Chapter Text
Pop.
The cover of the bulky handheld machine comes open. Inside there’s a tape — no label, and the front of it damaged. He takes it out with a press of his thumb and forefinger, gentle, to look at the other side — still no label, but at least there's no damage. He sucks on his teeth, blows a raspberry, snaps the tape back into its port. Presses the cover back down with a click.
His thumb skates over the old bulky plastic. There are only five buttons, orderly like piano keys, and not exactly intuitive. He huffs. Tosses it onto his bedside table with a clatter and gets off his bed, making the hinges of the frame groan at the loss of his weight. He makes way for the door with heavy steps and turns the knob, opens the creaking door, and pauses. Breathes. Looks back.
He shuts the door slowly, quietly, as though it was never opened. Comes back with light feet. Picks the machine up off the bedside table and falls back onto his bed, this time the mattress catching him with a dull squeal.
Five buttons. If he squints he can kind of read the scratchy labels, worn from use. In fact the whole machine is battered, the black enamel scratched, as he turns the machine over in his hands the insides rattle as if loose. He turns it back around and holds it carefully. Then he takes an educated guess based on the scratched off labels, the echo of what he thinks they mean. Presses the center button, and the machine begins to whir, the faint sound of the tape rotating.
There’s nothing. Furrowing his brow, he brings it to his ear, realizes there’s a knob at the end — the volume dial. He spins the dial, and there’s static and a breath, too loud, he flinches at the noise and pulls the machine away. Turns the volume back down.
Another breath, the sound more natural, he can almost feel it come out of the speakers. Then —
Hey Mickey.
Bet you’re wondering what the fuck this is, huh?
I’m not trying to murder you. There’s not going to be any invitation out to the middle of the woods. Or like, sounds of screaming. At least I hope not.
Oh, this is Ian, by the way. If you couldn’t tell, though, either I sound terrible or you just suck and need to get your ears checked.
Anyway, it’s a tape recorder! Which you’re probably rolling your eyes at me for saying, because, if you’re hearing this, then you can probably see that, but isn’t it cool? It’s super old school. Reminds me of what those detectives use in those old shitty 80’s movies we watched.
It’s got five buttons, and the labels are pretty clear: the red dot is record, the blue square is stop, the two left arrows is rewind, the two right arrows is fast forward, and then there’s play and pause. Simple. I just have to remember to switch out the tapes, because, like I say, it’s old. Think I’ve got maybe forty-five minutes to an hour? These tapes don’t have a whole lot of storage on them, and one side is screwed up so it won’t record — already tried. So, I gotta use the time wisely!
Some client at the club gave it to me. I think he wanted me to use it to make some sort of sex tape. Or, like, sex ASMR? I don’t know. I could be good at that, maybe. I don’t really want to do that, though.
I want to talk to you.
And I had this idea. Thought I’d take you with me. Maybe it’ll be good for me. I work at the White Swallow and Fairy Tail and stuff, but… Everyone acts like they don’t know who I am anymore. You’ve always known who I was, haven’t you? You barely had to look at me and you knew.
So, a tape recorder. You’ll probably laugh yourself to death when you realize. What do I need a tape recorder for? Don’t I talk enough? Do I really like the sound of my own voice?
Not really. But it kind of helps for when I hear other things, you know. Keeps me present. It also makes it easier to talk to you when you’re not with me. Or when you don’t want to talk to me.
Tape recorder comes in handy, then, huh? Guess we don’t need them anymore because of like, phones and shit, but I don’t know. Maybe they could make a comeback. I think this will be fun.
Anyways. I’m taking you with me. Hope you don’t mind.
I’m good at this Mickey.
Dancing in the club. I’m good at it. I look good on the platform, it feels like a high with the best weed, that stuff Kevin gave me that one time that I shared with you? Feels like that. I manage not to laugh, though, which I couldn’t manage on Kev’s weed, no matter how many times you jabbed me in the ribs, but I couldn’t stop giggling. I don’t giggle on the platform. But that good feeling? God, I feel good.
