Mickey

On seeing the sliver of light streaming through a small crack in his window drapes, Mickey was surprised at how late it must be. And how long he had slept! He was about to reach over to the clock the way he did every morning when his body suddenly locked up.

"Ugh..." he moaned. He remembered what had happened the day before, but had hoped the worst of the aches were over. The horse pill they gave him to take before sleeping really knocked him out, but it was only a temporary reprieve. Though his head didn't feel so bad, his shoulders and ribs were now so sore he could barely move.

But move he had to do. He could accept the growling stomach, but even the soreness couldn't stop him from dragging himself to the bathroom and unleashing a gusher of pee. Luckily for him, the bathroom was small and he could gently lean against the wall for what seemed like forever to empty his bladder. After stumbling back to his bed, it looked like he'd have to wait for signs of life from Sara's room before he could get anything into his stomach.

With some effort he was able fumble around and retrieve his phone. He could have sworn that he had just thrown it on the nightstand, and was worried that the battery would be dead. Then he'd really be stranded. Vaguely, he had some memory of Drew doing something with it, but wasn't exactly sure what that was.

When he saw the brightly gleaming battery icon he let out a sigh of relief. `There's always 911 if things get desperate,' he thought and then chuckled to himself.

The only thing he could do was check his phone for messages and maybe look at the news, if he could only get in a position where he could prop up the phone. After some carefully navigating on the bed, it looked like if he laid on his back and didn't move much that he could somewhat comfortably prop up the phone on his chest.

He decided that he didn't want to worry his Mom or his brother, so he hoped that none of them had left any urgent messages that needed a quick response. The way that he felt right now, there was no way he could fake it.

Luckily, there wasn't much of anything beyond what he saw last night. He had been copied on banter between a few classmates and had a few other messages, all of which he could deal with later on. But then he noticed an `Urgent' message from someone who wasn't in his directory.

It was Drew.

`Are you Okay?' it asked. He looked at the time on the message, then at his alarm clock. The message was almost an hour old.

Mickey texted a reply. `A-OK. Sore. But alive. U?"

Almost immediately, his inbox chimed. "Have you eaten?"

Even though he was hungry, he didn't want to bother Drew any more than he already had. There was nothing that he could do anyway. Mickey didn't know where he lived, but he was pretty sure that it that wasn't exactly next door.

'Not yet. Waiting for Sara to wake up.'

Another chime. 'I've got food now,' the text read

'Where r u?'

'At yer door.'

'??? JAM' Mickey typed in.

Even though his body was still creaky, he couldn't quite believe what he had just read. Carefully positioning himself at the edge of the mattress, he slowly swung his feet over the edge, gently landing them on the tattered rug next to his bed and used the momentum to help launch himself up on his feet.

"Ahhh...' he said to himself, happy with the success.

He wasn't looking forward to putting on a pair of pants, but as he was still in his underwear he didn't have a choice. Not being able to reach down, it was more like he had to push his legs into the pants rather than pull up properly, like normal humans.

After getting into what were his loosest-fitting jeans and baggiest sweatshirt, he was about to shuffle toward the door until he saw himself in the small mirror above his dresser. He tried to run his fingers through his hair to tame the worst of the tangled mess, but couldn't lift his arms high enough to reach so quickly gave up on it. And after missing twice, he was finally able to get his feet into his house slippers before he left the room.

When he finally got to the foyer he winced as he opened the door, as the burst of sunlight was such a shock from the dark bedroom.

"How ya doin'?" Drew asked. He was standing there with plastic grocery bags in each hand."

"Still sore, but I'll make it. But what are you doing here? How long have you been waiting?"

"I don't know, a while, I guess," Drew answered. "I wanted to make sure that you had something for breakfast when you woke up so I picked up a few things this morning."

Mickey was still so discombobulated that he just stood there for a second, not knowing what to say, until some part of his normal response mechanism kicked in.

