Michael

Michael

By: Chris Fox

Transcribed from: “Michael” by Franz Ferdinand.

Off of the album: Franz Ferdinand.

"It's time to go! Let's go! No more waiting."

"I don't know. I'm really not in the mood."

The night was hot and the room was cold. The AC hummed happily with the attention it was getting in the humid southern heat. It purred like a kitten with catnip, while the kitten Jonah had adopted, who was sitting on the phone, purred a similar mood. I couldn't say I shared his sympathies.

"Alex," Jonah lectured to me with a false sense of superiority, or greater sense of knowledge, or with a great deal of sympathy, I really couldn't tell. "I know that things with Shady..."

"Stanley, Jonah," I interjected. Shady was the nickname Jonah coined for my now ex-girlfriend, Stanley. He knew saying 'Shady' was infuriating to me.

"Whatever," he replied in a faux act of apology. "The fact is this: you have been whining and moaning about your break up with Sha - I mean - Stanley, for almost three months."

"It was a tough thing. Things were tough. Tough things are tough to deal with," I defended, sounding dumber than I did in my head.

"Regardless, it's time to move on! You can't continue to mope around all day and night like a prisoner to her."

"Really, Jonah, the situation..."

"The situation is that you're being a whiny bitch about this, and if I have to drag you back into the real world kicking and screaming, I will. Now I'm going to take a shower and get ready. You better be all dolled up by the time I'm through, because we'll be leaving whether you're ready or not."

Jonah bubbly bounced his way toward the bathroom as I slumped uncomfortably on our lumpy brown couch while the Food Network yammered senselessly about red onions to me. I got angry and smashed the button on the nearby remote. The television changed to the wrong station due to a broken, unresponsive button - CNN. I slammed the remote to the ground, and felt tears well in my eyes as I finally coaxed Discovery Channel onto the glass screen. I couldn't stop crying.

It's pathetic, I admit. But it had indeed been three long, tiresome, sleepless, frustrating nights. Months rather, but the months were filled with days, and with days come nights, so it's difficult for me to differentiate these days; regardless, those nights were all like the adjectives I just mentioned. I had never been so heavily hit with a bout of depression in my life until now.

First break up? Fired from my first serious job? First major car accident that totaled my car? First major class failed in college? Nothing - nothing - held a candle to this. This is the sort of depression that makes Poe sound like he's blithering about fluffy bunnies. This is the sort of depression that Haruki Murakami dared to explore. This is the stuff that makes Rob Flemming from High Fidelity admit he was overreacting and just being a melodramatic sod.

As said, her name was Stanley. Stanley Huang. She was a year younger than myself, golden skin, a cute, small nose, perfect, very dark brown eyes, a great figure, and hair that was so dark brown, you couldn't really tell it wasn't black.

Stanley certainly wasn't the first love of my life. But she was the one I fell hardest for. Where do the lines between affection and obsession and love converge? At what point have you taken love too far? When does one have to take into account their own life before their significant others?

Stanley and I have been through a lot together. We met in our freshman year of college, and hit it off right away, just like all the horribly inaccurate teenage-romantic comedies tell us it should happen. We both had been to private schools in the past, we both liked basketball, we both had careers planned out, we both were looking for the same things in one another, and we were both very physically attracted to one another. We quickly developed a relationship that seemed perfect...

Jonah broke the train of thought I had. "Are you excited?"

I hadn't moved more than the five feet it took me to get to the couch since he wandered away. Enthralled. "I'm not dressed."

"Well, get dressed! We've got to get going!" he replied enthralled.

"I'd rather not..."

"Did I not say kicking and screaming?" he smirked.

I went to my bedroom in our less than exciting apartment to prepare for this less than exciting adventure. I was not up for this yet. I wasn't exaggerating how painful this break up was at all. This one really hit home. She was a constant part of my life. She lived here, in this house. She put on her make up in the mirror I use. She made every meal at least once in that kitchen. She slept in my bed, with me.

This was her home, and she abandoned it.

