Michael's story: Mudo (possible final edit)

(I think this might be the final version of this story! For previous versions, check my fiction index)

Hey. Um...

Hey there. I'm not really good at these things, so I suppose I'll start at the beginning-- or maybe more like the middle.

I guess I'm not all that much of a story teller- I'm more of a musician than anything. Give me a six string that's reasonably in tune and I'm good to go. But give me something to say in front of people and this happens.

I freeze up.

More than just a little stage fright- we're talking the Titanic iceberg kind of frozen. No sound, no words, the occasional glottal stop. Yeah, I can sing. I have a voice that was once compared to springtime, but I can't just walk into a crowded room and spontaneously speak.

I guess I can trace the problem back to the untender age of fourteen. We lived in Hoboken, my father and I, alone after mom ran off to Mexico with her Latin lover. The Mexican just showed up at the house one day--some guy with a Ferrari and an unpronounceable name, a black haired Adonis towering over me by at least two feet. He had the thickest gold chain I'd ever seen around an even thicker neck. My mother bustled out in a flurry of suitcases, her curses and laughter the only goodbyes.

It was just two of us for the first time that fall, and we were still in shock about the whole desertion. I mean, she didn't even like burritos for Christsakes, and there she was heading South of the Border for a life of refried everything. Just me and my father, two tiny specks of leftover nothing in our little side street house.

I inherited smallness from my father. Maybe that's why she left him, you know? Maybe it carries over into... eh... other areas. But he's a seriously tiny man, just barely over five foot with thick glasses that make his face seem hollow. He's like a fucking elf, only with a bottle of scotch instead of good cheer. So I'm small... short, really. But graceful, like a sapling, not stubby and thick like my father. I suppose that's the one thing (other than her credit card bills) my mom left behind- good genes granting me a slender build. I can be grateful for that. Really.

I don't know what I expected from my first day of high school, other than general apathy and a healthy amount of anonymity. We lived in the city after all, and Central High was certainly not a tiny place. Whatever I expected, I was dead wrong. My smallness, far from affording me an opportunity to hide, shone like a beacon to every jock, jerk, and jackass in the building. By the end of my first week, I'd been the victim of nerd baptismal twice, and didn't have a cent of lunch money left.

I had these dreams all through my Central years. My mother would come back from Mexico like a barefoot peasant goddess in a white blouse and colorful skirt. Her unpronounceable lover would claim me as his own son- and I'd rise up from my bed, reborn. I'd be tall, swarthy, and full of exotic grace. The cheerleading squad clambered over me and the jocks gave me a healthy degree of respect. Sometimes I was the star quarterback, sometimes Valedictorian. But always I woke up small, pale and with a terrible case of acne that lasted the better part of my school career.

I remember the first time I picked up a guitar... my father'd been harping on me to get an after school activity so that I'd look good for colleges. He wanted to get on with what was left of his life which was hard to do with me living at home, hanging like an albatross around his bank account. I wasn't smart enough for Chess Club, or athletic enough for Tennis, or interested at all in Science. Band seemed the way to go. Students were encouraged to try out all the instruments so they could see which one 'fit'.

The drums were too damn loud for my taste, and reed instruments have this disturbing phallic quality. I didn't have the lung power for a good blow- trumpets were right out. So there it was, the guitar. The one they'd had for an example in the band room was acoustic and battered, badly out of tune. But when I picked it up and ran my hands down it, I got a real shiver up my spine. It felt right, like I was reaching some sort of epiphany.

My father said no.

Band cost a hell of a lot of money he didn't have. Instrument rental, for one. Then there were fees up the ass. Why couldn't I be smart and take up chess? But now t was in me- the desire to have an instrument to call my own, something that set me apart. I wasn't eating lunch anyhow, so I started saving up my money at home. Sure it meant taking a few more hits, but eventually the guys that were rolling me over got the picture that I was useless and tapped out. Only took about three black eyes and a chipped tooth. I considered that chip a badge of honor.

I bought my first acoustic from a pawnshop. I was sixteen, and feeling the guitar in my hands was so damn orgasmic. I couldn't wait to get home and give her a few strokes. To my surprise, the sound that came out was nothing like music. Apparently, it took more than saving up sixty dollars to be a guitar player. Frustrated, I flung her in my closet for the next year and a half, to be buried under all my future disappointments.

I can't remember what made me dig her out again- I think I was drunk at the time and that was really reason enough. I was seventeen then, and had a job after school bagging at the Quick Mart. My father'd grown sloppy with the keys to his cabinet, and no longer cared what I drank as long as I gave him money for another bottle.

Yeah, I was drunk-- I remember now.

I'd been drinking tequila and thinking about my mother. She'd sent a postcard that year for my birthday. First time in three years I've heard from her, and it's a fucking tourist-card. There's a Chihuahua on the front in a sombrero and a putrid rainbow poncho with the legend 'Viva El Mexico' emblazoned over his head. On the back she's written in her careful hand 'Feliz Cumpleaños.'