I like the lights, the colors of ‘em, nothing like bleary gray Chicago weather, everything’s vibrant. Purples and pinks and yellows. Everything backlit and neon. Nothing ever has been so colorful. Bright. I like a world of color. I like to think I belong in a world of color.
The guys who pay to see me seem to think I do. They watch me, and I see them watch me. That feels good, too. Sorry, but it’s true. Don’t worry, though, I don’t — I don’t want any of them. I don’t. Really. You can trust me. I promise.
The music, too. I know what mood is going to be set for the night just by the first song on the playlist, and I have rhythm. I know how to bring that mood into the sway of my hips. I can set the pace, set the stage, in the way I move my body.
I like knowing how to move my body.
I like to feel like I’m good at things. It’s been a while.
I’m good at this, Mickey. Maybe one day you’ll see.
Some idiot tried to bleach their shorts for the club. My boss was so pissed. I mean, what kind of idiot are you that you don’t realize you can’t put bleach on gold glitter shorts?
What an idiot. Probably a guy who never had to do his own laundry in his life.
We had so much laundry growing up. All of us kids in one house. The laundry machine was a constant. Fiona never wanted us to be dirty, you know? She thought that’d give too much away. That we’d be taken away if she let us get too dirty. She was always running the wash machine.
Kev and V, too, would come by and do laundry. I’m glad Fiona had that. Someone to do chores with. She was on her own enough.
I’m never going to bleach my shorts. Besides, I don’t want shorts this short that are white, look like tighty-whities. The only one who gets to see me in shorts that short and white are you before we have sex. Not my sexiest underwear, but, at the end of the day, I know you don’t really care what color my boxer briefs are.
Do you think you could even describe a pair of my underwear? I doubt it, even though we’ve seen each other in our underwear enough times. Usually when we’re stripping down, though, I know you’ve only got one thing on your mind.
Me too.
We’re fucking good at fucking, aren’t we? We’re fucking good.
I’m starving, and I don’t want another peanut butter and jelly sandwich, but all I can find is white bread. Why is there no food in this house? Even if it was just a grilled cheese. I can handle the bread, but, god, does it have to be another peanut butter and jelly sandwich? It’s cheap, but I just, I can feel it gluey and sweet in my mouth already. I can taste the dry peanut-y after-taste and I haven’t even licked the peanut butter off the spoon. Ugh.
What’s your favorite food?
My mom thought my favorite meal was lasagna. It’s not. In fact, after that whole thing — not getting into it right now — I don’t really want lasagna ever again. If we ever get out on a real date, please don’t take me to get lasagna.
Maybe I’ll buy you dinner. I’m making money now. I get a lot of tips. I want to spend money on you that isn’t going into your commissary account, if you’d let me. A real date.
Actually, you want to know what I miss? The food that Fiona used to get by peeing in a cup. It’s a long story, but man, that lady could cook. You’d have liked her food, I think. Maybe one day I’ll know how to cook like that. I’d cook you dinner, then. I’d cook you dinner all the time if I could cook like that lady could. Heck, I’d just become a cook if I could cook like that.
Score! Found cheese!
I’m going to make a grilled cheese. I’ll make extra for you, even though you’re not coming by.
I’m starving, I’d have eaten half your sandwich anyway, if you’d let me. And you’d definitely have let me. I’m fucking convincing.
And I’m hungry. Can you hear my stomach rumbling? Grilled cheese. It’s gonna be so good.
I know no one in my actual life likes that I dance. It’s okay, I didn’t expect anyone to understand. We needed the money, and — and I needed to feel good about myself. This is as close as I can get right now.
I’m up on the platform, and everyone is looking at me smiling, and because of the way we’re all lit up, they’re the only reason I exist. I’m the only thing that makes them smile and they’re the only reason I’m there. I become the object of these people’s pleasure, the reflection of their happiness. In that mirror image, I am happy too. I like it. I want it. I want people who are happy to see me.