And here I was, putting on my favourite jeans that were frayed around the feet and that were beginning to rip at the knee. And here I was slipping on my sleek, black, button up shirt. And here I was, throwing on my favourite corduroy blazer which only Stanley and I have ever liked. And here I was sliding on some Converse to match my outfit. And here I am, walking toward the door as Jonah coaxes endlessly from the next room.

This is my home, and I'm abandoning it.

We drove for fifteen minutes through the winding streets until we reached downtown, entering the still busy streets of Austin. The streets glowed hazy orange, everything was still wet - it had been raining all day - and the flashing crosswalks and green lights blurred the colours together into hues indescribable by words. Jonah wove through the city streets until we climbed high atop a carpark. We slowly made our way down to the street level as Jonah chattered endlessly as we walked down the puddle covered sidewalk.

"I promise," he confided, "a few hours out here and your world will be changed forever. You need a little life injected into you. And this is just the place."

"You mean this club?" I queried, purposefully stupid.

"No, you smart ass, the city! This place is filled with life!"

As Jonah tried to give me a lecture on the wonderfully obvious excitements that lay scattered throughout the city, I looked on for myself at the dark streets. Cars blazed their break lights across the avenue, many throbbing their irreverently loud chopped and screwed "Third Coast" rap to the public, a steady bass like a marching drum for us pedestrians. The college kids leaked onto the streets in search of drunken adventures, not to begin suggesting their party school campus dorms had emptied at all. A helicopter flew overhead as a band pushed equipment down the sidewalk toward their night's venue.

Yes, indeed, Jonah, the city was alive. There was a vivid, audible pulse that drummed through this town, that carried oxygen to us fair denizens, giving us life, reason to move - to live - to love in the city limits. I knew this already. Jonah, you need not remind me. You need not remind me.

The fact - the true question to be asked - is what do I have left to live for? I committed myself entirely to Stanley. I gave our relationship 100% and it just fell apart like a building in a demolition site - like a Jenga tower on the last turn. I did everything I could to make one of the truest, realist loves in my life complete, and it still failed - it still buckled, like those buildings always do, until it all falls into pieces on the ground.

I know - I know for a fact - that if I found another girl I liked, I would be emotionally assailed in the same fashion as before. And if I found another whom was every bit as wonderful, glorious in every aspect like Stanley, I would only be let down once more in the end. If I can put 100% of myself into something and still fail, that means I have zero chance for success in a relationship. So why should I even try? Why should I even make an effort when all is futile?

We finally arrived at our destination. The glitz bled out onto the street from this glamourous nightclub, ostentatiously named Nectar, lost amidst the gridded streets of the Texas capital. Jonah had attempted to drag me to this favourite club of his for quite some time. Tonight was the night I finally had no excuse to not join him. The queue outside was long, but the men filtered through the line quickly enough, and Jonah passed the time by lecturing me further under the purple, cursive neon sign - NECTAR - that hung above.

We entered the club finally after a miscellaneous amount of time, and we entered a true club of extraordinary flamboyance. Thin curtains were draped from the ceiling and caught the light in queer textures and odd angles. There was an orgy of bodies gyrating on the dancefloor, the speakers all around the room blaring something catchy and bubbly by Mariah Carey featuring an anonymous hip-hop artist whom was popular at the time. The DJ danced around in a mesh top, with an ostentatious looking furry hat, and some very awkward pants.

"I can't wait! Ahh! I'm so glad you finally came. You'll have so much fun," Jonah assured me, shouting loudly over the music, even though I still could barely hear him.

I nodded unenthusiastically.

"I'm going to see if any of my friends are here! They usually are on on Friday!" he continued with shouts.

I nodded enthusiastically toward the bar.

"Alright, I'll catch up with you in a little while." Jonah embraced me, speaking directly into my ear, though still shouting over the music, which was a bit painful on the ears. "Don't let Stanley bring you down, Alex. Just try and have some fun!"

I nodded enthusiastically toward the bar.

He let go and pranced off into the damp throng of dancing clubbers. I made my way enthusiastically to the bar, crowded by drunk wallflowers and tipsy dancers who had partnered up - not with each other - but with the side of the bar counter for support. The bartender nearest to me was dressed in a vibrant shirt that glowed brightly when he stepped under a blacklight, and his goatee was awkward. I was unenthused, but called him over, ordering a bottle of a popular German beer served in green bottles so I could slowly slip away from reality into a haze with some golden liquid.

