Free Changing Michael by Jeff Schilling

his cheeks. Michael was very red. “You should try a little rouge once in a while.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œNever mind. Just say, ‘See you later.’”
    â€œOkay, see you later.”
    â€œNo calls, please, unless it’s an emergency. I don’t like the phone. I’ll find you when I’m ready for Stage Two,” I said.
    Turning to go, I almost plowed into Dennis. Dennis lives down the street from me. When we were kids, he used to come to my house once in a while, until his mom found out about the Dennis Game, which involved sticking Dennis in a tomato cage and sliding in as many tomato stakes as possible. Eventually, he’d cry, and my mom would come running.
    These days, we say “Hey” when I’m unable to avoid him in the neighborhood and occasionally exchange forced small talk when I inadvertently find myself walking next to him in-between classes. By this point, he’d probably have forgotten all about it, except that, on the rare occasions our social paths do cross, I like to bring it up when he’s chatting with a nice young lady.
    â€œDude, that was Michael ,” Dennis whispered.
    â€œYep.”
    â€œWhat the hell?”
    Something came to me as we walked. Not Stage Two. More like Stage One and a Half.
    â€œMichael’s a badass,” I said.
    â€œWhat?!”
    â€œDidn’t you hear?” I said. “He got jumped last night and beat the shit out of three guys.”
    â€œNo way.”
    â€œNathan was there,” I said.
    I don’t know Nathan very well, but he’s the kind of guy who always seems to either witness or participate in any/all events of interest.
    â€œHe saw it?”
    I gave Dennis a few more vague details, then headed for my seat. Even though I was still working on the home front, why not plant a few seeds for the upcoming school campaign?
    I sat in Astronomy and considered Stage Two. People like Gut aren’t very complex; their world is black and white and no in-between (and I’m not talking about the racial stuff). For example, I can already tell you that Gut likes classic rock. I can also tell you what he thinks of music that isn’t classic rock. Gut loves his Chevy or Ford or whatever “American” car he drives.
    Gut knows what men do and what women do and gets very uncomfortable when somebody moves across the line. Take employment, for instance. Men lift things. Women cut hair. Men fix things. Women care for children. Computers are baffling. Men who work with computers are suspect and, at the very least, probably effeminate.
    It’s fairly easy to knock someone like Gut off-balance, but it’s also easy to make him angry. He’s the statue and we have the crowbars. Tip him a little too soon, however, and he might topple backwards on you.
    I took out my notebook. Michael needed to develop a sudden interest in classic rock—Boston, Eric Clapton, Steve Miller. Michael needed to infringe on Gut’s territory a bit more.
    But it was awfully hard to think with the teacher yammering away. I propped my book up in front of me and put my head on the desk. I’m guessing that most social workers aren’t expected to perform their duties while fighting off the side effects of an Astronomy lecture. (There are quite a few, but the explosive diarrhea is the worst.)
    Oh . . . and Michael needed a nickname. Spike . . . the Hammer . . . something completely inappropriate.
    For some reason, “Ducky” popped into my head, and I knew I was falling asleep.
    I wondered when my teacher would come out of her trance and realize half the class was asleep. Probably just before she retired. That’s what they should give people who can’t sleep—an Astronomy lecture. I let go and began to float, hoping I wouldn’t end up in a puddle of drool upon my return.

Tuesday came and I decided I needed a day without any Michael work. I deserved one after the racing victory. I