♯ johnny - boy . mp3

     mickey was GOOD with kids. babies, toddlers, children, and pre - teens, he had it down. TO THE T. but when disney channel was replaced with MTV, he was as lost as any. he didn’t understand the various social medias, and until  MYSPACE  made its unlikely return, he never would. all brought to the table by the nurse was facebook, and he’d only recently got it explained to him   –   by a fourteen year old stuck in the ER with a broken femur   –   that it was an outdated forum. so he stands there, coffee cup in hand, watching as a group of teenagers fill the café with laughter and obscure jokes.   “   i am terrible with teens.   ”   he starts.   “   i haven’t listened to rap in three years. i don’t know the lingo.   ”

     hands move with ambivalent familiarity, past the dip of her waist and down the curve of her hips   –   settling there, grip immovable. he’s NOT, though. the world spins, around and around and around, like the  TUMBLING  of a laundromat dryer against his skull, disrupting every thought as it gets entangled with all the rest. the stupid, the bold, and the impossible. physically, he’s not better off. the ground shifts beneath his feet, nearly knocking him off his balance. so he re - positions his sneakers, a wider stance and an embrace unbudging. okay, maybe he’s closer. he definitely is.   “   ––… what do you want me to do about it ?   ”   the implication isn’t  lost  beneath a slurred pronunciation but it is on mickey. a surface level view is what he pays it   –   A BALLSY QUIP  :  juvenile and predictable   –   and though that is the intent, it doubles as something else. double - edged, more than mikhail is capable of comprehending in his drunken haze. the summer night fills the air between them with dew and possibility, and he stands still   –   grin shifting, hands not. 

     his impulse control had never been  GOOD,  but under the usual circumstances  –  there was a buffer of common sense   (   however fleeting.   )   and alcohol dismantled it. piece by piece, mikhail lost good judgment and gained compulsion to act on every whim. it’s a miracle he keeps his balance for as long as he does, and another wonder he lands on the grass below safely. he gestures for emma to  FOLLOW  his lead  –  giving her the audience he himself demanded, and he steps back.   “   you know what they call people like you, ems?   ”   he starts, arms folded above his chest.   “   BULLIES.   ”   melodrama at its finest, but had mickey been known for anything else, perhaps that would’ve been the contents of his dialogue.   “   yeah, that’s what you are.   ”   a dig, albeit childish, made in hopes of juvenile provocation, and as pre - school teacher, emma of all should be equipped to handle it.   “   just a big, mean––   ”   a she slips then, and instinctively, despite inebriation, mickey steps  FORWARD  –  catching her as she meets the ground, being as sturdy as he can.   “   ––… bully.   ”

     ROUGH DAY AT WORK,  it had driven him to the tavern, and as successfully, it had brought him to the bottom of a bottle. back in the days, before break-ups and … un-break-ups, rough days were eased by simply going home  –  to his best friend. now, all that he had, was his  CHILDHOOD BED  and the promise of his father’s temper. not really the most relaxing of scenarios. maybe that’s why he–indirectly–called her, beckoning her to do what she once had, unknowingly, most likely. but the soothing premise of the past isn’t to be found in pleasant conversation, rather the constant  BACK AND FORTH  for which they are known. he pauses now, stopping them both mid-step.   “   whoa, whoa  –  drunk?   ”   he inquires, certain offense persisting, though his voice is majorly made up out of  DISBELIEF. he’s not. TIPSY, maybe. but that was more than a stone toss away from drunk. which was, itself, only a block away from wasted. mickey was in a completely different neighborhood.   “   emma, please… emma, LOOK at me.   ”   the older instructs, gesturing with haphazard movements at weary features.   “   s’this the face of a drunk dude?   ”   yes, it is. he removes himself from her grasp now, crossing the road with little care, to approach an empty bench.   “   i mean, could a DRUNK DUDE do this?   ”   hopping up onto the wooden plank, damp from late night drizzles, one sneaker props itself up on the bench’s back. a horrid idea, really, but he goes through with it regardless. there’s no CHICKENING out tonight. second foot, and he almost falls, arms extend beyond his body and a balance is conjured out of pure luck. it takes a moment for him to stop swaying, nearly dropping down flat on his ass in the process, and then he does  –  with a  TRIUMPHANT  grin at that.   “  … and–   ”  mickey starts, index finger in the air.   “   cue the applause.   ”

    it’s ingrained into him  –  this  LOW TOLERANCE  for liquor, deriving from childhood fear and teen abstinence. he drinks, but not a lot. never to the amount where he is now : wobbling, leaning onto a frailer stature for support. emma’s a trooper, really, to respond to a phone - call made  –  not by him, of course–his password was  LOST  in the drunken haze, and frankly he would’ve been unable to type it with any accuracy, regardless–but by a well - meaning bartender. small towns are good like that, he thinks, they all know who to call.   “   i think that you’re amazing,   ”   he starts, one arm slung over her shoulder.   “   and i mean that in a  COMPLETELY PLATONIC–unless you don’t want it to be platonic ‘cause i could make that happen right away–sort of way.   ”   it’s word vomit unlike ever before, but  LOGICAL THINKING,  and the much needed shame, were held off by a barrier consisting of beer, and whiskey, and some more beer.