"Oh...um...come on in," he finally replied, opening the door wide. "You didn't need to do that, but...thanks. Can I help you to carry something?"

"Nope, I'm fine. Just lead the way." The contrast between his chirpy response and Mickey's still slurry speech was striking.

"Should I take off my shoes?" he asked, noticing Mickeys' feet.

"Well, we usually do, but no worries if you don't want to.

Drew used one foot then the other to quickly shed his street shoes, leaving him with bright white socks that contrasted with the dark wood floors and old rugs.

"How did the meds work?" Drew asked, as they reached the kitchen and he put the bags on the wooden table. That and a couple chairs were a tight fit in the tiny galley even before any human bodies squeezed in.

"Too well on one hand, and not enough on the other. They really knocked me out, and I'm having trouble pushing syllables...out of my mouth," he said, struggling to raise his hand to his forehead. "But I'm still pretty sore. I guess I can't expect the pharmacy to solve everything,"

"By the way," he continued, "did you put my phone on the charger last night?"

"Oh, yea, I hope I did it right. Did it charge?"

"Yeah, the little battery sign is full and bright, so thanks. Lucky you did, or I wouldn't have gotten your text and you'd still be outside."

Drew just smiled as he started unpacking the bags. "I wasn't sure what you like, so I got a few different things. There's a couple kinds of bagels, with cream cheese and lox on the side in case you like that. There's also some scrambled eggs I got from some café over on Broadway. I could make you a sandwich with a bagel if you want. And there's some fruit and also a couple of different flavors of yogurt, if you like cold food instead."

"Everything should be pretty fresh," he continued, "except the coffee, it's probably cold by now. Um...sorry."

"Drew, please, no apologies at all. You didn't have to do any of this. And frankly, I like all the food that you got. And I don't drink coffee, so whatever temperature it is doesn't matter to me." He waved Drew to a seat and then plopped down himself.

"You're a law student who doesn't drink coffee? Drew asked, raising his eyebrows.

"Yeah, I know it's kind of weird. Not a religious thing or anything like that. I just hate the taste of it."

"I'm actually kind of glad. I don't drink it a lot, either, so I wasn't too sure of what kind to get for you. There's a million choices out there these days."

"But I drink coffee, so at least that won't go to waste," Sara declared as she shuffled into the room dropped into the last empty chair, clad in sweatpants and hoodie with her old college logo.

"Wow, we've got quite a feast here," she said before raising her hand to her mouth to cover a yawn.

"It's more than enough for all of us, Sara. Just look at it!" Mickey said. He was stunned by the selection. And even more by the fact that Drew had even done it.

"This all looks great, and you didn't have to do any of it, so thanks again." Mickey said, looking over the food and then smiling at Drew. "Can you eat with us?" he asked.

"I nibbled a bit outside, but I could eat what you two don't choose. Anything is fine with me, I'm not too hard to please."

"Well, let's see. My brain is still a little cloudy. But since you were nice enough to round up all of this good food, go ahead and pick something," Mickey said.

"No way! Drew replied emphatically. "The point of this is for you to get a breakfast that you'd like. And don't let her pick first, either," Drew continued, nodding toward Sara and smiling. "You're the one who needs to get nourishment for your recovery."

Mickey noticed his smile, but he was also pretty sure that Drew wouldn't back down.

"OK. Well, I have to say that I like both scrambled eggs and bagels. Maybe a scrambled egg sandwich would taste good. I think I'll make myself one of those."

Before he could get up to get a knife for the bagel and spoon for the eggs, Drew pulled plastic versions of both utensils out of the bottom of the bag and proceeded to put one together.

"Oh, I got some bacon, too. It's kind of cold, but would you want that on it, too?"

"Sure. Oh yeah, let me get some paper towels, he said, pushing the chair back to get up. But as he stood, he suddenly felt faint.

He heard the knife and spoon drop on the table and before he knew it Drew had jumped up from the table and his hands were under Mickey's shoulders. "Are you all right?" he asked. "You shook there again for a sec. Did I hurt you?"

