Chapter Two: Preparations
Two things he loathed above all in this world, one of which was having to be patient. He fucking hated waiting, yet here he was, sitting in Mandy's white, dinged up 1995 Camry. Watching out of the passenger's window as he scarfed down his Biscutville breakfast, Mickey contemplated walking into the funeral home. Maybe hurry his sister along. But he didn't because he knew he would only end up waiting in there, too. Only he'd be less comfortable, and be forced to deal with stares. So he finished the plate, then tossed the styrofoam casing, greasy now because of his hands, into the floorboard of the backseat. He wiped his hands, sort of, on his knees, then propped his feet up on the dash, leaned back and closed his eyes.
Mickey was startled awake by Mandy slamming her door as she literally jumped into the driver's seat. Dazed, he sat up and blinked at her, then rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Mandy continued getting situated. She reached into the backseat with her purse, to get it out of her way, then sneered. "God-fucking damn it," she hissed and grabbed up his forgotten trash. She waved the styrofoam in his face. Mickey scowled and grabbed it from her harshly. Mandy rolled her eyes when she looked down at her now slightly greasy hands. Quickly, before Mickey had time to stop her, she violently wiped her hands on his sleeve.
"Bitch, the fuck's your damage?" Mickey snapped, jerking away, trash in hand.
"Could you be less of a pig?" she growled and buckled up. "Go throw it away in the fucking trash can," she continued, now pointing to the one directly in front of their vehicle. She continued griping about keeping a clean car, but Mickey was already begrudgingly getting out of the car and defiantly leaving the trash on the curbside. When he hoped back in and grinned at her hatefully, Mandy slapped his shoulder.
Mickey laughed and shoved her off him. As she put the car in drive, he commented that she should hit the gym if she was going to try and hurt him.
When they returned home, Mandy went immediately to the answering machine. Mickey plopped down on the sofa and stretched out his arms across the back. He watched her over his shoulder. The first two messages were debt collectors for his brother Tony.
"He still on the lamb?" Mickey asked, to which Mandy only nodded, skipping to the next message.
After it played, she repeated it. This time, Mickey, furrowing his brow, stomped over for a better listen.
Mandy put a hand over her mouth and gasped angrily. She looked over to Mickey, who ran a finger across his bottom and lip shook his head.
"They can't do fuck all," Mickey said confidently. "He paid the house off. Right?"
Mandy paused, confused, and turned off the machine. "I thought," she said. "Who the hell knows. He probably used it as collateral for something." Exasperated, Mandy went into the kitchen while Mickey listened once more to the message.
When she came out, she had two beers in hand, her eyes were red and furious, and she was shaking. Mickey finally walked away from the answering machine and stood behind the sofa, taking the beer offered back to him. He noticed Mandy's shaking. Having never been one to comfort anyone properly, he told her he would handle this and to stop being such a little bitch about it. "You worry about the funeral," he said, taking a big swig from his bottle, "I'll go up to dad's bank tomorrow. Fix this bullshit."
Mandy finished her beer and slammed the bottle on the floor. It broke, but did not shatter.
"Jesus!" Mickey spat beer, startled.
"That's easy for you to say," Mandy yelled, standing to face him. She bumped her calf on the coffee table and ignored the pain, "You get to leave after this weekend and go back to your fucking piece of shit studio apartment with your god damned dog and drugged up girlfriend! Where the hell am I going to stay," her voice broke, "if they do take the fucking house?" Mandy shook herself violently and collapsed into a pile of tears.
Mickey stared down at her, mouth agape and eyes wide, beer dangling by his hip. "Shit," he breathed.
"Just get out, Mickey!" Mandy screamed into the sofa cushion. "Get the fuck away from me!"
Mickey huffed and downed his beer in one last swig. "Fuck you," he said and threw the empty bottle into her television. As he stormed out, he saw Mandy chasing after him wildly.
