February 1969.
Mike had been living with Micky for the past 4 months since the breakdown of his marriage. His wife and their two young sons had recently moved out of the house they once shared with Mike, but Mike was in no hurry to move home. Instead, he was having the entire house re-modelled. While it would've been easier for him to buy somewhere new (it's not as if he couldn't afford it), he loved his house and it's location. However, he was having it gutted and "starting again" in his attempt at erasing the memories of all that went on there; the rows, and the hurt he caused his wife with his cheating ways.
When Phyllis announced her and Mike's marriage was over, Mike fled to Texas for a month before returning home in an attempt to build bridges. When that failed, Micky was kind enough to offer Mike somewhere to stay for the foreseeable future. It was no bother to Micky; he had a huge house and he liked the company. Not that Mike was the best company in the world.
In fact, recently things were beginning to become strained. Micky annoyed Mike; Mike annoyed Micky.
Micky had a couple of buddies over early one evening. Peter, who had left the band a few months previous, was back in the city for the weekend, and Micky was keen to have a catch-up. Davy also joined them, as although Peter had left the band, there was no ill-feeling between them.
They were sat in "The Den", an average sized room filled with faux-fur rugs, pillows, scented candles, incense and other random pieces of hippy memorabilia. This was a room Micky designed in which to relax, a place to chill out, smoke some weed, and enjoy good company.
Mike wandered past the doorway to The Den after returning home from one of his long drives.
"Hey! Come join us." Micky called through.
Mike paused in the doorway, looking into the room at Peter, who he hadn't seen in months, and Davy, who were both just staring at him.
"No thanks." Mike replied bluntly before walking off.
Micky rolled his eyes.
"Charming as ever, I see." Peter said sarcastically, taking a hit of his joint.
"I don't know how you put up with him." Davy added. "He's a right miserable sod."
"Hey come on now, give him a break." Micky responded in Mike's defence. "He's having a hard time."
"And whose fault is that?" Davy asked. "It's about time he got over it."
"You know he still hasn't seen that kid of his." Peter added, shaking his head. "I spoke to Nurit before, he hasn't even been in contact with her."
"Well it can't be easy." Micky said, finishing up his joint. "I don't even dare try talking to him about it. He's so weird; he doesn't really talk about anything."
"He needs to get a grip." Davy said, unsympathetic. "And he's so bloody rude."
"Not all the time." Micky replied. "And he pulls his weight around the house. He's alright sometimes."
Peter scoffed. "Sure, I believe that."
"He is!" Micky protested. "Look, I'll get him to join us. Maybe if he has a smoke he'll relax a bit."
Micky got up, making his way out of the room. He found Mike in the kitchen, sitting at the large table, reading a magazine about cars or something like that.
"Hey, you should join us," Micky begun, causing Mike to look up. "Peter's got some seriously weird records, like some real psychedelic stuff, I really think you'd dig it."
"I'm fine here, thanks." Mike replied, looking back at his magazine.
"Come on, man." Micky sighed. "Have a smoke, I've got some good stuff, it'll do you good."
"I'd really rather not." Mike responded, not looking at Micky.
"You haven't seen Peter in months though. He's only in town for a while." Micky protested.
"Micky, I ain't interested." Mike said, getting frustrated. "Go back to your friends and leave me alone."
"They're your friends too." Micky argued. Mike ignored him. "Fine, whatever. Please yourself."
Peter and Davy didn't stay late; Peter had other friends to catch-up with, and Davy had a date with his girlfriend Linda.
It wasn't often Micky had nights in. He was always at some party or another, or some club or bar, or maybe seeing a band. Mike was often irritated by Micky's lifestyle, although he was unsure why. He was always annoyed hearing Micky stumble home drunk at 3, 4, or 5 in the morning - and sometimes even later than that. It irked him. It wound him up. It got under his skin. He was especially annoyed when Micky brought girls back, and that happened fairly often too. Micky was far from quiet, and neither were the girls he took home.
