The boisterous gang of teenagers who sat on various parts of the overstuffed sofas saw Michael walk unsteadily to the top of the stairs, and though they must all have known that he was dead drunk, and seen the danger he would soon be in, no one attempted to talk to him and lead him away from the steps. With several pints of beer flopping around inside of him, he fell from the top-most stair to the bottom.
It was Friday night, the best night of the week. Piled-up emotions exploded in a frenzy of sequences followed by the effect of another strenuous week spent going through the tawdry tendencies known as high school, which lead to the alcohol. Everyone followed the motto, "be drunk and be happy". The boys had their waist around the prettiest looking cheerleaders and laughed at Michael's stupidity. Technically he was still grounded from the party two weeks ago, but his parents allowed him to go out tonight if, and only if, he returned home by midnight.
Well, when Michael sat up at the bottom of the steps, nursing a new wound, it was coming close to one o'clock. His head was spinning maliciously as he staggered to his feet, gripping onto the railing firmly. The floor beneath him was moving and a few cheerleaders witnessed as he pushed a chair back and slowly stepped up to the table, purposefully kicking over filled glasses. Michael's glazed eyes scanned the packed basement, as everyone stared back at him. Some began to chant his name, but the look on his face made it seem like he didn't know what foot to move next. He heard their chanting.
The blur of Dylan's smiling face was down below him. Dylan was hands down the most attractive guy on any sports team. It didn't matter if Dylan knew how to play the actual sport, he could just glance at the opponents and straight or not straight, the opponent would melt. Michael bent down low enough to kiss him firmly on the lips. The glass bottle slipped from his hands and came crashing down to the ground. Dylan could feel the beer soak through his shoes, but an overwhelming urge came over both of them as he shoved Michael's shirt up over his head. A few people around them began to howl as Michael slipped off his pants. In a sexual and drunken rage he swept his hand across the table. Drinks flew every which way, but the moment was so intense and people were provoking them that their exploding emotions were epitomized by their actions.
Dylan was lying on his back on the wooden table, breathing heavily, still smiling slightly back at Michael. Both of their pants were down and the sound of jarring cheers could still be heard along with the ridiculous laughter. Before it went any further, Michael stood up high on the table, rigid, and swaying a bit on the spot, and attempted to help Dylan up as well. Their shirts were somewhere lost in the crowd, but their pants were back up and buckled around their waists. Together they took a bow, as though just completing a show.
More people cheered. The room was spinning violently still, and all of the faces blurred together. Michael could barely make out the cheerleaders who were holding up their own shirts, exposing their firm breasts, as if to say they supported the show. Michael took another bow towards the cheerleader and she chuckled adorably.
Michael made it his business to check his watch. It took him several minutes to be able to focus his eyes, but once he did he managed to read that it was a half past one. Deciding it was time to go, Michael turned back to Dylan who was still standing on the table entertaining a few people. Michael suddenly took Dylan's face in his hands and planted a kiss on his lips. He felt an instant erection in his jeans and before he lost his pants again, he gathered up all his belongings, including his shirt and pushed through the crowd, smiling briefly back at Dylan. Impelled by a strong sense of survival he emerged out of the basement door, sliding his shirt back on.
It was a mid autumn night, warm, with a wind that carried a heavy rain. Michael attempted to clear his head on the walk home. Though he was barely coherent of the real world, he understood that he would be in hot water if he was caught coming home, if his guardians hadn't noticed already that he was still gone. He staggered down the sidewalk, trying not to act conspicuous, while at the same time trying not to feel sick to his stomach. He braced himself as the winds shifted and buckets of rain drenched him in a single downpour.
The apartment building he lived in was in sight. To his relief there wasn't a single light shining from the upstairs windows, which meant his guardians were still asleep. Feeling a rush of gratitude, Michael scurried forward and began to climb the fire escape. Up, up, up, Michael thought as he reflected back to what he could remember of the party, the steps, Dylan, the cheerleader, and then Dylan again. When the two of them are completely sober, Dylan and Michael never even talk or make eye contact, let alone kiss, though Michael always enjoyed using Dylan as eye candy.
Michael was almost at the top. He could see the kitchen window that he has snuck in through before. All lights were still out. He almost began laughing to himself about how sneaky he was.
