He changed into khakis and a red polo-shirt, leaving the top three buttons undone and now stood by the door of the living room looking around the decaying room. The wall paper was stained with yellow marks, the coffee table only stood if there was the English- Spanish dictionary supporting its one leg, and every once in awhile to get the television working you had to whack the back.
That's what Michael found his Aunt Maude doing. The many rings on her fingers clunked against the back making a sharp thumping noise. The static suddenly turned to Law and Order: CI.
"Okay, great Maude, you got it," Rosa said from the couch. She was dressed in her terry cloth bath robe, curled up with a glass of ice tea.
Maude straightened up, wiping the dust off of her skirt. She caught sight of Michael standing at the doorway. Rosa craned her neck around, to see what distracted Maude's attention, but seeing that it was only Michael she returned back to watch Vincent D'Onofrio and Kathryn Erbe solve another case.
"You're allowed to join us," Aunt Maude was saying, settling down next to Rosa. "It's a Saturday night and you're still indoors and Carlos still does not know about last night. I think that gives us reason to celebrate."
There were times when Michael was forced to admit that Aunt Maude was actually a nice person. In fact a religious person like herself could be a real charmer, but she did have her pessimistic tendencies, especially during moments like last night.
Taking up on the offer, Michael sauntered over to a lone sofa that ran perpendicular to theirs. Although he could tell the moment he sat down that Rosa was now staring at his scar over the rim of her cup. She sipped her ice tea delicately, still keeping her eyes on Michael as though he would run off any minute.
He planned to run off tonight, but not any minute.
Finally Rosa placed her cup down on the coffee table. "You know Michael, we should really have that scar looked at. It's not looking any better." Michael didn't bother to say anything. "You might even need stitches. What do you think, Maude?"
"I say we wait until Monday to tell. It's too late to contact a doctor now and Lord knows they shouldn't open their offices on a Sunday."
Michael despised being the center of discussion, but he could always count on Carlos to change the subject. Not because Carlos knew how much it bothered Michael, it was for the sole reason that Carlos always thought there were much more important things to talk about. Once upon time Carlos considered Michael a son of his, until Michael hit the adolescent years and learned that Rosa and Carlos weren't his biological parents. Now their son, by birth, was eleven year old Joseph.
And that's exactly what was on Carlos's mind as he came through the doorway, and relaxed in his easy chair. Rosa ran the same question by him about Michael's scar. Carlos shook his head, "No, the boy gets what he deserves. It should teach him a lesson to be more careful next time he takes out the garbage." Rosa previously told Carlos a different story about how Michael got his scar. The truth would send Carlos foaming at the mouth and throttling Michael.
"Well hopefully there won't be a next time," Rosa said, turning to meet Michael's eyes.
Carlos failed to pick up on the emphasis of Rosa's statement. "I think Joseph might be coming down with a cold," he began an abrupt change of subject and at the gasps of both Aunt Maude and Rosa, he continued. "I was helping him with his homework and he couldn't stop coughing. I felt his forehead; he's becoming hotter by the minute. He's in bed now."
Immediately losing interest, Michael turned his attention back to the television and had to stifle a laugh. Vincent D'Onofrio was interrogating a dumb heavy-weight mobster who looked strikingly similar to Carlos.
Michael was getting drunk nearly every weekend. For him the weekend was a long time, insupportable if sober, for he hated his non-biological, good for nothing family, and he hated the feeling of being suppressed by their paranoia of being departed more. He carried a picture of his real parents in his back pocket to help him overcome any feelings of depression. Alcohol and the picture are his escapes. His tickets to freedom and tranquility.
The sun was well nestled behind the western horizon before he slipped on his tennis shoes and noiselessly crept through the dark apartment. He paused briefly in the kitchen, listening intently for any sound of movement from either of the bedrooms. His heart was beating slightly, but he swallowed over his nervousness and without looking back he tossed open the kitchen window and like a predator, so agile and quick, he vaulted over the windowsill. His feet landed softly on the fire escape.
The clear, blue, burning day had ended, and the night was pitch-black and filled with jostling clouds. Hands in pockets, whistling an old tune, Michael strolled down the sidewalks of Queens, leaving the apartment building far behind, both physically and mentally.
Standing on the corner of 76th Road and 137th Street, dragging on his cigarette pensively, was Michael's closest friend, Adam Klein. Adam was the only one who knew the truth about Michael's family. On a number of occasions Michael used Adam's home as escape from his own. The two friends were about the same height, same thinness, and comparable personalities. All these factors and a few others helped to contribute to their friendship.
Adam tossed out his cigarette when he spotted Michael. "All right, you did get out."
Michael nodded. "Alive," he added, and smiled briefly.
"You really did take a beating from those stairs," Adam said, observing Michael's scar. "You should have just come back to my place. My parents enjoy overdosing on night quill; a bulldozer couldn't wake them up."
"I'll have to keep that in mind. Yeah, I really mashed myself on those stairs, but you should get a load of how they look." Michael winked. "I only told you half the story, though." He plunged into the story about the post-party after he had lost Adam somewhere in the crowd. For one reason or another he left out the part about Dylan.
Before either of them knew it, their conversation carried them to the entrance of a desecrated home that was presently vivid with life. The vibration of pounding music crawled up Michael's skin as they knocked on the door and then stepped inside. The door closed behind them. They began to push their way through the mob of people that infested the living room. A lot of people Michael and Adam noticed from their senior class. People waved in their general direction and almost immediately a beer was thrust into their hands.
