Michael
We begin in a room, plain—inoffensive. The walls are white with brown trim. The floor is polished hardwood. In the corner is a large plant of vague description. Perhaps it's a fern? Perhaps a ficus? It's leafy with an intense aroma. It's meant to be soothing.
The room's dimensions are slight. It is at most eight feet by eight feet. To its occupants it seems smaller. At the back of the room is a large uncomfortable couch—green with floral pattern—at its center several small circular tables—and at the far side a door and two shelves stocked with books and games and on top of which is an old-fashioned looking radio that, when smacked, can be made to play static. It is a well lit room—wintry light comes in through several windows behind the couch—but an empty room.
Well, nearly empty. On the couch sits a boy—18 barely—with sandy hair and green eyes. He's mostly ordinary. His lips quiver. He holds a cigarette between his middle and his index fingers and smokes it out the window. His eyes are striking—stern but sad—accustomed to being rolled—though now they are unfocused, gazing blankly at a tree in the yard. A younger boy—skinny—not even 18—is the room's other only other occupant. He sits in a wheelchair facing the far wall. His stare is more vacant. His blue eyes pass over and over the wall—the shelves—the radio—and his fingers tap the side of his chair arrhythmically. His head is bandaged. His mouth's agape. He drools slightly. They wear matching hospital clothes. Soft and whiter than snow or swan.
How long have they been there? How long in silence? There's a total stillness in the room which makes telling the time impossible. They know they've been there since that morning. The older boy knows they'll be there until night. The younger passes his eyes over and over the wall. Not a sound but the tapping of fingers and a smoker's cough which breaks at irregular intervals. The older breathes smoke out his nose. The younger passes his eyes over and over the wall. Suddenly the older boy twitches his eyes in the direction of the younger. The younger passes his eyes over and over the wall—the shelves. The older sighs heavily. He takes a long drag off his cigarette. He breathes smoke out his nose. He flicks his wrist and the butt of his cigarette goes out the window. He licks his lips. He swallows his spit. He stands and goes to the younger boy—the younger boy passes his eyes over and over—the shelves—the wall—the radio.
"How ya doing, Sam?" The older asks. The younger taps his fingers against the side of his wheelchair.
"Alright?" The older boy waits for a response. It doesn't come.
"You've got something on your face—it's a little spit—not to worry. It's just polish." The older boy rubs the white sleeve of his white shirt on Sam's chin. When he's done, Sam begins to drool again.
"Man, you're like a fountain." The older goes to wipe Sam's mouth again. The sound of finger tapping stops. His eyes keep passing over—shelves—wall—radio.
"Adam?" Sam's voice is quiet and harsh. Raspy. Like speaking after screaming. Adam presses his sleeve against Sam's face, drying around his mouth.
"Adam?"
"Yeah?"
"How am I like a fountain?"
"Cause you squirt so damn much."
"Oh." Sam considers this. His passes his eyes over and over—the radio—the shelves. They stop. He smiles.
"Hah." The laugh is spoken. He resumes passing his eyes over and over. Adam goes to stand by the window. He reaches into the breast pocket of his white cotton shirt and removes a carton of cigarettes. He pops the top, pushes the cigarettes up from the bottom and extracts one with his mouth. He returns to box to his pocket and removes a lighter. He lights the cig. He puts the lighter away. He smokes his cigarette out the window.
"Sam?"
Sam doesn't respond. Adam inhales and breathes smoke out his nose.
"Samandriel?"
"Adam?"
"Can I ask you a question?"
"Conceivably."
"I mean, may I ask you a question." Adam rolls his eyes. Sam considers.
"Yes." Adam considers.
"Will you answer it?"
"Circumstantially." Adam rolls his eyes back the other way. He breathes smoke out his nose.
"When they—when they did the Men-Mod—when you became an angel—what did it feel like?" Samandriel hears Adam and his pupils narrow to a point. He goes still. He seems very far away.
"Fuck. Did I blue-screen you?" Adam flicks his cigarette out of the window still lit and stands up to go to Sam. Solemnly, Sam speaks.
