Now that Micky and Peter were out of the way, I sat down on the couch. I shut my eyes and thought of Mike. I found myself sensing what he was sensing. Uh-oh, I thought. I didn't want this. Mike'll probably be able to sense that I'm there. But something else inside of me told me to stay with it. So I stayed. I saw that his legs hurt, probably after walking all night, I thought. He was a little wet, since it'd still been raining the night before. But he seemed to be okay. Tired, but physically alright. But I couldn't get out of his head. Not that I was prying, I just sort of was stuck there, mesmerized by the thoughts of another person running through my head. (Well, they were really in his head, but still.) I could sense his emotions as clearly as if they were my own. He felt a lot of emotions. I could see why he needed to get away. There were too many of them. He felt guilt. That was the strongest emotion. I couldn't tell why he felt it, though. And he felt regret. I could tell why he felt regret. Regret for leaving his friends in the middle of a problem. And more guilt. And a little fear because he didn't know what he was getting himself into. And more guilt. Mostly guilt, though I couldn't tell the reason for half of it. After that came the hard part. I had devised a new theory on how to get out of these trance like states. I pictured an inanimate object in the house and focused on the chair that I'd been sitting on. I was right. When I focused on the chair, my eyes opened and I found myself sitting back where I'd started, on the chair in the living room. I was thrilled. I grinned from ear to ear at my successful mission, until I remembered what the mission had been. I thought for a moment, remembering, when my thoughts were interrupted by a voice calling from the kitchen.
"But Micky, I've seen Mike make these a hundred times and he doesn't use worchester sauce in eggs," Peter was complaining, nearly yelling.
"I know that. And I'm telling you, that it's just gonna make 'em taste better," Micky said.
"Better? With worchester sauce in them? Not hardly!" I grinned at the amusing scene. It was interesting to see someone argue with Micky other than me.
I entered into the kitchen just as Micky lifted the bottle of worchester sauce over his head, moving it out of Peter's grasp. "I'm telling ya, man, it's just gonna make them taste better," he was saying.
"And I'm telling you that it won't," Peter was saying, as he tried to grab the bottle from Micky's hand. I could barely contain my laughter.
"My Aunt May used to make worchester sauce eggs all the time," Micky said, indignantly. "And they tasted fine." He gave Peter a Look. Not a stern look, but a look that said, with mock seriousness, 'so there.' I'd seen Peter use this look lots of times, but on Micky it was hilarious. I couldn't stop laughing. I was almost rolling on the floor in giggles. Micky and Peter stopped arguing and looked at me angrily, but then realized how silly the scene must have looked, and began laughing also.
When we'd finally calmed down, I made a diplomatic suggestion. "Okay Micky, how about you make eggs with that stuff for you, and if Peter doesn't want to try them, that's okay." Micky nodded an agreement, still smiling widely.
"You wanna try some of my eggs, Davy?" he offered generously, but I politely declined the offer.
"No, that's okay, Micky. I'll just stick with regular eggs." Micky pretended to be hurt for a second but I thought he looked so silly I burst out laughing and that made him do the same.
When Micky finished cooking the eggs, the conversation turned serious again.
"So," Peter asked, with his mouth half full. He stopped and swallowed before continuing. "What did you find? Anything?" He drank a glass of orange juice and waited for me to answer, preparing himself for terrible news.
I swallowed the gulp of orange juice I'd just taken and nodded. "I can't tell where he is at all. I can't even get a mental picture of him. But I can sense what he's feeling, and he's not worried about food or anything material," I said, taking another bite of my eggs.
Micky spoke up. "What's he feeling?" he asked, his mouth still full of worchester sauce eggs. I looked at him, wanting to say something about eating with his mouth full, but decided against it because I didn't feel like starting an argument.
I swallowed the bite I'd just taken. "Guilt," I said. "Mostly guilt. I don't know why, he won't let me know, but mostly guilt. Also a bit of regret for leaving us, and a little bit of fear because he doesn't know what he's getting himself into. But mostly guilt. Hey, do you fellahs have any idea why he's feeling so guilty?" I asked.
Peter and Micky exchanged glances. For the first time in my life, I saw Micky put down his fork without finishing his food. "I-I don't feel good," he moaned.
"Ha!" Peter said, loudly, triumphant. "I told you it wasn't a good idea to put that stuff in eggs." That was what his mouth said, but his eyes conveyed another message. I mentally scanned Micky. It was just as I thought. There was nothing wrong with him. I could tell by his emotions that he was faking it. As Peter slowly led the 'ailing' Micky upstairs, I thought about why Micky would fake such a thing. Then I remembered the silent message Peter's eyes had conveyed to Micky. It was a bit of relief. They were hiding something from me, I knew, but what? I decided I'd find out.