The way those guys look at me? Like I’m something to be adored?
It’s bad, isn’t it. Bad that I want to be adored by strangers. You must hate that. You would hate that. I know I shouldn’t want it, but I — I need attention. I like the attention, Mickey. I’m sorry. You can fault me for that. I know I shouldn’t want it. I know.
This all isn’t making sense, is it? Sorry. I bet you were hoping for answers, but I don’t got any. Try Lip. Lip always had the answers — though, as he says, the answer to all things is likely “fuck you” — I know you never found him funny, but to me? Lip is the funniest brother in the world.
I’d fuck you again if you asked.
Was that off topic? Sometimes I hear the word fuck and I can’t help but think of you. In all contexts. Either you yelling it at other people, or, like, fucking you real and hard, in every place I’ve ever got to have my hands on you. Sometimes I feel ‘em all at once. Barely last a minute, even on my own, I can feel your breath on my neck and I’m weak at the knees, and just, fuck. Fuck, Mickey.
I’d always be happy to fuck you, you know. If you wanted.
Doubt you’d want me like this though. The me that’s just a reflection of other people’s pleasure. Or maybe you would. It’d be more like the beginning of us then — nothing but a warm mouth, right?
I didn’t forget.
Sorry, gotta go Mickey, they’re calling me back in.
Hey, can you hear me?
Sorry, I have to whisper, I don’t want to wake anyone up. But I’m awake. I’m always awake these days, I just, I have so much energy. I wanted to tell you…
Shit, I think I might have blown my paycheck.
Shit, I think I said that too loud, I hear someone stirring. Let me know if you can’t hear me. Wait, you can’t. Oh well. I had something to say, but, shit.
That money was meant for my family. I didn’t mean to do that.
I was going to tell you something. Fuck. But all I can focus on is this stupid, how did I do that? Spend my whole paycheck?
Last thing I remember thinking was how I wanted to leave. Wanted to get out of the house. I knew it was early — late? — whatever, but I needed to leave, full speed. I can run so fast, you know that? I was really quick in ROTC. Not the quickest, did you know my sister used to run track? Fiona was like a gazelle. I got to see her a few times. She ran like she was born to do it. I’m not like that, but, I’m fast, Mickey. The only reason I don’t test to see how hard I can hit the wall is I don’t want to fuck up the wall, you know? But it’d be neat. To see the shape of me in the wall. I’m here! I was there! No one else could make that shape but me and my velocity. Maybe I’m being arrogant. But, my point is, I’m pretty quick.
Think you can catch me?
I think if I run really really fast, I could hop rooftops. Like in comic books and action films. They catch their shoes on the shingles, slide, and the shingles go plunk, plunk as they clatter to the ground. I can hear it in my head. That’d be kind of fun. What a way to get away. Do you think you’d look before leaping? I don’t think I could. Think looking before leaping would take the fun out of the drop.
I kind of want to climb on the roof right now. Then I’d be able to talk to you louder, too. Whispering’s hard. And, I mean, I have all this gatorade now. Breakfast of champs, right? I went to the Walgreens. Must have been the 24-hour one, ‘cause it’s late.
Wow, come to think of it, that’s a ways away. You know how far away that is? Last time I went there I was with freaking Jimmy-Steve and the car he stole. I’ve only ridden in cars that nice a few times, and with Jimmy-Steve, we went to the freaking 24-hour Walgreens. We needed cold meds or some shit, I don’t remember. That’s pretty far away, though. God, I made it all the way there? All the way back? I remember running, obviously, but it didn’t feel that long. I guess I am kind of sweaty. My shirt’s sticking to me. It’s hard to whisper this long, too. Gotta catch my breath. Sorry if I’m breathing too loud into the mic.
Think I made it all the way there. That’s pretty fucking cool. What’s not cool, though, is did I really blow my entire paycheck on gatorade and candy and garbage? Fuck, that’s stupid.