As Michael began to slip slowly, his eyes scanned the many familiar faces. Adam was talking quickly to Macy Danish. Michael knew Adam had some affection for Macy, but so did a lot of guys. Yet, Macy found Adam's avid gestures and exploding way of talking, cute. She giggled and moved in closer to him.
Checking over his shoulder to make sure that Adam was still preoccupied with Macy, Michael disappeared into the dancing crowd. In more ways than just one he was on a mission. The bottle was being held tightly in his grasp as he maneuvered around the room, and nearly colliding with an already drunken kid, Michael did a quick side step. But the room was so crowded that moving to the left only sent him crashing into someone else.
Startled and slightly disoriented, Michael spun around and found him face to face with Dylan. For a few seconds everyone around them seemed to vanish quickly. Blood was thudding in his ears as he was lost in Dylan's deep brown eyes. And though it must have only been a few seconds, it felt like a few hours that Dylan and Michael stood there, before Michael apologized and quickly walked away.
They were both still sober. Last time they had been completely plastered before any "magic" took place. When they were both in a sober state, nothing was going to happen and Michael had a feeling that Dylan comprehends it. Although, Michael couldn't help but to wonder if anything would happen tonight. Last night had he just been lucky? Was it a once in a life time experience?
He watched from across the room as Dylan was surrounded by a group of hyper-active cheerleaders. The fact of the matter was, Dylan could have any one of those girls drop their skirts in the middle of the room just by looking at them. He had that sexual power that sent everyone's heart aflame. Or at least that's how Michael felt as he surrendered to downing his bottle of beer.
Adam emerged from the crowd, pulling an already drunk Macy along with him. They were both laughing uncontrollably. In one hand Adam was carrying two, ice cold bottles. He tossed one to Michael. "Let loose man," he told Michael, giving him an awkward punch on the shoulder. "I decided tonight you'll just crash at my place and we'll drive a fucking bulldozer just to prove my parents will sleep through anything."
They both laughed.
Within a couple of hours Michael began to feel the familiar sober feeling succumbed to the equally as familiar feeling of being elated and slightly dizzy. The dull lights were too bright, like giant magnets inflating his head to several times its size, burning his eyes into a squint so that he was hardly able to see. All he could use was his senses of touch and hearing. The bodies of the crowded room dancing up against each other, the sound of his laughter as well as Adam's while they consumed another pint of beer.
He was hanging on the shoulder of one of his classmates. They were laughing about something, but whatever it was probably would not be remembered the next morning. Adam had been right in saying that he needed to loosen up. Flashes of Rosa, Carlos, Joseph, and Aunt Maude appeared in the back of his head. For each person he did a shot of tequila and in a snap of a finger their mental images were wiped clear.
"I wish I could forget them when I'm normal," Michael told Macy. They were leaning up against a table watching absentmindedly as Adam staggered off to the bathroom.
Macy turned to face him, her eyes heavy with sleep. "Normal?"
He gestured to the bottle he was holding. "Not drinking this. You know, normal. Leading a normal life. Being a normal person. I've only told Adam about this before. You should feel special." He smiled weakly at Macy and then let out a laugh as she hiccupped.
"Your family is living illegally in the country?" She asked, draining her beer and then placing the bottle off to the side.
"My non-normal family." He fished in his back pocket and retrieved the photo of his biological parents. "Those are my parents. I've never met them." Macy took the picture, studied with unfocused eyes and then handed it back.
"You look nothing like them. You're not even Hispanic!" she shook her head, and gave Michael a firm pat on the shoulder. "Lo siento," she hiccupped and joined in laughing with Michael.
The night wore on. Michael would sometimes search high and low for Dylan, yet he was never successful. He could barely figure out what foot to move next as he danced around to Fergie. And for the most part, when it got even later, he had almost forgotten about Dylan. That had been his main mission on arrival, but it seemed that fate was separating them.
It wasn't until the crowd parted partially. Michael looked up. There lying on his back on a couch, shirt off, was Dylan. A girl was doing body shots off of his abs. His small teenage pecs and quarter sized nipples forced Michael to focus his eyes and in the last moment before the crowd closed back around him, he spotted Dylan tilting his head in Michael's general direction and smiling, revealing perfectly white teeth.
Feeling aroused, Michael excused himself from the group of his friends and headed towards the bathroom, but before he even got close to the door, something or someone snagged his hand and before he knew it he was being propelled forward, away from the crowd.
That's when Michael noticed the bare, tan back of Dylan right in front of him. His eyes followed down Dylan's arm and saw that their hands were linked. He followed, loving him on every second stair, loins aching for his athletic, strong teenage body.
Upstairs was deserted. There were a few stragglers, but they were heading back down stairs and didn't even notice Michael and Dylan nearly rushing down the hallway, heading for an empty room at the end.
Michael's head was spinning, not only from all the alcohol, but a sense of sexual energy was coursing through his body. Holding hands with such a person made him want to cry with joy, but all the while he was trying to savor every single second.
Being drunk made him reckless, but Dylan's sharp appearance and capability to carry himself even when he was plastered, put Michael back on his guard.
The evening had begun, and the evening was about to end. Once they were in the room, Dylan flicked on the lights, shut the door quickly behind them and locked it. Michael looked around the room. They were in someone's bedroom that was stripped of life. Only the two of them were there, laughing at nothing. Just feeling overwhelmed with this elated feeling.
Dylan stripped to his underwear. Red boxer briefs. He bounded onto the bed, smiling back at Michael and laying there waiting for him. Never had an evening begun so badly and ended so well, Michael reflected, pulling off his shirt.