"I'm remembering." He pauses. "I'm alright." Adam sits back down on the couch and goes into his pocket for another cigarette. Samandriel continues.
"It's…like waking up from a dream for the last time."
"I thought angels didn't dream? They don't sleep."
"They don't. But they did. And the last time you wake up you wake up in a chair; in a room; it smells of antiseptic; there's white light all around you and…it's just like forgetting a dream. Your life. Who you were. It fades. It's unimportant."
"You don't remember anything from your old life? Your name? Your mom?"
"No."
"Favorite baseball team?"
"No."
"Oh." Adam takes a drag off his cigarette. He breathes out his mouth and licks his lips. "I don't have a mom anymore." He looks away from the window, "I never really had a dad." He laughs "And my team's the Twins. Maybe I'm better off forgetting." They settle back into silence for a few moments. He licks his lips again, "Did it hurt?"
"Yes."
"More or less than a trip to the dentist?" Samandriel passes his eyes over and over—the wall—the shelves—the radio—he pauses—then passes his eyes over and over—the wall—the shelves—the radio.
"I have never been to the dentist. I cannot make a comparison."
"Can you describe it?"
"Yes."
"Will you describe it? Please?" Samandriel flickers his eyes. He breathes heavily—unevenly—he gasps. He's remembering. "Or do that. That's pretty fucking descriptive." Adam stands but leaves his cigarette in his mouth. He goes to Samandriel and puts his hands on his shoulders. Samandriel's face turns red. He's sweating. He gasps. He breathes.
"It's—it's like—being strapped to a can't imagine the heat. And the smell. Like burning oil in a pan." At the corners of his mouth white flecks of foam appear. In between words he bites at the air like a child bobbing for apples. "And the feeling! The feeling that at any moment you'll—fall—you'll fall off. Into the dark, into the cold. At a million miles an hour."
"Hey—hey—Sammy—shhh, buddy, shhh…" Adam crouches behind the chair. He links his arms around Samandriel protectively. As his hands meet across Samandriel's chest the angel begins to quiet. "I'm sorry I asked, just calm down. It's all good now, buddy."
"Well, well, well—looks like you boys lucked out on the white uniforms. Helps to keep all the kiss kiss bang bang on the DL." Adam looks towards the door to see a moon-faced woman in a nurse's uniform. Her hair is dark. Her eyes are dark. She winks. And she holds herself with a slight ease into her left hip—so that you know you don't concern her in the slightest.
"One of you Adam Milligan?"
"I'm Adam."
"The top. You know you're really not supposed to smoke in here but I'll keep it our little secret."
"Are you going to help him?"
"Who's he?"
"His name's Samandriel."
"A Wing Jockey?"
Adam's growing impatient. "Yes."
She sneers, "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest is not my assignment. Little Chief Broom-Sticks-For-Arms can chew his tongue off for all I care. He's an angel, it'll grow back." Adam rises outraged. She holds her palm out. "I've been sent to collect you and bring you to Carver-Edlund's Medical building. They're ready for you." Her sneer grows two sizes. She's clearly delighted. Samandriel whimpers. Adam puts his hand on Samandriel's face. It's warm. It's moist. He strokes his hair and rubs his neck. Samandriel eases like a horse.
"If it gets any more Brokeback Mountain in here Jake Gyllenhall is going to drop out of my asshole."
"What's your name? I'm going to report you to your supervisor."
She points to some script embroidered onto the breast of her uniform. "Come on. It's just three letters."
Adam squints. "Meg?"
She wrinkles the skin around her nose, "Ooh, can you fetch too?" Adam glares at her. "Tough crowd. Now you better get into your big boy clothes we've got a car waiting for us. Don't worry about your angel friend. He'll be here when you get back. Angels are basically plastic soda bottles; they'll be here long after we've blown ourselves to shit." Adam turns away from her. He drops his cigarette on the floor and steps on it then kneels down next to Samandriel.