Need a gatorade?
I’ve got, like, way too much. And candy. I don’t usually eat this much candy. I’ll save the Snickers bars for you. Everything else — Debbie and Carl will be thrilled. I’ll give it to them. Can’t let Fiona know, though, or she’ll be mad I spoiled their dinners.
We don’t talk about the future.
Probably because you think you’re going to die in a ditch somewhere before you have much of one. Or end up in prison doing twenty-five-to-life.
I listen to you when you speak, Mickey, I promise. I even hear the things you don’t really want to say. I’ve gotten good at that. It’s why I know it’s not that you don’t want to lay on a blanket and look at stars and talk about college, you just think you don’t get to have a life like that. You don’t have time to fantasize. Especially not if you think in the next five years you’re going to end up locked up in prison or dead.
You must be worried about it constantly, feeling like you’re running out of time. You aren’t, but I understand you feel that way. Southside looks like a place where everyone’s time ran out.
And if you feel like you don’t have any time, then you’ve got to burst through your life and take time like you’re committing a robbery, grab all the time you can and run. Better not squander what you only barely managed to steal, right?
Yet, you still used your time to be with me.
Thanks for that.
I hope you’re wrong, though. Wrong that you’re running out of time, that your life is going to burn out fast, burn out young. You deserve a long life, Mickey. Lots of people should have the chance to get to know you.
Know I’m better for it.
Didn’t think I was going to record today, but I heard you. Heard you right in my ear, “yo, Gallagher!”
Your voice was a little different, a voice you haven’t had for, like, two years. A little higher pitch, a little more snapping. You used to use more of your mouth when you spoke, did you know that? I used to watch you speak just to see how your mouth stretched, moved, bared your teeth. You have such a beautiful fucking mouth.
Anyways, you said it right in my ear, Mickey. “Yo, Gallagher!” like you wanted my attention. I was in the middle of something, I think making a drink for somebody, but then there you were — “yo, Gallagher!” — and you had me hooked right back to you even though I couldn’t find your face.
Wonder what you wanted, huh?
These days I don’t usually hear you. I hope you aren’t upset by that, but I just don’t. In fact, when everybody’s talking at me, it’s kind of hard to distinguish who is who, if anybody’s really anybody. The only voice I can make out at times is my mom’s, which she’d love, but to be honest, Mickey? I kind of hate it.
I don’t know how to feel about her approval.
She’s always telling me how beautiful I am, and it makes me nauseous. She thinks I’m beautiful, she says I’m the most gorgeous thing she ever made, but no one can trust her. My family doesn’t trust her. I know I shouldn’t trust her. What’s that mean about anything she says? What’s that mean about me? I don’t think I ever feel uglier than when I hear her say those things to me. Especially when it’s the only voice I can make out of the crowd.
Ah, I don’t know why I’m telling you this. Why would you know what to say?
Anyway, it’s a pretty clear night. It’s cold, too cold for clouds, they can’t form. No stars though. Too much light. I’m a little cold. My fingertips are red. You’d tell me I reflect the snow, which, I probably do. “Ghost-motherfucker,” I think you called me once.
I wish I could steal your jacket. I think that’s when I like the way I feel the most, when I wear your clothes. Maybe then I’m beautiful for real.
I miss you.
“Yo, Gallagher!”
Makes me laugh every time I think about it. Right in my ear, Mick, like, Jesus, thought you were going to burst my eardrum. You’ve never yelled like that for me before. Sorry I didn’t know what you wanted. Next time, maybe I’ll figure it out.
There’s no good place to record right now. They keep following me. I keep trying to outrun ‘em, but I can feel their eyes on my back.
Even here. Shit. One sec. Can’t you leave me alone!? How do they keep finding me?
