Free Mickey Slips (Tyler Cunningham Shorts) by Jamie Sheffield

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    SmartPig Office, Saranac Lake, 1/21/2013, 3:07 a.m.
     
    When the phone vibrated in my pocket, I had just broken into ( with some difficulty ) the locked den of a locked house as a favor for my latest client ( who needed some pictures back quite desperately ). I pulled the phone out of my pocket ( not many people have my current number, so I assumed that it was important ), saw that it was a “911” text from Mickey, turned around, and let myself out in much the same way that I’d let myself in. Sheila wouldn’t be happy, but I was doing her a favor for money, and Mickey was my answer to family ( since everyone genetically related to me on the planet had died eleven and three-quarters years ago ). I got back to SmartPig as fast as I could, and called Mickey.
    “Tyler, why are you awake at this hour?” asked a voice that I eventually identified as belonging to Mickey Schwarz. It took me a few seconds to be certain that it was Mickey because his speech was both labored and clumsy ( and neither was the norm for Mickey, regardless of the hour ).
    “Mickey, if you thought I’d be asleep, why did you text me?” I stood up quickly, displacing my rescue beagle Hope, who had jumped onto my chest when I lay down on the couch in the world headquarters of SmartPig, my office, and lair, and home, and bat-cave. As I asked, it occurred to me that Mickey had never called me ( or anyone, as far as I knew ) at three in the morning. I broke back in to cut him off as he started to apologize for the lateness of the ….
    “Mickey, what’s the matter? Are you and Anne and the girls OK? Where are you? What can I do?” These were the four questions that I needed to have answered immediately . His ability to process the questions and answer them succinctly would give me more information about the state of affairs ( within one of the few people on Earth who can elicit something like an emotional response from me ) than the answers themselves would.
    Mickey was in the circle of my parents’ friends who chose to educate their children outside of traditional schooling, by taking advantage of all that they, and the city of New York, had to offer young and hungry minds. Twenty-some years into the experiment, I would argue that it has worked out well for me, as the communal approach was more responsive to my social/educational needs ( peculiarities? ) than either public or private schools would have been. When all the other doors in my old life slammed shut on 9/11/2001, Mickey was the one left partway open. It was important to me that he be all right.
    “Tyler, I woke up in a hospital-bed fifteen minutes ago with a policeman outside the door. Anne and the girls are home, and fine. I’m in Syracuse, New York. I’m not sure that there’s anything that you can do, but I was scared and lonely, and can’t call Anne … not yet.” Mickey had answered all of my questions, in order and efficiently, so he was still essentially Mickey; but, none of his answers made sense given the kind of person that he was … is.
    “Ok Mickey, everything will be fine. Start by telling me about your injuries … were you in an accident?” I wanted to ask about the policeman, but needed to know about his physical condition first.
    “I was apparently in a fight of some kind. I haven’t spoken to the attending yet, but my nose is badly broken, I’ve got a split lip, my right eye is swollen nearly shut, it feels as though a number of ribs are cracked, and I’m sore all over. The policeman said that they responded to a call about a bar fight, found me alone outside of some bar, and took me to the ER to get checked out.” Mickey mumbled this last part, not entirely because of bar fight soreness; he was both ashamed and lost at sea.
    Mickey consults at hospitals all over the country ( and the world ) as an oncologist. I would bet ( if I was the kind of person who placed bets ) that he had never been in a bar fight in his