Out of nowhere, Michael's foot caught the edge of a slippery step; he fell for the second time that night. He felt the hard metal collide with the side of his head as he slipped. His hands grabbed frantically onto the wet hand rail. The insubstantial fire escape rattled violently at his fall. He lay for a second on the steps, listening to a dog bark in the distance, allowing the rain to fall on him, flushing out another wound that he wouldn't feel the pain of until the morning.
That's when the kitchen light flickered on. A heavy lead balloon landed straight in the pits of his stomach as a shadow approached the window. Michael wished more than anything that he would just blend in with the steps. His Aunt Maude threw open the window and poked her head out. Anger was spread across her face.
"Michael! Is that you?" she hissed. "Get up here!" Michael thought that he would rather not go up there, but in reality it was better she found him than any one else, especially Carlos. Obeying obediently, Michael scampered up the last few steps and climbed in through the window, blinking against the brilliant kitchen light. Aunt Maude was thinking along the same lines as she yanked him in through the window, "you're just looking I found you and that your parents sleep like stones." She examined him up and down. "Look at you!" she said in a harsh whisper, her heavy Spanish accent creeping back into her tone. It always did when she was flustered. "You can barely stand on your own two feet! I have every right to just leave you out on the stairs! Eighteen years old and have no respect for his parents," she muttered.
Michael heard this sentence, despite the fact that he missed most of her ranting. He shook his head. "They're not mine." He frowned and pushed his Aunt's hand away from him. "They aren't my parents."
"The hell they aren't, Michael! Now's not the time to debate this. I won't tell your father, but I will tell your mother."
Ignoring her, Michael took a few steps forward and then stopped abruptly. The room started to spin violently like it had at the party. His Aunt was talking again, but her angry face was blurred by his vision. He swayed to the side, then feeling strangely taken up by a fierce power that he could not control he emitted a belching roar over the newly washed floor.
His Aunt Maude shrieked in terror. "Ay mama!" She pushed Michael out of the way. "Go to bed," she said fiercely. "Now! Or I'll wake your father right this moment."
Michael wiped the corners of his mouth. "Go tell him," he said, feeling a lot better. He stumbled off down the hallway that was lined with pictures of Jesus, the Pope, and Mother Teresa. In actuality it was his Aunt's apartment that he and his alleged family were staying in, and his Aunt Maude was big on religion. That would explain why as he headed towards his room at the end of the hall he heard her muttering a prayer as she wiped up the mess.
In the few hours that passed between regaining consciousness and opening his eyes Michael knew he was too ill to actually get up. From time to time he intended getting out of bed to see how he really felt, but it wasn't until well past noon before that was possible. He rolled out of bed with a heavy sigh, realizing that he was still fully dressed. There was a tear on the side of his shirt, but it was nothing compared to his face.
He stood in front of the mirror and delicately touched the scar that ran the length of his cheek. His head was throbbing and for the most part he could barely recall the previous night. The most he remembered was climbing up the fire escape and then something about Dylan caused a slight arousal in his pants, but he couldn't remember for the life of him. Michael scrunched up his face and tried to remember what had been special about last night, yet nothing came to him.
If it was up to him, Michael wouldn't bother to leave his room today. However, the longer he stood in front of the mirror and smelled the scent of lunch wafting from the kitchen the hungrier he became. In the kitchen he found freshly brewed coffee along with various cold cuts. The apartment was strangely devoid of life. He had half expected to find everyone sitting around the kitchen table, waiting for him. But there was no one.
Michael quickly poured a mug of coffee, hoping that he could escape any kind of wrath. Then his non-biological mother, Rosa, came in, her arms weighed down with groceries, followed closely behind his Aunt Maude. They were talking animatedly, until they spotted Michael standing in the kitchen. They both fell silent.
Without making eye contact, Michael grabbed a sandwich and made to leave the kitchen.
"Sit," Rosa said firmly. With hesitation Michael plopped down into a kitchen chair and concentrated on his sandwich. Rosa began unpacking the groceries, with emphasis, slamming cabinet doors and forcefully shoving food into its place. Not once did she turn to face him. "I know," she began in a low quivering voice, "you don't consider yourself part of this family. But for once I wish you would respect our rules and at least pretend that you belonged to this decent-caring-family." With each word she tossed an apple in the refrigerator drawer. "How many times must we go through this? Do you know how lucky you are the police didn't pick you up?"