I had a guest get mad at me, he’s probably going to complain, but I had to cut his lap dance short. Something felt weird in his pocket. Not his dick, I swear. Think he was one of them, you know? Think that’s why he wanted a lap dance. Think he wanted a reason to prick my hands and knock me out. Take me away.
Not this time, bitch.
They have so many dark rooms, Mickey. Dark rooms, dark hallways, that’s where they store you away. If I got taken, I don’t know if I’d find my way back. Can’t let them take me.
Sorry, Mickey, thought I could talk, but I can still —
Hey! I’m not talking to you!
Ever wake up and think you’ve done something terrible?
Not in an existential dread kind of way, though I wonder if you get those too. No, this is… this is more real than that.
You aren’t going to like this, but, I woke up in the middle of a conversation. Or, I guess I was already awake, my boss didn’t seem to realize I wasn’t there, but I know I wasn’t there. I wasn’t there until I — I don’t really know how to describe it other than waking up, Mickey, there’s no other way to describe it — I woke up and he was yelling at me.
I get that he thought I was awake, but I didn’t hear anything until that moment, don’t remember seeing anything until that moment: him standing in front of me, screaming. He usually doesn’t get loud at us dancers, likes a ‘positive environment’ and lets us get up to whatever we want for the right price, but he was really loud.
My knuckles are split open. I’m bleeding, Mickey. My hands are bruised, fuck, they ache really badly. And I have no idea what happened.
Does that make me a bad person? If when I’m awake but not really awake I do something bad, does that mean being a bad person comes easily to me? That it’s natural? Mickey, I need to know, does that make me a bad person?
I don’t want to be a bad person.
I haven’t been sleeping. When I don’t sleep, sometimes weird things happen. I haven’t wanted to sleep, honest. I’ve had so much energy, I like the night sky, I feel like a different person at night, another whole new person. Maybe a better version of me. I just can’t sleep.
Did someone give something to me? I’d been serving drinks. I remember, kind of, I thought, coming home. I don’t remember taking something, but I don’t remember anything, so who knows.
Jesus, though, I woke up in the middle of a conversation. My boss had no clue I wasn’t there, but I wasn’t there. Not really. I wanted to ask my boss what day it was, but he’d think I was fucking crazy.
Oh, I should look to see what day it is. Let me grab my phone —
Wow, my hands really are a mess. My boss says that I’m lucky there are some guys who like the ‘bad boy’ types, but, they hurt. He wants my hands gauzed up. Says he’ll have Barry do them up right before I go on the platforms next. He said he had an issue with this in the past, others who got into fights, but he didn’t expect it from me. I didn’t mean to disappoint him.
Oh, I was looking up what day it was.
Wait… what?
What?
Mickey, I think I lost three days.
Oh fuck. Oh, oh, oh fuck. Fuck. What?
Three days.
Three days, I wasn’t awake, Mickey. I don’t have those days. What happened to those days?
My hands are in rough shape. Like, I’m fine, but, they look violent.
I — I think I’ve done something bad. I think I might be bad.
I don’t remember anything. I didn’t leave anything — no one’s said anything to me about it. I don’t have any way of knowing. The recordings — I didn’t talk to you, did I? I don’t think I did. My boss was shouting at me, but he never said anything about something I did. Just how I looked. Blood all over me, it was all over my clothes, my hands are a mess. I don’t know why, I don’t know what happened. They feel the same as when I hit Frank. Did I hurt somebody? I don’t remember, Mickey, I don’t remember anything. My boss didn’t ask me anything about it, and I’m glad, because I don’t know where all this came from. I wouldn’t have anything to say. Why didn’t he ask? What would I have said if he did? Would I have said the truth? Maybe there’s a part of me, somewhere, that knows what happened. Why can’t I remember?
I, I’m trying to remember I swear.
Oh, Mickey, I think I’ve done something terrible.
The worst part is, I don’t think I’ll ever know what.
I was never the smart one.
