Oh and another thing: To whoever mentioned in a review that there was a real Mush Meyers, I know that. But the real Mush Meyers would not have looked exactly like Mush from the movie, so I wouldn't have recognized him, would I have? In my story, Mush is the character from the movie, not the actual person. You will learn later why I chose to do it this way :)
Chapter Three: In Which I Play Dress Up with Mush
We make it downtown pretty uneventfully, although Mush jumps every time another car, motorcycle, or pretty much anything large comes into view. I think he's starting to like Madonna, because when "Like a Virgin" came on, I couldn't help but notice his foot tapping to the beat.
Once we park and enter the outdoor mall, however, it's a whole new ball game we're playing. Mush's eyes become so wide, I swear they might jump out of their sockets, and I'm afraid he might get whiplash from how many times he has done doubles take as girls wearing short skirts pass by.
"Are they prostitutes?" he asks in a hushed voice, staring at a blonde wearing a strapless pink dress and four inch high platforms.
"No," I say, "they're teenagers."
"But," he sputters, as a whole group of girls walk by, giggling behind their hands at Mush's clothes and dumbstruck expression, "you don't dress like that!"
I manage to tear Mush away from the teenyboppers and lead him toward the only place I can think of that might sell suitable clothes for him.
"Gap?" he says doubtfully, looking at the super-preppy mannequins in the window. We enter the store, and the front greeter gives us an odd look instead of the usual, "Hi, how are you doing today?" Maybe I should have made Mush take a shower before we came here.
It almost takes as long for Mush to find clothes as it does when I shop for clothes. He soon overcomes his apprehension and tries on with relish as many outfits as he can, until I tell him that if doesn't choose something soon we might get kicked out for making a mess in the fitting rooms. He seems to like Gap's leather clothes a great deal, and looks longingly at a leather jacket at whose price he nearly fainted when he read it. Finally he chooses a pair of khaki shorts, jeans, and some nondescript looking shirts. He seems reluctant once he realizes that I will be paying for all of these clothes, but I assure him that due to inflation, money is worth much less today than it was in 1899. Plus, I say, people will think he's a freak if he continues to dress the way he does.
With his new clothes, Mush attracts much less attention, but he still ogles every skin-showing girl who passes our way. Finally I tell him that if he doesn't stop it he might get arrested, and from then on his eyes look straight ahead of him. We stop at Foot Locker and buy Mush two pairs of shoes and some socks, and, laden with bags, sit down at the fountain at the center of the mall to collect ourselves.
"Okay, now you look like 21st century guy," I say as Mush bravely inspects a payphone, finds it to be safe, and sits down next to me, "but you're still not acting like one."
"Well hows am I s'posed to act when I ain't nevah hoid o' anythin' people are talkin' about? What am I s'posed to do if someone talks ta me?"
"Well, first of all," I begin, "we need to work on your English."
"Whassamatta with the way I talk?" he asks defensively. I take a deep breath.
"People will wonder where you're from and ask questions if you continue to talk the way you do. You'll attract less attention if you talk more...normally. Just try to sound like me. It's 'work' not 'woik', 'never' not 'nevah', 'heard' not 'hoid', and 'haven't ever' not 'ain't nevah'. Got it?"
We practice working on Mush's English for about a half an hour until both of us have headaches and we're both more than a little irritable. To make up for the grueling English lesson, I take Mush to get a treat. He practices his new, relatively correct English at Starbucks, and manages to order himself a caramel frappuccino. After we have paid and collected our drinks, he is in a much better mood, and we take a stroll around the plaza. I point out various unfamiliar sights as we walk, such as the skateboard, the laptop computer (this requires a lengthy, complicated explanation of which Mush soon bores), and we even saw a guy with a mullet, about which Mush agrees with me that the 20th century introduced some scary things to the world.
We wander downtown for nearly two hours, talking and joking, having a good time, and nearly forgetting that only a few hours ago I had been waving a poker frantically at Mush while he cowered on the ground. Now that he has gone for a car ride, shopped at Gap and Starbucks, and seen his first mullet, Mush is much better at getting used to new things, and he barely even flinches when we get honked at while jaywalking across the street. Or maybe he's just too terrified to say anything...
But as I learn more about my young friend, I discover that, despite his obvious trauma at being flung one hundred years in the future, he is cheerful, ever-optimistic, and funny, although some of his jokes even I have to admit are pretty stupid. He tells me about his life as a newsie in Manhattan. When he talks about his friends, a wistful tone creeps into his voice, and when he mentions Jack, his voice is almost reverent. I can tell that his regard for Jack borders on idolization.
"...so I says to him, 'How'd ya sleep, Jack?' And he says, 'On me back Mush!'" Mush bursts into enthusiastic laughter, and hardly notices the serious look that appears on my face.
"When did Jack say that?" I ask, trying not to sound concerned.
"Actually, he said that the day I left," Mush says, his voice suddenly dropping in volume and energy. When look over at his face, I see tears forming in his eyes, and he immediately looks away. I pretend not to have seen, but I reach out and squeeze his hand gently.
"Don't worry, Mush," I say quietly. "We'll get you back where you belong." He smiles and nods, but I have a feeling neither of us truly believes it.
********************
Once we have tired of wandering around downtown, we return home, and Mush takes a shower. While he is busy in the bathroom (I can hear occasional screams of pain as he fiddles with the water temperature) I sit in the family room and, Newsies video in hand, ponder my situation. So the last thing that happened to Mush before he arrived in my back yard was, basically, the first day of the movie. He has met David and Les, and he has no idea that the next morning, Joseph Pulitzer will announce an increase in the distribution price of papers. He is still blissfully ignorant of the sketchy state of his existence.
What should I do? Do I show him the video? Watch him freak out as he sees his life played before him in the glory of a Disney musical? I can't possibly do that. Or maybe I should take him to a psychologist and see if he really is who he says he is--it hadn't even occurred to me before, but he could be lying. Maybe he's just some die hard, nutjob fan who thinks he's part of the film. But then I remember the look on his face and the tears that formed in his eyes when he mentioned his friends, friends he may never see again. And no one, no matter how good of an actor, could do such a good job of pretending never to have encountered a dishwasher before. No, it's no use. Mush is whom he says he is. Or at least, he is whom he believes he is.
But really, I'm just avoiding asking myself the most important question: how am I going to get Mush back where he belongs? During the one year of physics I took in high school, no where did I ever read anything about movie characters spontaneously coming to life and wreaking havoc in ordinary peoples' lives. This is seriously like something out of a Woody Allen movie! What would Woody Allen do in my situation, I ask myself? Probably have a nervous breakdown and find an 18-year-old prostitute, comes the answer. So this line of thought is not helping at all. Suddenly I realize that the water has been turned off upstairs and Mush must be getting out of the shower. I hurriedly shove the video box under the couch. I still haven't decided whether or not I'll eventually show Mush the movie, but one thing's for certain: if Mush isn't crazy and I'm not crazy (which, admittedly, is not indisputable), the answer to our problems must lie in one form or another with the people who first brought Mush into existence--Disney.
Short chapter, I know, but I really need to work on "Blink and You're Gone," my non-ridiculous work-in-progress. Yes, believe it or not, this is the ridiculous one. You probably already knew that though, so thanks for reading and indulging me in my silly fantasies :)