The bartender smiled in return, and gave me the beer immediately. I quickly swigged out of it. This was when I saw her. Seven barstools down, in a cute but not ostentatiously short dress that prominently featured her chest. I watched her for a beer and a half before approaching her and her cosmo.

"Hey," I said as cool as I could manage.

"Oh, hi there," she replied. She seemed to have gotten a head start on our secret race of inebriation.

"I like the dress."

She looked down at herself, and began to say something profoundly intelligent, but belched. She quickly attempted to save face with a sincere apology, but belched again. She instead took a healthy swig of her poison.

She was clearly heaven sent. Why not?

"Do you come here often?" I asked.

"Yeah..." she blubbered. "It'sa reallyyyyyyyyyy nice place. Goodmusic. Fun Jades... I mean, DJs... It'sa reallyyyyyyyy nice place. Where did we meet, again?"

An unexpected question. Let me remind those interested, I have never met this person in my life before.

"No, I never said that. We just met, like, right now."

She nodded with understanding, and made to pat my shoulder in what was probably forgiveness, or attraction, or loneliness, or happiness, or attraction, or friendship. Unfortunately she was, as I said, in first place when it comes to this secret race of inebriation. She slipped straight off her barstool and fell into my arms. Ignoring her fall entirely, she patted me on the back anyway, before climbing back onto her stool drunkenly; I admit, I glanced at her flagrant lack of underwear as she did this.

"Sorry, Andrew. I'think Ive hhhad alot-to drink."

I nodded in agreement, and sipped at my own drink. "Hey, would you like to catch a cab with me? Maybe head to my place?" A bold question, I realize, but I opted for the theory of 'better soon than later.'

"Oh, that'sss so cute! But sorri, I dont go for gay guys."

"Amanda!" called a girl who approached from the dancefloor. "Come on! You're drunk, and we're leaving." The new girl awkwardly drug my Amanda away from me, and they stumbled toward the exit. I looked out upon the sea of sweaty dancers, groups of bodies writhing together in ecstatic entertainment. And here I am, still sober, alone, and I couldn't even pick up a girl.

God, I hate gay clubs.

I finished my drink pessimistically looking out upon the crowd. White lights suddenly lit the entire room for the length of a breath. I suddenly realized I was staring at someone, and he was staring back at me, and quickly looked away. I ordered another drink and devoured half the bottle in less than a minute.

"Hey there."

I turned to my right. Maybe I was stupid, but the person now sitting there, who had definitely spoken to me - when the hell did he get there? - looked eerily familiar, though I didn't know him at all. He had short brown hair, and a nose that was a little long, blue eyes that you could pick out even in the oddly lit room, what seemed to be a fairly toned body, and was an inch or so taller than myself.

"How do you like the place? Never seen you around," he said.

"I don't go clubbing that much, honestly." Why am I talking with this guy?

"Well I could see that," he replied with a smile. "What's your name?"

"Alex."

"Michael," he returned with a nod. "You look bored, Alex. Are you with anyone?" he asked politely.

"Yeah, my friend, Jonah." I thought about what I said, and thus became a stuttering idiot. "I mean - Jonah - a friend. I mean, no, I mean!, like, no - I mean - yes! I mean, a friend - he's a friend - Jonah is - just a friend - we aren't, like, together or anything."

"Don't worry, dude," he said, patting my shoulder. "I know what you're trying to say. That's not very nice, though. He just abandoned you in this jungle?"

"Yeah, basically," I replied as I attempted to save face by swigging from my beer.

"Why don't you get out there and dance? Just for a bit? It really takes the stress off." I noticed he looked very sweaty. That's when I realized who he was. He was the guy I was accidentally staring at in the crowd, who was staring back at me, during that breath of white light.

"I'm not really the dancing type, to be honest." Swig.

"Fair enough. You seem bothered by something." He wasn't taking his eyes off me, not that I was looking back. I vaguely watched the DJ dance.

"You could say that. Relationship issues." Swig.