That went to Lip. Then Debbie, she loved to read so much, she used to do those book fairs and everything. Fiona’s really resourceful, too, half the stuff she comes up with to keep us afloat. Carl’s so inventive, a little too much. Liam’s all potential, and he’s learning fast, God, Mickey, he’s growing up so quickly, I remember when he was an infant and changing his diapers, and now — gosh, Mickey, I think he’s really going to be something. The best of all of us, probably.
I’m not the smart one. I’ve never been the smart one. You’re smarter than me, too, you know that? You probably don’t. Or if you do you don’t let yourself think it. You don’t like to acknowledge any of the parts of yourself unless it’s something your father can be proud of you for.
That was too mean, wasn’t it? I’m not trying to be mean, I promise.
It’s not that you like your dad, I know that. That’s not what I’m saying. But you care what he thinks. You don’t want to, but you do. You don’t know how to be yourself because you want to be something he approves of. You want him to be proud of who you are. Of course you do, he’s your dad. I don’t blame you for that. I don’t, Mickey, really. I understand. That’s all I ever wanted from Frank, too. For him to look at me and see me and like me. He doesn’t. He always hated me the most.
This isn’t about me, though. This is about you. You and your dad. I know your dad has a version of you that he wants to see, and so you try to be it. You try so hard, Mickey. You act all cool and calm, but you’re trying so hard. I see it.
I wish it was enough for me to say that I see you. That I see you and I like you the way you are. But it’s okay that it’s not enough.
Still, I want you to know, you don’t have to care what he thinks. One day, you’ll understand you’re a much better man than him. Always were, always will be.
And you’re so fucking smart.
You tell me I talk too much. You’re probably right. People who aren’t that smart really shouldn’t have this much to say.
I may not be the brightest, but I can bring home money. I may be a slow learner, but I try to learn. I really do try. I’m sorry if I sometimes didn’t pick up on things fast enough for you. I should have realized that you couldn’t do certain things, that you weren’t ready. I’m sorry I didn’t realize how hard you were trying. I just get so excited, but, I know that’s not a good excuse. I get too excited, I grab too hard, I always have, I —
I’m starting to feel kind of sad. This is making me sad. This is making me feel too fucking sad.
You’re smart, Mickey.
Go be smart, which means — which means —
Which means probably staying away from me.
_____
Oh, fuck, the recording’s already at five minutes?
Fuck. Fuck. Get it together. Fuck you, you fucking fuck, just get it fucking together.
Sorry, Mickey. I’m so sorry.
I meant to come out here and talk to you. Meant to have something for you. I don’t have anything. I have nothing. I don’t even have a fucking grip. I can’t get a fucking grip, Mickey, I can’t get a fucking grip.
You shouldn’t listen to this one. You hate crying. You don’t cry.
I —
I don’t know where I am anymore. I’m scared. People keep yelling at me. They’re always yelling at me, Mickey, and I don’t know what I did wrong. I don’t know what to do. They’re so loud, they’re all I can hear, nothing drowns them out. I need someone to tell me what to do. I want them to stop yelling at me, I’ll do anything, I’ll do anything I swear. I swear. They just need to tell me what they want me to do, but they don’t, they just keep yelling at me. Why are they yelling at me?
I just, I, I —
I can’t get a grip.
The tape’s almost out of time.
Despite going to the Walgreens and burning through all that money, I didn’t think to buy anymore fucking tapes. Guess this is it. Oops.
I don’t ever make things easier for myself, do I? Or, fuck myself, man, I just don’t ever make things easy.
I don’t think it’s supposed to be this hard.
Not any of it. Not what I do to my family. Not what I do to you.
My family, they, they, they all look at me, and they’re scared. I know they’re scared. Of course they’re scared. We all saw our mom. Hurricane Monica. She might have had the right idea when she tried to slit her wrists, you know? She was always spinning out, spiraling out of control.
Lip once was trying to explain Newton’s Laws of Motion to me, because I was struggling in my science class and had to bother him about it. He read in my textbook with me about how Newton discovered ‘an object in motion stays in motion’.