"You good now, buddy?" Samandriel doesn't respond but his face is no longer flushed. "Listen, I've got to go out to get some tests done. When I get back tonight we can watch Glee in the community room." Meg's eyebrows go up. Adam snaps at her without looking, "Shut up, he finds the auto-tune soothing. Jesus, do the words 'easy target' mean anything to you?"
Meg smirks and says dryly, "Republicans."
…
The Carver-Edlund Medical building is not, strictly speaking, a medical building, although certain practices which might be medical in another context were practiced there on occasion. It was more a munitions factory. And despite what one might think during the day when sunlight slanted off its tinted windows onto its green-grass lawns—when family men and women were coming and going, talking about the weather and their children, and their children's birthday parties—when that bronze angel with the trumpet which stood in front of the building was gleaming, its carved in smile triumphant—despite what one might think then it was not a happy place. It was not a good place. And one could sense it. Things happened here. Things which were not inexplicable but unspeakable. Like when poor Jenny Kline ended up with her head in the oven. It was unfortunate, they said. She was such a bright girl, they said. On Fridays she brought cupcakes. And nobody mentioned her work in the lab; her late hours with her boss; what they found in the cupcakes. But it was a powerful place.
Walking in Adam had a vague sense of unease. His nostrils flared a bit as if there were a bad smell, but he couldn't be sure if it were the building or Meg flush against him like his prom date. She held him elbow in elbow when they got out of the back seat of the company car, saying in a singsong voice that "Everybody needs a buddy and your body's my buddy, Angel eyes." She seemed to get off on his discomfort as she flashed her ID badge at two large gentleman in suits that looked uncomfortably tight. They walk in through the front door and across a lobby, black marble with a high arched ceiling, and cold.
"It's a weird looking hospital."
"It's more a research center."
"Oh." Adam falls quiet as Meg leads him by the arm to an elevator. He tries to absorb as much as possible. He's never been in someplace so ornate before. He glances at his plaid shirt, and faded jeans. He watches women cross the lobby in dresses that come to their knees. They're red and black and pinkish-orange and green and from them emerge long legs which end in longer heels. He blinks and swallows. And there are men in three piece suits, their hair cut short, their eyes severe. He blinks and sniffs. And all over there are men and women in doctor's coats and nurse's uniforms. He notices these last. He's seen them before. Meg presses a button, the elevator doors ping then open and they step inside.
"Going up," Meg says grinning, "It must be a nice twist on your usual going down."
The elevator jerks up and Adam slumps his shoulders. "You're not funny, you know. You're a homophobe."
"Really? 'Cause it doesn't look to me like I'm the one getting all hot and bothered. What's a matter—think you like thinking about Teen Angel? Does he make your heart flutter? Or something else?"
"You're just a troll."
"Close but no conceivably phallic object. You must be so disappointed."
Adam blinks. The elevator stops rising and the doors open.
"This is your stop. Hope you've enjoyed the ride. Look for Doctor Mara. To the left."
"I find you very unpleasant."
"You're the 99%, Kiddo." Meg gives Adam a queenly little wave as he steps off the elevator. He makes a different gesture as the doors close and we faintly hear 'My, my, my—what would your mother say?" Adam looks at the floor—white tile, no pattern—and breathes through his nose. He finds himself standing in the middle of a very long hallway. The walls are bare, white and it's quiet. Almost impossibly quiet. Weren't there people up here? Adam turns to the left and walks. He listens for the sounds of his steps, the squeak of shoe rubber against clean tile, but it isn't there. When he reaches the corner he turns left again into another section of hallway at the end of which is a door opening into an office. He lurches forward, leading with his shoulders. The fluorescents trip off of the white walls onto the white floor. Everything's a glare. It's almost like a dream. Adam puts his hand in front of him. He tries to shade his eyes. He hears a voice. A woman's.
"Excuse me, can I help you?" It's melodic—deep and cool—flowing like water over stones.
"I'm looking for…Dr. Mara? I'm Adam Milligan. I'm here about…Michael?"