"No...no... my shoulders are sore, but that's not it. I don't know why I shake sometimes, but I'm good," Mickey replied. He really didn't know what caused it, but he again felt a tingling where Drew was gripping him.

"You should sit back down," Sara said, as she reached over and held on to his chair to keep it steady.

"Sorry..." Mickey said as he sat back down. "My head just got really, like, um...light."

"That happens," said Sara. "I think that sometimes when you're weak or sick, or your blood pressure is low, the blood kind of rushes out of your head when you stand quickly. So just take it easy and you'll be fine."

Drew bent down to study Mickey's face as he spoke to him. "That's right, there's no need to rush things. You've got a doctor's excuse for classes, and the weekend is coming up, so it's a good opportunity to get some rest.

"Weekends aren't his rest periods, Drew," Sara interjected. "He studies, goes to the gym, plays basketball and then does more studying. That's how you get to be a good student, instead of a slacker like me."

"She's too modest," Mickey answered. "She's hasn't exactly lost eligibility for the law journal these past few months."

"Well, in any case, you need to rest, whether you like it or not. If I have to be the enforcer, so be it." Drew said emphatically

"Um... Drew, Mickey doesn't work for your dad, you know," Sara declared.

Mickey saw Drew wince and glared at her. She was used to the often playful disapproving look from him, but there was fierceness in this one that she had never seen before.

"I think I'll take some of this banana yogurt," she said, trying to change the subject.

But Drew got the message.

"Look, I didn't mean to sound that way, I'm sorry. I just want to make sure that you're going to be all right. You did a great favor for me and I won't forget it." He was looking down at the floor and clearly regretted how he sounded.

"No worries. I understand and I really appreciate what you're doing. Come to think of it, I could use an enforcer."

"I'll just help with whatever I can, Mickey. Just let me know whatever you need," he replied as he raised his head back up, his voice getting back some of its earlier life.

"Will do. In the meantime we should all start eating," Mickey suggested, "I think that you both must be hungry and I know that I am."

With that encouragement, Sara pulled off the foil cover of the plastic cup, while Drew finished making Mickey's sandwich and assembled another for himself as they all chatted through brunch. Drew mentioned that he also played intramural basketball, and the guys talked about Lebron, the NBA and their college team before deciding that they'd try to play together when Mickey was off of the `injured list.'

Because of the soreness in his shoulders, he could hardly get the sandwich into his mouth as it got smaller after each bite. He was barely half way through and was struggling to figure out ways to angle it into his mouth.

Seeing Mickey's predicament, Drew asked, "I can cut it up and then you could just use a fork, kind of open-faced style. Would that work?

"Gosh, I'm really pathetic," Mickey responded, "But that's a good idea. If I get to the point where I have to be spoon fed...oh boy!" he joked.

When their plates were finally empty, Drew again prompted Mickey about what else he could do for him.

"Well, besides food, there is something you maybe could do, if you don't mind," he responded.

"Name it!" responded Drew, without any hesitation.

"Well, before you guys go into negotiation mode, I need to head out to the library," Sara interrupted as she stuffed another bagel into her bag and got up from the chair. "Drew, it was a pleasure to see you again," she said, trying to be polite and a bit nice while enduring a suspicious stare from Mickey. "Make sure this guy doesn't do anything risky while I'm gone."

"Will do. It was good to see you again too," he replied, overlooking her earlier comments and being as polite as he was when he first came in.

After she left, Mickey said, "Well, as I started to say, it has to do with picking your brain, actually. I hope you don't mind. Kind of classroom stuff."

"Gosh, no of course I don't mind. Although there's probably not much I can tell you that you don't know already.

"I'm not sure of that, Mickey responded. "Like, you seemed to know some things about business history in the United Sates and how it affected things. Like how Thomas Jefferson was nearly bankrupt when he died. I'm taking a class in business law, sort of esoteric stuff, but a lot of historic precedents are part of what we cover. I know you aren't an expert in the legal stuff, but you seemed knowledgeable about some of the financial stuff and had some interesting views. I won't ask you about any proprietary secrets," he said, chuckling, "but I'd like to chat with you about it if you wouldn't mind."