I was never a top student, but I got that one quickly. Already had seen an object in motion, Hurricane Monica, nothing able to stop her. Always going to spin out unless something stopped her. Unless she stopped herself. Who were we, to stop her from trying to stop herself?
An object in motion stays in motion. She wanted to stop. I get that.
I’m not her, though. I’m not. Am I? I can’t be. I’m not, Mickey, I’m not.
But maybe I am. Because, what about what I do to you? I make your life harder. It’s hard enough being gay in South Side. Hard enough being closeted and gay in South Side. Even harder to be a Milkovich with all those things. Shouldn’t have blamed you for needing time. Should have left you alone. You deserve something better. I just keep showing up. How can you even think about your options when I’m constantly just showing up. A bad penny — you’d laugh at that, I think. Penny. Matches my hair. Suits me well, huh.
A bad penny. Keep coming back. Maybe one day I won’t, though.
Maybe today I won’t. This tape’s almost up, anyway.
Did you see the fog over the Chicago river?
This is on topic I swear. I know I tend to ramble, I know, I know, I hear them yelling at me about it all the time, I can’t focus which makes it worse when they’re yelling like that, they keep saying they’re going to choke me out so I stop rambling off topic, but I’m on topic I swear. This is on topic.
The fog. That fog. Right.
It was covering everything. The fog filled the space between the rivers and the bridges, even covered some of the cranes, the tops of them poking out of the clouds like giraffe heads, bright orange in the sunrise. It was thicker than a fog I’ve ever seen. Looked like I should have been able to run out to the edge, throw myself over the bridge, and land on a cloud.
Maybe it’s still there. That’d work, wouldn’t it? To go to the bridge, jump and see what caught me? Don’t think I could do it if all I could see below was the dark water, but with the fog, maybe. Maybe I could do that. Not know what catches me. Some people don’t like unknowns. I used to not. Had my whole life planned. Had all these ideas. Was going to get out of Chicago on my own two feet.
Look how that turned out. Not going to West Point, think we both know that.
Honestly, I don’t know what I’m going to do. Work at the clubs for the rest of my life? There are some people who call themselves lifers there. When someone suggested I would be…
What else can I do, though?
I don’t have any other skills. All military buildup but I’m not going into the military anymore. I didn’t even serve, I’m not even a vet or anything, and yet I’m still in Chicago and don’t have any idea of where I’m supposed to go. Can’t go backwards. Forwards looks. Well.
Think I could jump. That’d be something, wouldn’t it? Taste the cloud. Hit the water. Think I could do it. With all this fog? I think I could do it. Stop the object in motion. That sounds… that sounds nice. I’m tired. I want to stop. This needs to stop. When this tape’s up — turns out it was better I didn’t get anymore tape — then I’ll go.
Don’t worry about me. I’m okay. I’m okay, really. This is good.
I’ll leave you the tape recorder. Think I’ll die of embarrassment if I ever find out you listened to these, but, oh well. They’re yours. I was talking to you. They’re all for you. I wanted to take you with me, and I did. But you can’t come with me this time. I don’t want you to get hurt.
I’ll leave the recorder at the dugouts — no that’d get stolen. Maybe at school? I’ll figure it out. I’ll make sure you get it, promise.
Everything’s fine. I think right now I sound like I’m doing something that you should be scared about, but everything’s fine. It’s better. It’s good. I’m trying to be good. Do good. I’m tired, I’m really tired, but I’m going to do this. I need to do something good. This is good. I’m good. I’m good and you’re good. We’re good.
Love you, okay? I love you so much.
I’m sorry if you don’t want to hear that, but, I just, I have to say it, Mickey. I have to. I love you.
I know, can’t even say bye without taking forever, but, thanks for listening anyway. Thanks for listening to me. Thanks for — thanks for listening to me.
Okay. Tape’s almost up. Now or never.
See ya, Mick —
Click!