Mike didn't like it. In fact, he hated it. And instead of getting used to it as time went on, it actually bugged him more and more. Maybe he was jealous that Micky could be so carefree; Micky had no responsibilities. He didn't have anyone judging him, and he didn't have to answer to anyone.
Mike's life was different. He was technically still married. He had two sons...well, he had three sons. The love-child he fathered with another woman was something he tried to sweep under the carpet. He resented himself for hurting his wife, for betraying her, for breaking her heart. He was ashamed, and he spent every waking moment trying to understand why he did what he did.
And then there was Micky, without a care in the world. Yeah, that's right; Mike was jealous. Jealous that Micky was so free. Micky, everyone's best friend, always the life and soul of the party. A good guy. In fact, a great guy. Everyone liked Micky. What wasn't to like? He was funny, he was entertaining, and he would bend over backwards for any of his friends. He was so nice offering Mike to stay with him. Micky didn't seem to judge Mike. Micky didn't seem to think Mike was an asshole, not like everyone else did. Perfect Micky. Perfect, annoying Micky.
But Micky was starting to lose his patience with Mike. Mike kept himself to himself, which was fine. Except that was starting to bug Micky as much as Micky's partying annoyed Mike. It frustrated Micky. He wanted Mike to join in when he threw parties or had friends over. He wanted Mike to talk about his troubles - he wanted to know what Mike was thinking. He didn't know why, but he was strangely fascinated by Mike; He always had been. Mike was nothing like Micky. Micky wore his heart on his sleeve; if he was in a bad mood, everyone would know why. Mike wasn't like that, and Micky couldn't understand it. He could see Mike was facing some sort of inner battle, and he wanted to understand it. He wanted to get inside Mike's head.
Later that evening, Mike was still sitting at the kitchen table, reading the same car magazine. Micky walked in, and went straight for the refrigerator.
"You want a Coke?" Micky asked, pulling out a can for himself.
Mike looked up. "Sure." He replied. Micky chucked him a can, which Mike caught. "Thanks." He went back to his magazine again.
Micky cracked open his can, and sipped it. He stood there, watching Mike. Mike, who was staring at the magazine in front of him, yet his eyes didn't seem to be moving.
After maybe 10 seconds or so, Mike looked up, feeling Micky watching him. He felt uneasy as he looked at his friend. "What?" He asked defensively.
"Nothing." Micky answered, taking another sip of his Coke.
Mike went back to his magazine, but Micky carried on watching him. Mike could still feel Micky looking at him, and he started to feel incredibly uncomfortable.
He looked up again. "What are you lookin' at?" He snapped.
"I'm just wondering how you can read the same magazine for like, three hours." Micky said casually. "That's the same magazine you were reading earlier."
"So?" Mike asked defensively. "It ain't illegal, is it?"
"No, it's just weird, that's all." Micky leaned against the refrigerator, sipping on his Coke.
Mike once again went back to his magazine. Micky couldn't help himself; he carried on watching Mike.
Mike knew Micky was watching him, and as much as it was weirding him out, he decided to ignore it. Micky was like a child, Mike thought, and the best way to handle him was to simply ignore him.
"What ya reading?" Micky asked after 30 seconds of silence.
Mike slammed the magazine down on the table, looking at Micky in annoyance. "Ain't you going out tonight or somethin'?"
"Nope, not tonight." Micky shrugged.
"Make's a change..." Mike muttered.
"You didn't answer my question." Micky continued.
Mike took a deep breath. "Can't you leave me in peace, boy?"
Micky could tell he was winding Mike up, but he couldn't help himself. "I was just trying to make conversation."
"Well I don't want conversation, I want to read my goddamn magazine in peace." Mike snapped. "Ain't you got some party to go to or some blond to fuck?"
"I told you, I'm staying in tonight." Micky answered, cool as a cucumber. "I thought we could hang out."
"Why?" Mike asked, exasperated.
"Because we never hang out." Micky replied, almost sadly. He snapped himself out of it though. "I've got some really good weed."