"I'd be glad to, Mickey. But, like I said, I don't know what I could tell you that you don't know already. My dad, of course, is the expert. But he has spent time and actually discusses some of that stuff with me when he's `in the chase,' as he says. Each situation is unique, but he's a great believer in knowing history and how people have made decisions in similar situations. Even transactions that happened 200 years ago. Not that I really understand much of financial details, but he's really into digging out that information."

"I'll bet that you know it a lot better than 90% of the people around me at the law school, including the prof. He just seems very theoretical about it - I don't think he actually knows how the deals really flow," Mickey replied before spearing a napkin with a fork to wipe his mouth. Then he looked back up at Drew.

"Your dad must have trust in you to discuss those kinds of things."

"Well, I guess he does. Believe it or not, he sometimes asks my advice, what I actually think about things, not that he necessarily takes any of my thoughts seriously. But he does ask the questions. Maybe it's just a way for him to clarify his thoughts, I don't know. But it is kind of fascinating to be part of it, even a little bit."

"What was your advice on the Lux Internet deal," Mickey asked, intrigued. It was one of Drew's father's most notorious failures in an otherwise long string of successes.

"Well, I didn't exactly say don't do it, but I did try to tell him to be a bit more skeptical about the numbers. I knew that the company hyped themselves a lot about their connection to the youth market, but I personally didn't know anyone who used their apps."

"Well, I'm sure he analyzed a lot of data and had an army of professional advisers who advised on the decision and saw some wisdom in it."

Drew thought for a moment. "You know, Mickey, he does have all of those things. And like I said, he looks at history. But in the end, a lot of this stuff is just gut reaction. You can run the numbers and all that technical stuff forever but in the end, you go with what feels right, especially if people around you reinforce what you think. My step-brothers seemed to believe in it just as much as him, so I guess he felt better about... listening to them."

Drew looked away when he said this, as if embarrassed by what had just come out of his mouth. Mickey didn't follow the lives of the rich and famous, but it was well known that Drew's father had a very glamourous second wife, a media mogul in her own right, who came with two notoriously wastrel sons.

"Well, we could just talk about principles and all that would be really great. Like I said, no trade secrets, but it would really interesting to talk more with you more about it," Mickey replied, moving the conversation off of family issues.

"Consider it on the calendar." Drew replied, picking up his phone and tapping in a reminder to himself.

"By the way, Mickey," he said as he slipped the phone back into his pocket, "I normally, don't like to mention this stuff, but I'll say it to you. In class, I really appreciate that you focused on exactly what I was saying, and you didn't think of me just as some kind of surrogate for my Dad or stepmom."

He continued, "I get it from all sides, and I guess I can understand why. My Dad symbolizes stuff to them, and they have strong feelings about it all. But you really made an effort to help to get the other students out of that mindset. Thanks for doing that."

Mickey paused. He'd been a witness to it all the previous day, both in class and afterwards. It was usually hostile, and if not hostile then sycophantic in way the Drew found even more uncomfortable. From the kids in the class to the protester who tried to assault him, even to the emergency room doctor and to Sara's reaction, this guy was getting hammered all the time. And they obviously didn't just stop with only words.

"I know what it's like to be judged by your Dad," Mickey responded, now looking down himself. It was a spontaneous response. He wasn't prepared to be so frank, and wasn't sure how much more he should say. It was a long story.

Drew looked at him, but seemed to sense Mickey's awkwardness and didn't press the issue. "I guess that we have something else in common. That's good." he answered.

He waited for Mickey to raise his head up again before he spoke. "I need to head to class now, but I'll bring dinner tonight, too. What would you like?"

"I can make something here, Drew, no need. I..."