"It would be for your sake that they didn't," Michael muttered under his breath.
Rosa slammed the refrigerator door shut. She finally turned to face him. "Just look at you. I knew letting you go to that party was a bad idea. What do you think your parents would have said?"
At these words Michael stood up so severely that he knocked his chair backwards. His blood was beginning to boil under his skin, but before he had a chance to respond the front door opened again.
His non-biological father, Carlos came through guiding their eleven year old son, Joseph. Just like Rosa and Aunt Maude had done, Carlos and Joseph stopped short. Though they were both males, Michael looked nothing like either of them. Carlos was something like the god father of the Mexican community. He was heavy set, with little neck, and thinning black hair. Joseph was following in the steps of his father by picking up on the chubby frame, which didn't help much with his baseball practice.
Carlos looked Michael up and down. It wasn't hard to feel the tension in the kitchen. He stared from his wife Rosa, to Michael, then to Michael's scar, then to the chair still lying on the ground. Joseph hurried off to join Aunt Maude in watching a rerun of The Cosby Show.
"What happened to him?" Carlos wanted to know, pecking Rosa on the cheek.
"He fell," Rosa said, hurriedly fixing lunch for Carlos.
"On what? A razor blade?"
"No, no on the fire escape. I-I had asked him to drop the garbage off down below and he fell. No big deal. How was Joseph's baseball practice?" She asked, quickly changing the topic. Michael took this time to slip out of the room before he had a chance to be interrogated any further. He knew that if Carlos knew the truth he would bring hell down on all of their heads. He may even hire a hit man to go after Michael.
Instead of sticking around Michael decided to go take a bath. The athletic lower portions of Michael's body slid further down into the long zinc bath. The water was becoming unreasonably hot, but he gave a sigh of relief, signifying that it was better this way.
The warm vapors began to clear his head. He stared up at the lazy ceiling fan that spun slowly. Outside he could hear the busy sounds of Queens, and then his mind backtracked to what Rosa had said about his parents. The truth was, Michael couldn't really say how his parents would react to last night. He imagined any parent wouldn't approve, but Michael never even knew his parents. Supposedly they are dead, but who was to really say. Rosa, Aunt Maude, Carlos and Joseph were something along the lines of relatives who at the time of Michael's birth were living in America illegally. Michael was their link to legalization. If the cops ever picked him up and discovered who he was living with there would be hell to pay. All of them, except Michael, would be deported.
That's why they absolutely loathed when Michael put himself in predicaments like last night.
But Michael couldn't give two shits. Its nights like last night when he makes his friends. He knew Dylan was involved somehow. At the thought of precious Dylan, Michael slid further in the tub so that the water was up to his neck.
He began to fantasize about what actually had happen. Had he kissed Dylan? Something like that rang a bell. Michael became almost instantly aroused. The head of his penis was breaking through the water's surface. Fresh trickles of sweat broke out on his forehead, ran down his face and neck, and hastened between his small pecs into the water. Within minutes, Michael's free hand was grasping the edge of the tub as the quick motions of his hand displaced some water. The water crashed to the ground. Just as quickly as it had started it ended.
Michael leaned his head against the back of the tub, touching his scar lightly. A short rap on the door startled him out of his fantasy state and before he had the chance to call out, Rosa's voice came fluttering through the bottom of the door.
"Michael can I come in?" Without waiting for a response she pushed the door open slowly. Usually people would consider it an invasion of privacy, but Michael was covered from the neck down and just like she had done in the kitchen she kept her back towards him. She busied herself putting away towels.
"You didn't have to lie to him," Michael said.
Rosa let out a sigh. "To teach you a lesson I should have told him the truth, but for the families sake I decided not to. Oh look at your shirt," she stopped on her way out and spotted it on the floor. She held it up to her. "It reeks of alcohol and is ripped. I think I'll just throw it out." Before she shut the door she turned to face him. "The next time you pull a stunt like this Michael, I won't be as generous. Your father will know the truth."
"My father is dead," Michael retorted. Rosa didn't respond, she just shut the door with a snap.
Of course Michael would never tell anybody in this apartment, not even Joseph, that he had plans tonight. A reenactment of last night? Who knew. One thing he did know is that Dylan would be there as well.