"Well you go smoke it then." Mike told him. He was getting worked up, but he wasn't sure why.
Micky sighed, almost defeated. But he wasn't about to give up yet.
"Peter said he'd seen Nurit." Micky begun a little cautiously, knowing this could be a seriously bad move.
Mike's head snapped up, and anger filled his brown eyes. Micky knew he was on shaky ground.
"She says you still haven't been in touch with her, you know, about the baby..." Micky continued. He was nervous, but he had a habit of saying the things that other people wouldn't dare say.
Mike rose to his feet. "That ain't none of you damn business."
"Look, man, I'm only trying to-"
"Save it." Mike walked right up to Micky and stared him straight in the eye. "I mean it. Stay out of it."
Micky stared back at Mike, and it was almost as if Mike's facade started to slip.
Mike broke their gaze, and went to leave the room.
"It's not just going to go away, you know." Micky carried on. Mike stopped in his tracks, his back still to Micky. "I just think if you talked about it, I don't know, it might help."
Micky looked nervously at Mike's back. He was absolutely still. Micky could visibly see Mike take a deep breath, obviously trying to keep his temper in check.
Mike turned to face Micky. He looked angry, but not as angry as Micky feared. "Stay out of it, Micky." He said calmly.
"Come on man, I'm just trying to help." Micky sighed.
"I don't need your help." Mike snapped. "I don't need anything from you."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Micky asked, a look of confusion on his boyish face.
Mike started to panic. "Why don't you give me a break, huh?" His voice raised in volume. "You're like a goddamn child, you know that? All your stupid questions, do you know how fucking annoying that is? I was minding my own business, trying to read a goddamn magazine, and you start going on at me, going on and on and on...why won't you just shut up for once?"
Micky was slightly taken aback, but Micky being Micky wasn't about to drop it. "I wanna help." He replied almost sheepishly.
"What makes you think you could help?" Mike's face was screwed up, as if he was completely bewildered by Micky thinking he could be of any help to anyone. "What do you know about anything? You just fuck around, get drunk, do whatever the fuck you want. You're a stupid kid, you have no idea about real-life, responsibilities, real grown-up shit. You ain't been married, you ain't got kids. You don't know what it's like to have a hard time, you've had it easy your whole goddamn life! What makes you think you could help anyone?"
Micky was sensitive, but it wasn't often he was genuinely hurt by something someone said. This time though, for some reason, Micky was hurt.
"You're right." Micky replied, almost matter-of-factly. "What do I know about anything? I have always had it easy. I mean, losing my dad when I was 17, that was easy. Hearing my mom and my little sisters crying themselves to sleep every night, that was easy. My whole life has been a total blast, I don't know anything about real-shit. So just fucking ignore me."
Guilt smacked into Mike like a freight-train. He felt awful. "Micky, I-"
"You know what, fuck you." Micky snapped, slamming his can of Coke on the counter. "Everyone's right about you. I always say, "hey, Mike's not so bad", but it's bullshit, because you're a fucking asshole."
Mike put his hand to his head, rubbing his left eye as if he had a splitting headache. He had rarely seen Micky angry, and he didn't like it. He didn't like being the cause of it. Micky's soft features, those almond shaped eyes looked all wrong. They were filled with anger, and laced with sadness. Mike had made him sad. Micky was never sad; he was always happy. Mike felt a mixture of emotions in the pit of his stomach, and it spooked him. He felt spooked by the whole situation. It was bizarre. It made him feel deeply uneasy. He wanted to apologise, but he didn't know how.
Before he knew it, Micky had walked out. Mike just stood there, taken aback. Micky could get fiery when he felt deeply about something, and that's what shook Mike even more: that Micky had obviously felt deeply about Mike's situation. Micky had cared enough to get involved, to try and help, even though he knew he'd probably get shit for it. And he had gotten shit for it. Mike had given Micky shit for trying to be a friend, for trying to do what nobody else bothered to do; for trying to help him.