about them. I just really want to know what happens to Charlotte after she leaves for the bridge. I want to believe she doesn't go through with it."

"I don't know if she does," I said. "I don't think I would know unless I actually wrote it." My attempt at finishing a novel had stalled out not long after it had begun; the speaker contemplated suicide and my indecision regarding her fate was probably to blame for the whole story's demise. How should that crucial millisecond of resolution be dispensed? In what capacity would the narrative continue if she went through with it? These questions tumbled around in my head at the time, the answers for which I had not sought with sufficient enthusiasm. The book died with them.

"I can see why it would be hard to pick that back up, without knowing."

"Yeah," I said. "It's weird. Anyway, I'm glad to hear that you liked what I wrote. I've never really had any feedback like that."

"Who else has read your writing?"

"Nobody," I said.

"Oh. Sorry, I don't know why I assumed." He sat back and looked down at the floor. "Wow."

"I mean, no one else really knows about it, so, you know." I guarded my passion for writing with the same uncompromising secrecy that some reserved for a smoking habit or extramarital affair. This mostly unexamined behavior was atypical of me and felt hopelessly peculiar now that I answered for it aloud.

"Thanks for telling me. That's really cool of you."

"I don't know why I've never told anybody else," I said, taking off my jacket and stuffing it down at my side. "It's not like I think anyone would judge me."

"It's okay. I think sometimes it's hard to know why we do the things we do."

I smiled at this.

"Well, I have been appeased," said Mikey, laughing a little. "Want to watch a movie? All I have is whatever's streaming. I guess I also have some DVDs. Haven't looked through them in a while, though. Who knows what we might find?"

"Let's get them out," I said. "I want to see what kind of movies you like."

Mikey went over to his bed and dragged two small cardboard boxes out from underneath. I joined him and peered down into them after he'd removed the lids. We sifted together through the contents.

"You have a lot of old movies," I said. I recognized many of them as being mid-century films, some even older.

"Yeah. They were my mom's. I watched some of them with her. This was her favorite," he said, handing me a copy of All the Latest Sunshine.

I looked it over. "Actually, my mom and I do the same thing. I like this one. Haven't seen it in a long time. We could watch it if you want to." I stopped myself. "Shit. Sorry. Would it make you sad to watch it now?"

He took the movie from me and examined it. "Sure, we can watch it. I've seen it since she died. It didn't make me sad."

Mikey made popcorn for the occasion and after he was finished we settled in on the couch. Throughout the movie we commented periodically on the idiosyncratic elements of the time.