"Now that, I can directly relate with." He rubbed sweat off of his forehead on his arm, hopped off the barstool, and then blasphemously took my hand ever so gently. By now I was a little tipsy, but not that drunk. But my mind couldn't react at all - the synapses simply didn't fire - and I only felt the slight tug he gave me.

He smirked coyly, "Come on, this song is about to end. And I have the feeling the next song will be a good one."

"A... a... and?" I blubbered.

"And, I can't dance alone." He still smirked at me. Was that a wink, Michael? Are you pulling on my arm a little more firmly, Michael? Are you going to answer me, Michael?

"But I'm... I, uh..."

"I know, you're not the dancing type - you told me," he replied to my nothingness of a stutter. "But you're feeling down, and sitting around getting drunk won't help at all. So come with me, just for a couple songs. What've you got to lose?"

"I don't know." Swig.

Wait... swig?

What? Beer bottle, how dare you fail me! How dare your German hops goodness be gone?

My bottle was empty.

All swigs have been swug.

Shit.

"Nothing to lose but a beer bottle and your coherency," Michael replied with a laugh. "Now come on, so we can be ready for the new song!"

I stumbled off the barstool, my hand still wrapped within Michael's firmly gripped, sweaty, surprisingly soft hand. He tugged just gentle enough for me to leave if I wanted to. But that devilish brain of mine refused to fire any synapses. Clearly the United Nations had enacted some new ceasefire on the cerebellum. I was powerless as I trailed after Michael while a pop star in the song playing told the crowd I was joining how wonderful her love was, and how everyone should dance because they are in love. Should I, pop star? Should I really dance because I'm in love? My heart is broken - that's not love - this Michael is not Stanley - why should I dance?

The song ended and the crowd cheered as we - Michael and I - reached the centre of the dancefloor, which flashed different colours from lights under the glass floor that made my tipsy self dizzy. The new song came on, and it was a cheesy powerpop song that got overplayed on MTV, which was reminiscent of the 80s and Madonna. The zoo around me began to shift to the rhythm, slow at first, then loud and glorious. The lyrics sang something about lying together, and someone being the one for someone else, and someone missing someone else terribly. Something like that.

Michael let go of me - unbuckled my leash and collar - and freed me as he began to shift his hips in what is normally a suggestive mating ritual performed by certain exotic avians, but is often forgiven as entertaining dance movements in Western society's clubs. He motioned his hand in that way that says, "Hey, do you remember that scene from The Matrix? The one where the guy who was really good at karate motioned to Keanu Reeves, and was all like, 'Come get me?' Yeah, come get me."

Strangely, I found that my body was beginning to match the rhythm of the song. Was my head even slightly nodding to the beat? Was that me tapping my foot? I knew I must have looked like a robot dancing, and even so, it was tragic by the standards upheld by dancing robots. Michael must be an enforcer of robot dancing standards, because he spoke over the music to me, though not loudly like Jonah. "Move your hips a little more, and take steps with your feet."

I replied half in panic, half in complete confusion, "I don't know what I'm doing."

"Don't worry," he said with a laugh and a full, pearly white smile. He stepped close - really close - to me, and put his hands on my hips - those gently firm hands of his. He began to push my hips with his hands in time with the music, and oddly, my movements seemed slightly more coordinated. "Dancing well is for show offs. All you have to do is move your whole body, and you'll enjoy it."

I admit, I wasn't entirely repulsed by these odd shaking motions. When did Michael slide his fingers through my beltloops? Suddenly, he took my hands in his, and moved my arms a little in the way you move puddy. He showed me how he was moving his own arms, apparently suggesting I do the same, which I did. Apparently I was surviving this dancing thing.

The song switched to something popular and dancy, as you might expect in a club setting. We continued dancing, and our bodies drew even closer together, to the point where we very occasionally brushed our sweating bodies against each other. The alcohol really began to get into my head, and I began to think less about what was going on.

Two, three, four songs later - I lost count - I was thoroughly soaked in sweat. The crowd cheered with the completion of another round of dancing to yet another song. Michael and I were together now in the way pencils are when held together by a rubber band.