He later found himself walking into the Alibi Room. This was after trudging the streets, trying to clear his mind and not kill the first person to even glance his way. This plan of civility almost faltered because of the memories dragged up by the familiarity of his surroundings. Mickey decided that getting drunk was truly the only solution. So he joined the rest of the losers at the bar because why not? As soon as he walked in, he was overcome by the smell of stale booze and the loudness of various television screens amplified by the voices of barflies. He took the open seat next to a passed out man who was cradling his shot glass. Mickey bellowed at the bartender, whose back was turned as he restocked the cooler. Slowly the bartender stood and tossed his rag across his shoulder. Mickey smirked, immediately recognizing Kevin Ball. His hair was shorter and he had packed on a few pounds. Apparently Kev recognized Mickey. He looked surprised, and leaned forward on the counter.
Kev smirked back at Mickey and raised his brows. "Thought you were probably in prison," he said.
"Yeah, well," Mickey snorted and pulled out his wallet, "not yet." He looked at Kev, and his face relaxed into his usual frown. "Three shots of Vodka," he said.
Kev took his money and gave him the shots. For the most part, Mickey was left alone after that, since it quickly became apparent that being ignored at the moment was his wish.
An hour and three more shots later, Kev pulled the plug on a disgruntled Mickey. As Mickey stood up and began baiting a flustered Kevin, the sleeping man stirred. As the two men argued, the stranger burped loudly and leaned over the bar, grabbing at the half emptied bottle of Vodka.
"Hey!" Kev snapped, turning away from Mickey, letting go of the younger man's shirt and psychotically smiling face, "Frank, I cut you off hours ago," he sighed, "You can't just help yourself."
Grinning goofily, Frank Gallagher, twisted around in his seat. He stood, stumbled, then steadied himself on his stool again. "Kev," Frank began, speech horribly slurred. "We American citizens are taught from birth that the world," he put his hand to his mouth, his eyes bugged, and then he continued, "is our oyster. We can be anything!" He sloshed the bottle, wavering forward. "Have anything! And my money is just as good now as when I came in," he finished, staring at Kev expectantly.
Still standing beside of Mickey, Kev stared back at Frank, dumbly. Mickey snorted.
"Frank, you aren't even making sense," Kev said and confronted him, grabbing the bottle. "Go home."
"Does he ever make sense?" a random woman laughed. With her laughter, the bar erupted into a short fit of hysterics. Aside from Mickey, who sneered as he watched Frank tell them all to go to hell, stumbling to the door. The lush made sure to inform Kev that he would not return; that he'd open his own bar, where men didn't have to worry about cutoffs or last call.
Frank Gallagher. Seeing him brought back a familiar jump in Mickey's chest. A sick feeling. He closed his eyes and breathed heavily through his mouth a few times.
"Hey! Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Kev screamed, putting the bottle on the bar and lurching forward. He grabbed a green Mickey and hurried him to the door. "Puke outside," he said. But it was too late, because Mickey already lost his stomach. Kev groaned, face to the ceiling, and yelled for the woman who had been waiting tables to give him a hand.
When he left the bar after paying off his tab, Mickey considered following Frank Gallagher, who hadn't yet made it out of his line of vision. But he didn't because that was stupid. At three in the morning, Mickey stumbled into his old living room and passed out on the sofa. The next morning, although hung over, he joined his sister for a poorly cooked breakfast, the previous argument forgotten until Mandy wanted to watch television. Two pawn shops later, and Mickey was replacing the set that he had busted.
Sitting in front of the much smaller television, the Milkovich siblings discussed Mandy's living arrangements.
"I'm not living with that druggy whore. Besides, everything I know," Mandy began, fiddling with the pillow in her lap, "is here, in Chicogo. I wouldn't know what to do with myself in Indianapolis."
"Well sleep on the fucking streets then," Mickey snapped, throwing his hands up in surrender. "See if I give two shits."
She glared at him, then smacked him with her pillow. Slowly they smiled at one another, laughing softly. "Fine," Mandy said, hugging the pillow and bringing her knees against her.
