Free Mickey Slips (Tyler Cunningham Shorts) by Jamie Sheffield Page A

life; to the best of my knowledge he has never gotten a speeding ticket or a been cited for jay-walking before, either. He was deep into the weeds in this instance, and far outside of his comfort-zone.
    “The officer outside my room when I woke up said that they weren’t going to arrest me for punching one of the cops that brought m e in, because I was in an impaired mental state. They could tell that I didn’t know what was going on; but I may have to appear in court for a bunch of other charges related to what happened.”
    “What did happen? Why are you in Syracuse? I’ll be there in a few hours, but why haven’t you called Anne?” I popped open the coke-fridge, grabbed two cans, opened one, and chucked Hope a handful of homemade dog-cookies while I started making mental lists and checking them twice ( not too concerned, as is my way, with naughty or nice ). Syracuse is about three hours away from my base of operations in Saranac Lake, depending on logging trucks and winter-driving conditions.
    “I’m … was … here for a cancer-conference, and I’m reasonably sure that I slept with another woman last night.” He stopped talking to let his last words sink in … to shock me as much as they shocked him.
    They didn’t, not that it wasn’t shocking, ( Mickey worships Anne and their marriage, both the concept and the reality ), but I just don’t shock much in the regular course of events. It was certainly noteworthy, as Mickey had often spoken with disdain about people with ‘disposable’ marriages and lifelong promises that meant nothing; but I was more surprised than shocked.
    “It happens Mickey … it happens all the time. You should call Anne. Call her and tell her everything, or you could call her and not tell her; you could make it work either way.” I prepared myself for his explanation about why he couldn’t lie to Anne, and further, why he couldn’t tell her everything just yet. In a way, I was looking forward to ( and had even set Mickey up to go into ) one of his complex logical discourses on why the right thing to do is the right thing to do, even ( especially! ) when you could get away with a falsehood. I had enjoyed and appreciated exploring these constructs of his over the years, even if I didn’t always abide by them, and I hoped that his launching into one would give him some comfort on what sounded like a pretty rocky morning.
    “Tyler, it gets worse … there was a … he might have been her pimp … and there was video … I think … my brain still isn’t functioning too well, but I keep getting disturbing memory-snippets and flashbacks to this woman and me in bed, and then this guy yelling at me and slapping me and showing me a little video camera and a movie of me and the woman.” When Mickey choked out this last bit he sounded like he wanted to cry.
    “Mickey, I know you are sore and tired and foggy, but this is important … when she showed you the video and camera, what did it look like?”
    “Jesus Christ, Tyler, my life is literally in the toilet and you’re interested in …”
    Mickey, shut up and think … I’m not shopping for a new camera, I need to know this … what did it look like? Was the camera tiny, like a cellphone, or big like one that my mother and father used to have? Did it look heavy? Can you remember anything?”
    “Ok … sorry Ty, I just ache all over and feel so stupid and can’t imagine what I’ll say to Anne or my colleagues or the police. Let me think … it was bigger than a cellphone and smaller than your parents’ camcorder … more like the size of a brick of Bustello ( Mickey drinks lots and lots of cheap/strong coffee that he buys in rectangular vacuum-sealed bags a bit smaller than a box of tissues ). Wait! I remember that she took out one of those little cassettes, and shook it in my face, and said something … I can’t recall what she said … sorry Tyler.”
    “Mickey, you did great … that helps. Now don’t talk to anyone