When I finished breakfast, I cleared the table and washed the dishes. It was supposed to have been Peter's turn, but he was aiding Micky, and I didn't want him to know I let on. So I cleaned the dishes. (Believe me, worchester sauce is not easy to get off of plates) When I was finished I went into the living room. I found Peter, sitting in the large reclining chair, thinking. I tried to read his thoughts, so I could find out what they were hiding from me, but unfortunately, Peter wasn't that dumb. He had somehow blocked his thoughts from me so that I couldn't read his mind.
"Peter?" I asked. He blinked a second and then looked up at me. "Do you know what today is?"
"Um, no," he replied.
"It's Tuesday," I answered. "Do you know what that means?"
"I don't know. Is there a show you want to watch on or something? "
"No," I said, beginning to feel impatient. "It's your turn to wash dishes. "
"No," he replied. "Tuesday's Mike's day. I'm Wednesday."
"Yeah, but Mike's not here," I said. "That means the schedule moves up a day. So it's your turn."
"Oh," he said simply. "I'm sorry. I'll go do them now." I shook my head.
" I already did them," I said. "So, that means you have to cook lunch. Because I did your job, you're going to do mine." He nodded, reluctantly. Just then the phone rang. Peter got up, strode across the room, and picked up the phone.
"Hello," he said, cheerful spirit unbroken. Then he winced and held the phone at arms length away. He squinched up his face. "Yes, sir," he said when he returned the phone to its normal spot. "I know, sir, it's just that..Yes sir, I understand. Yes, it's just that we can't because...If you'll just listen.." I could tell that Peter's normal happy disposition was starting to fade. "But sir, we.." He winced his face again and hung up, sighing. He took a few deep breaths in an attempt to calm himself down. "We have a small amount of monetary troubles," he said matter-of-factly. "We need to produce our monthly rent payment or we'll be evicted. " I looked at Peter and blinked.
"Huh?" I asked. I had understood that, it was just that I wasn't used to anyone using those words, especially not Peter. He must have been upset.
"We need to pay the rent or he'll kick us out," he said, simply.
"But how?" I asked. "Mike's not here, and we've been effectively disabled for the past few weeks." Peter shrugged. I sighed and headed for the door.
"Where are you going?" Peter asked. I shrugged.
"Somewhere to think," I said, shutting the door and heading for the car.
Back at the pad, Micky emerged from his room, unable to stand the strain of staying in one place for more than a few minutes. He stood at the top of the stairs, quietly listening for any signs of life. He tiptoed down the stairs, slowly, and stopped at the bottom, still listening.
"Peter?" he asked.
"Don't worry, he's gone," Peter said.
"Who was on the phone?" he asked.
"Landlord. We have to pay up or we're being evicted," Peter said simply. Micky looked around the room.
"Um, Peter? Where are you?" he asked.
"In the closet," he replied. "Looking for boxes."
"Boxes? What for?" Micky asked, walking into the closet.
"Because we certainly can't pay the rent, and that means we're going to have to move," Peter said, bluntly. "So, I was looking for boxes to help pack things in." Micky looked shocked. Leave the pad?
"That and I need something to do. If I don't do something, I'm going to go nuts," Peter added, but Micky didn't hear him. He was still in shock over having to leave the pad. Peter took the box he found and headed up the stairs. Micky was still standing still, hypnotized over Peter's statement. Then the phone rang.
"Hey, Micky, could you get that?" Peter asked. The phone continued to ring. It rang a third, fourth, fifth time. "Micky?" Peter asked. He sprinted down the stairs, and picked up the phone.
"Hello?" A pause. "Hello?" There was no response. Apparently, the other end had hung up the phone before Peter had been able to answer it. "Micky?" he called. He went back into the closet. Micky was still in his hypnotic state, staring at nothing.
"Micky?" Peter asked again. He waved his hand in front of Micky's face. Micky began to mumble, quietly and incoherently to himself. "Oh, no Micky, don't do this to me. Not now. C'mon snap out of it." Then, he thought for a second. "Micky, maybe I was a little premature in saying we'd have to move out," he said.
It worked like a charm. Micky blinked and looked at Peter. "Well, what are ya doing standing around for? Don't we have something that needs to be done?" he asked. Peter sighed, and left the closet. Micky followed him.
They had been moping around for about a half-hour, doing nothing, when the phone rang. This time, Micky picked it up.
"Hello?" he asked. Then he stood and listened. "You what??" he asked, barely managing to keep his voice under a scream. "How? Where? With who? Are you okay? Aw, gee man, why'd ya have to...? What? Really? Wow. Well, I hope you can find a way home, since...." he paused and chuckled quietly to himself. "Okay, see ya around." He hung up the phone and turned to Peter, who was looking at him oddly.
"Hey Pete, we don't have to worry. Our money troubles are over..for a little while anyway. All we have to do is wait for Davy to get home from the auto-body shop."
Homeward bound, if you click here, you will be, homeward bound..