"The doctor said no activity for a couple days, Mickey," he interjected. "I won't try to be bossy about it, like I have been accused," he replied, giving up a slight smile. "But I'm just reminding you."

Mickey exhaled. "I guess I should take it easy, at least for maybe today. I'm still kind of sore, my shoulders like to remind me. But, if you wouldn't mind, could you...um... get a pizza? There's a place just on Broadway, so it's not a far walk..."

"That would be great Mickey, a pizza would be excellent. I'll go to Sally's and get it. They make really awesome stuff!"

"They're kind of expensive, though. Let me get you some money. I can't let you be buying all this stuff."

"Mickey, no worries. It's the least I can do."

"But you'll need some money?"

"Mickey, I can handle it."

"I know you can handle it. I just want to do my share."

"You did your share yesterday, Mickey. It's my turn to take care of things."

"But..."

"When you get better, you can take us both to that Italian ice cream place that just opened."

"I feel like I'm taking advantage of you and I don't want to do that."

Drew shook his head. "Mickey, to be honest..." he sounded like he was going to say something very serious, but then closed up. "Mickey, it's just nice that you offered."

"Wow, it's almost 11 o'clock!" Drew exclaimed. "I can't believe it's that late." He was trying to keep his voice down.

"Me neither," Mickey responded, his voice equally hushed. They had eaten and talked, watched sports and channel surfed for over three hours, with a only a quarter of a pizza left out of the huge box that that Drew had lugged from the gourmet pizzeria that he liked so much.

"Do you have to go?" Mickey asked. He immediately caught himself, thinking that maybe that sounded suggestive. "I mean, you can stay as long as you want and all, I'm not going to throw you out," he said, getting a chuckle from Drew.

"I'd like to stay, Mickey. But you need to get some sleep and you won't get it while we're talking here. That's the doctor's orders, as I recall, not mine."

Mickey slumped back in his chair. He was strangely depressed at the thought of Drew leaving, but assumed that it was maybe a side effect of the meds. They had talked and bantered ever since he had arrived, and had outlasted Sara who had gone to bed an hour earlier because of an upcoming exam the next day. The whispering orders had come from her.

"Yeah, you're right," Mickey answered. "Actually, I'm kind of tired myself," he said as he carefully got up from the chair. His arm was shaky as he tried to stretch it out to pick up the empty box.

"Whoa! No way! Let me get that," Drew said, as he quickly reached over and picked it up off of the table. "This thing is way too big for the fridge, I'll get some bags or wrap or something and put the leftovers into the fridge."

"Take some for yourself, Drew. It looks like you really liked it."

"Maybe I will" he responded. "I do like that place, but it appears that we both do, so I'll only take half." As he was speaking he took the box into the kitchen and started dividing up the leftovers.

While he was there, Mickey went to the bathroom to relieve himself. After zipping up his pants, he glanced at his array of bed-time preparation equipment. He had the usual stuff like toothpaste, toothbrush, floss, comb, etc. but there was another special item, too.

Each night, he had to apply a cream to the wounded side of his face to keep the skin moist, or it would feel dry and itch all night. It helped to prevent any infections, especially if itching caused him to scratch too much. It wasn't a problem on most days to just reach up and rub it in and be done. But tonight, anticipating the worst, he squeezed some of the cream onto his hand and tried to reach his face.

"Ugh...ugh..." he grunted, trying to be quiet both for Sara and to not concern Drew.

"Damn!" he whispered to himself.

"Mickey, is something the matter?" he heard from the other side of the door.

He swallowed deeply. He had such a great time tonight, and suddenly this happens. "I'm OK, just having a little problem with...some stuff."

"Can I help?"

It was a huge dilemma for Mickey. His facial scars, though obvious, were at the same time his most intimate characteristic. And only his mom and brother had ever helped him with applying the cream. He felt frozen until he again heard the voice from the other side of the door.

"Mickey, let me know that you are OK. I'm not leaving until I hear you say that."

There was still silence.

"Are you on the can?" "Um...no," Mickey replied, softly.