I pitched the card into my closet, but it wasn't buried enough. I wanted it down deep, under the coat that I'd outgrown, the badminton racket I'd never used, and the tank from my failed attempt at raising guppies. So there she was, my old guitar-- under coat and above aquarium. I picked her up and strummed any old way, but the sound was beautiful to me now. Maybe it was the tequila talking, but I connected to the moment in a way that temporarily eased the disconnection of the past three years. I strummed until my fingers bled then passed out next to her in a pile of my own vomit.

It wasn't an auspicious beginning to my musical career, but I started using my money for more constructive ways than paying my old man to slake his bottles. I started paying for guitar lessons from this neighborhood guy that was in a band. Kept me good, right through graduation, until that thing in California tried to take it all away. But we won't talk about California. The important part is I came back then left Hoboken again for Perinthus, NY and the university.

By the time I get to college, I'm almost good with that guitar. Not Damn Good, but I'm writing these songs. They're about feelings and mushy shit like that, but at least they're mine. At first, I won't sing them for anyone. But freshman year of college is making me a lot more functional. There are weird people here like me. People who never connected before coming together over how fucked up they are.

On rainy days the lounge is full of people just telling these stories. I am there one of those days with my guitar. That is the first time I let it out in public, the songs that I wrote. By the time I finish everyone is quiet. There is this silence that hangs over us. I felt them all staring. Then like thunder breaking-- applause. The guy from debate club is slapping me on the back, and some girl with hemp in her hair slips me her phone number. I am in among the out.

But I still can't talk to them. Not about anything real. I can sing and I can make casual conversation, but any time I try to talk about something more than the weather and how's-your-cat, I get paralyzed.

Now I'm dating the hemp girl, only she's calling me a fucking fagot for calling our dorm-room sex 'making love.' She wants me to make her feel dirty, like the songs do. I can't do anything but borrow moments because I know she's never really mine. We break up after she throws me a birthday party and I won't play the guitar for her hippie friends. As she's walking off the porch into a sudden spring downpour, I punch my hand through the front window and watch my blood rain its own river. "Feliz Cumpleaños," I shout before slamming the screen door and wishing I could cry.

Most nights now, I dream of future-me out of college, a nine to five cubicle slave. There I am truly anonymous. I half expect to be baptized in the water cooler, and have my co-workers shake me down for vending machine cash. But I dream I drift among them like a ghost. I don't have to talk about anything more serious than being out of toner.

Dream-me plays in clubs, making a name for himself, only the name is Miguel because Michael just isn't all that stage worthy.

When the band makes it big, I am always unprepared for the success. Every woman wants to know me. I am every man's friend. And they all want me to talk...about something, about anything. Reporters and groupies, hanging on my words but even my own dreams betray me – I still cannot speak.

I get invited back to Central high to make a speech. It's the same stage that I got my diploma on some ten years ago. I've got note cards, so I can't screw it up. I've got a writer now who takes care of these things. See, I've had dreams like this before-- where I'm at school giving this talk and suddenly I'm in my underwear and everyone's pointing and laughing.

Today I feel naked as I step up to the podium.

I check my pockets, and I can't find the notes. And then the pockets disappear and I'm in my underwear -- yeah, it's another one of those dreams. In the audience front row center, is my father. He's got this expectant look on his face waiting for sound to come out of me. I'm small and fragile again. I look out, getting ready to say anything, when my mother tangos in with her Mexican. The Chihuahua from the postcard trails behind them. So they're all sitting there now and waiting, even the damn dog.

This is where I usually run off the stage, accompanied by a sitcom-style laugh track. Occasionally, there is the pelt of ripe fruit. A high school class has come in and I see faces that reflect my tormentors from years past. I want to stop speaking, to run again, but this time is different. I open my mouth, and words, spoken, come forth...

"So you've discovered the secret now - that high school is not much different than this so-called 'real world.' We're all still out there -- the losers, the jerks, the jocks and the cheerleaders- and we're all trying to make it, just doing the best we can...."

"Show don't tell, Malone," my English teacher shouts from his third row seat. "This whole damn dream is a cliché – C minus."

I draw a deep breath, summon the strength to continue.

"We all hurt. We're all disappointed. We're all frozen inside and there's nothing like a great bout of apathy to help you never thaw. You think you're so special right now- so important. All your life, you've been the beautiful ones. Ten years from now you'll have broken marriages and tattered hearts. You'll look back to your glory days, telling boring stories that your children won't care about. And one hundred years from now, none of it will matter. Not a single fucking thing. So take your life now- right now while you can still get it, while it's fresh and real and vital - and live! Stop with the endless cycles of hurt and hate and bitter and broke, just open your mouth and speak. Speak up in rage, or in exaltation, but speak. Say anything. Say everything. Silence is only fool's gold. Regret..."

Here I close my eyes, pause for just a moment before looking back into the audience. They've all disappeared except my mother. She's silent, but there's tears in her eyes.

She's mouthing "Lo siento..." The alarm clock rings.