"And now, a song for the couples. An old one, a great one, for that boy who's just as great." As soon as the DJ shut the hell up so people could continue enjoying their dancing, an old hit came on. It was by an R&B star who was confessing something extraordinary - something about making love nice and slow, and driving to someone's house in drop top convertibles - but nobody noticed the lyrics, because the love began to leak out of every sweaty pore on the dancefloor.

Michael got closer than ever before. He turned to face me, pressed his entire - I do mean entire - body against mine, wrapping his arms around me, letting his hands rest on the waistline of my jeans. Every bone in my body, every section of my brain, screamed, hollered for me to run as the famous black singer wailed something about love in his song. I pushed Michael off me - not violently, but enough to get him away - and quickly pushed my way through the crowd. Move, excuse me, sorry, but I must retreat! This is a tactical maneuver, and it is critical that the retreat objective is accomplished.

I plopped out of the throng in a part of the club I didn't recognize. But I was hot, dizzy, and tipsy still, and made an awkward dash to a nearby column made of plastic. Since it was made of plastic, I had no problem hitting it with a closed fist. I was crying. I didn't know why - maybe it was certain ex-girlfriends with ironically masculine first names - maybe it was dancing with a gay guy - but I cried there on that column until I was turned around by a person turning my body around with their gently firm hands. Michael was there.

"Well, I was going to ask if you were alright, but I guess this answers my question," he said.

I wasn't ready for sarcasm, and decided to yell to him - not at him - not about him - but he was near me, and I felt certain personal parts of his body through his well tailored jeans when he tried to slow dance with me, and he happened to be in front of me at the moment, so he received my yelling. "Stanley! I loved Stanley! I loved Stanley more than I think I can ever express. And she dumped me and broke my heart! Broke it, like a wine glass, or like a TV remote, or like a window - broke it - into millions of pieces. And here I am, dancing with a strange man I don't know anything about!"

He hugged me. What kindness! What charity! Michael embraced me loving and comforting. I made his sweaty shirt more wet. "That must have been one bad boyfriend... it's alright... it's alright..." he said, just loud enough to hear over the music, and the crowd, and the beer.

"I loved her. I truly loved her. But I'm not sure I've ever been happier dancing with you."

"Really?" he asked, seeming a bit taken aback.

"Yes. Really. This might sound stupid, and this might be the booze talking, but I think I love you. Michael, you're all I ever want."

And then he kissed me. He - a man - masculine - kissed me. Open mouth and all, no reservation, we made out as two, three, four songs flew by - I lost count. And we went to the restroom together, and it was very crowded. We used the restroom of course, but when the attendees filtered out of the restroom, we did other things as well. Then we kissed outside of the stalls, but went back in and did more things before coming back out and washing our faces and hands.

We left the bathroom hand in hand. I saw Jonah, and he was with his friends, of course - he probably forgot all about me - but I saw him, gasping in complete shock, trying to shout something at me, but obviously I wasn't listening. When you fall in love, it's hard to hear things that used to annoy you or not make sense like bad rap songs that blared on club speakers. Things that you couldn't stand or before - that you downright hated before - that you may not have even considered before - have entirely different meanings when you have love. And love was hand in hand with me, walking to the centre of the dancefloor.

I wasn't drunk anymore, or didn't feel like it, at least. And we danced, oh did we dance. And did we ever dance together, because the first song we encountered was another slow song, but we loved it, and I felt Michael press against me as we danced with the throng of sweaty gay men surrounding us. We kissed when everyone kisses during the slow songs, and looked at each other coyly when the song was over like the couples who are really in love tend to do.

The music then sped up and everyone resumed wild, frivolous dancing. Dance, Michael, dance! Dance you sexy beast! Look at him dancing to that under-rated song from some Scottish band named after important political figures of World War One - that song that was a little fast, and a little hard to dance to, but was far too fun to complain. Dance, Michael, dance! Because I love it, Michael. Dance, Michael, because we're beautiful boys on a beautiful dancefloor, and I love it. Michael, you're dancing like a beautiful dancewhore, and I love it. And you're dancing with me, and I love it. We danced, and danced, and danced the night away; lone stars on the dancefloor in the Lone Star State. Oh yeah.