The lock didn't work, so Mickey froze as he heard Drew turn the handle and then the creak of the door.

"What's the matter?" he asked as he saw Mickey standing at the sink, his right hand shaking in mid-air.

No answer.

"Mickey, tell me what's going on," Drew pleaded, his one hand still on the door. The bathroom was so small that he could only open it halfway before it would hit Mickey, who seemed stuck in place.

Trying to clear his throat before he spoke, Mickey took a moment to actually say something. He stared straight at the mirror.

"I...uh...need to put some cream on my face every night, it...helps." He couldn't explain the details and reasons and had to push out the other words. There was such a difficult story behind it all that he was afraid he might break down and struggled to continue. "But I can't put it on because I can't...um...raise up my arm high enough."

"If you don't mind, I could help. I'd be glad to. Let me do it, if someone else could actually do this for you."

"It's...it's a lot to ask, Drew. I'll try to use a spoon or something, so don't worry. "

"Mickey, that's not going to work and you know it. I realize it might be hard for you, but let me help. I would be really glad if I could do something. I'm sure it's not easy, it's obviously pretty personal. But let me give you a hand."

Mickey relaxed his arm and put it down by his side. "Are you sure?" he asked, still reluctant to look at Drew.

"I'm sure," he responded.

"If you can...I need this stuff here rubbed on the uh...scarred side of my face.

"Just tell me how I should do it."

Mickey finally moved over and allowed Drew to open the door all of the way as he explained to him how to apply the crème and how much to use.

"Are you ready," Drew asked after finishing the preparations, his fingers wet with the gelatinous mix.

"Uh huh," Mickey responded.

"I'm going to put my left hand on your shoulder to steady myself, OK? Drew said as he reached over. Mickey shook again.

"I just felt you quiver. Did I hurt you?

"No, I mean yes. I mean I'm OK. I don't know what it is. Maybe your hand was cold, I'm not sure, but keep going. We're good."

"All right, here goes," Drew said reached over started to apply the balm.

Mickey felt like Drew's fingers were much bigger than his moms, about the same size as his `little' brother's hand, a little brother who was now 2 inches taller and 40 pounds heavier than him. But his touch was really gentle, more like his mom's hand. It was usually awkward and a little messy when either of his family members did it, but Drew was very careful and seemed to have a light touch, perfect for the job.

After his initial instructions Mickey didn't say a word. He was just standing there content, almost daydreaming as Drew worked the cream into the small folds, wrinkles and crevices that were the landscape of that half of his face.

"Mickey?" he heard Drew call it. It jarred him out of his trance.

"Oh yeah. Sorry. I'm here."

"Well, I think I'm done. Does it feel OK? Did it hurt at all?"

Mickey looked in the mirror. His face was shiny in all the right places. And the feeling, what feeling he still had on that part of his face, was all good, too.

"It looks and feels just right, Drew. Thanks. Thanks so much. That was a lot to ask of you."

Drew reached over to put the cap back on the toothpaste-like tube before he started to wash his hands. "It was nothing, Mickey, really. I just hope I didn't press too hard or anything like that. But it was no problem, except that this stuff is pretty gooey."

For Mickey, it had sort of had the look and consistency of semen, but he didn't dare say that now. He could only respond, "Yeah, it is pretty funky. Maybe if it had different scents, like lavender or peach. I'll have to ask the dermatologist about that the next time I see her."

"Sounds like an idea for a start-up," Drew responded as they both laughed.

Drew had used his dry hand to roll up his sleeves before starting to clean up, which gave Mickey a close-up view of his arms. Even relaxed, he could see the veins coming out around his wrist, surrounded by an even pelt of blond hair. The muscles pulled and flexed as he twisted his hand under the stream of water.

It was all Mickey could do not to reach out and stroke the skin, not only because it seemed so hunky and masculine, but because of how gentle and soft it was, too. It was the only way he could really say, `thank you.'

But he just sighed instead.