Mikey and the Chickadee Ch. 06

My willingness to listen had, a handful of times, placed me into a peculiar conversation with individuals who, although hailing from vastly different walks of life, each described the same phenomenon. There existed at some point in their past an insurmountable inner-struggle (addiction and negative thought processes were examples) which they had suddenly conquered, not because they fought ruthlessly against all odds and lack of self-restraint, but because the energy input required had mysteriously vanished.

My struggle, if I was allowed to invoke the connection, had undoubtedly manifested itself as a daily, interminable anxiety surrounding work and, more recently, the question of whether or not to move. But over the past couple of days, I could not have been paid to care about my career standing, nor to predict the events that would rain down at the end of March. It wasn't that I had somehow acquired all of the weapons necessary to combat such stressors; instead they no longer occurred to me as issues over which to bother oneself in the first place.

It would be tempting to conclude that Mikey had single-handedly towed me up from the depths, but in keeping with the mysticism surrounding others' similar experiences, I felt he was only an accompanying aspect of my new quieted understanding. The true origin was not something I grasped, but it did not keep me from sleep.

The next morning Mikey looked worse for wear, relative to his regular vigor. I asked him how he was feeling.

"Didn't sleep well last night," he said.

"I'm sorry," I said. "Your text sounded so relaxed."

"I know. I felt pretty relaxed. Just couldn't get to sleep. It happens to me sometimes."

"Maybe it was the nap," I suggested.

He smiled. "I sort of forgot about the nap. Maybe. Naps don't usually do that to me, but who knows?"

We both stood under the eve, scrolling through our phones. I drew peacefulness from the weight of his presence as we silently conducted our own lives.

After we boarded I slid in against the wall of the bus and Mikey fell into the seat next to me.

"I hope you're able to take it easy today," I said.

"Don't worry about me," he said. "I can nap at lunch if I need to. I also didn't have time for coffee at home this morning, so you're seeing me at my worst. In half an hour I'll be fine."

I smiled. "Okay."

"I have to send a couple emails, but I think I'm going to wait until I get to work. Right now I just want to sit."

"What if you fall asleep and miss your stop?"

"That's why I need you to keep me awake," he said. "You ask me a question and then I'll ask you one."

I thought for a second. "How far is your stop from mine?"

"About three minutes," he said. "Will you ever start writing again?"

"Wow, this is really rapid-fire."

Mikey turned toward me, leaning against the back of the empty seat in front of him and gave me an expectant look.

"I'm sure I will," I said. "Where do you keep all of your drawings?"

"In my drawing desk. Or on top of the refrigerator. A few other places. Can I read some of your writing?"

"If I can find it, maybe. Why are you so obsessed with my writing?"

He leaned back and looked up at the ceiling of the bus. "We need a rule that says we're only allowed to ask questions that have short answers."

"That seems a little subjective," I said. "Any question can have a short answer. Maybe it won't be a very good answer, but it still counts as an answer."

"Fine," he said. "I'd like to see your creative side. It makes me feel sort of...closer to someone. Is that short enough?"

"Yes," I said. "How long have you been drawing?"

"Since around fourteen years old. I took art my first semester of high school. When did you start writing?"

"Probably around the same time. At least that was when I started to take it seriously." I paused. "What were you like when you were fourteen?"

He thought for a moment. "Honestly, kind of a wild child. A terror to my parents for sure. I didn't have a lot of focus."

"Really? Did you just sort of grow out of it?"

He smirked at me, wordlessly accepting the fact that I had broken the chain. "I guess you could say that. Or maybe I'm just extra buttoned-down around you."

"No, I think I can see it. You've still got a little wild streak to you."

"That's good. I don't want to turn into some boring...I don't know; can't think of anything."

"Accountant," I offered.

"Right." He grinned. "Thank you. Some boring accountant."

I received a text from Jennifer, the coworker with whom I sometimes took lunch. "If you're looking for inspiration," it read, "Calvin is leaving T