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It’s not a great restaurant. It’s not even a mediocre restaurant, but it’s enough. Mickey glances around and then scrubs a hand over his mouth. It’s been two years of prison and one year out to get here, but he is here, and that’s more than he ever thought he could do. Someone might think he’s sitting where he is because he can see the door, but the truth of the matter is that he wants the wall at his back. He doesn’t trust anyone else to have it anymore.
He sees Ian walk past the window before he gets to the door, and he’s surprised at how much it hurts and how much it doesn’t. He’s not sure what he expected, but he expected something different. Ian looks pretty much the same though there’s a hollowness to his face. Mickey’s not sure if it’s the meds or the past three years that put it there, but it’s not a good look for Ian. He looks harder, meaner. Like the streets of the South Side finally got to him.
Ian glances around the room and spies Mickey. He seems to take a deep breath as he walks over to the table. He gestures at the seat and Mickey nods. It’s kind of ridiculous, since Mickey called him and invited him here, but civility is better than hostility or, even worse, apathy. Ian sits and leans back in the chair. He looks casual, but Mickey can sense the tension in his limbs. He wonders if Ian had it before he got here or if it’s simply contagious.
“Hi.”
Ian looks away from Mickey then back. “Hey.”
“Thanks for meeting me. I wasn’t sure you would.”
“Free coffee.”
Mickey huffs a laugh and nods before he signals to the waitress. He can see Ian’s eyes go to the tattoo on his wrist. It’s a series of simple black bars, but Ian stares at it like it’s some mystical symbol. The waitress brings over the coffee pot and a tray of creamers. “Anything else?”
“Not yet,” Mickey tells her with a smile and she walks away.
“Who are you and what have you done with the real Micky Milkovich?” Ian’s voice is flat, no affect. “You’re being nice to people.”
“Grew up, I guess. Decided I didn’t want to be my dad.”
“I always suspected your dad took it up the ass.” Ian pours two creamers into his coffee, staring down as the white swirls in with the black. “When’d you get out?”
“A year ago.”
Ian nods at his wrist. “What’s that? So they can scan you at the supermarket?”
“It’s the number of guys I killed in the joint.” Mickey smirks as Ian finally meets his eyes. “I’m kidding. I actually escaped prison murder-free. Don’t tell Svetlana though, I think she’d be ashamed of me.”
“You keep in touch?”
“No.” Mickey takes a sip of his coffee. “My parole officer thought it’d be best if I didn’t hang around an ex-hooker at a bar, and I don’t really live somewhere I’d want a kid, you know?”
“And your new girlfriend isn’t into being a mommy?”
“Wow, I knew you didn’t give a shit about me anymore, but I thought you’d at least remember that you used to fuck me repeatedly and I liked it. Meaning girls aren’t really my thing.”
“You mean the great bad-ass Micky Milkovich isn’t playing it straight? Figured that’s what you’d do to get through prison unscathed.”
Mickey’s mouth curls up in a hint of a smile. He knows he doesn’t look amused even with it. His voice doesn’t have the same flatness as Ian’s, but there’s something not quite right with it either. “No one gets out of prison unscathed.”
“So what made you look me up?”
Mickey takes a sip of his coffee. “I saw the thing in the paper. You saved a bunch of people. I thought maybe I’d see-”
Ian cuts him off. “I’m seeing someone.”
“-how you were doing.” Mickey keeps going as if Ian hadn’t spoken at all. “You looked good in the picture. Healthy. I guess I just wanted to see for myself.”
“I’m seeing someone,” Ian repeats.
“That’s great.” Mickey’s surprised at how much he means it. “He’s a good guy?”
“Yeah.” Ian sounds defensive and Mikey smiles behind the rim of his coffee mug. “He’s good to me.”
“I’m glad.” He taps the menu lying beside him. “You hungry? My treat.”
“Is that so?”
“Yeah. I’ve got a steady job and all that legal shit. I pay taxes, man.”
Ian laughs for the first time, and it hits Mickey in the gut. That’s what was missing from Ian’s face. No laugh lines around his eyes or mouth. Nothing that even remotely resembled the Ian that he knew and loved. Even the medicine hadn’t taken it away from him, at least not before Mickey had gone into prison.
“It’s true!” Mickey laughs as well. “I pay out fucking FICA, man. I don’t know what the fuck it is, but I pay it. Fuck, next thing you know, I’m gonna have a 401(k).”
Ian laughs, and Mickey can see him relaxing. It’s nice to know that he can do that. That even after everything, he and Ian can make each other smile. They used to talk. Used to spend time together doing nothing. It was nice. It was all the things Mickey didn’t know made a relationship. “I can just see you,” Ian manages to say as he laughs. “Storming into the HR office and demanding to know what the fuck they’re doing taking shit out of your check.”
“It’s like you were there!” Mickey shoves his menu a little so it hits Ian’s. “Come on. Order something. I know you’re a fucking bottomless pit.” Ian hesitates and Mickey rolls his eyes. “It’s just lunch, Ian. I don’t want anything from you.”
“No?” Ian frowns. “Not...payback?”
“You didn’t do anything. I mean, it’s Frank’s fucking fault that you’re even related to her, right?”
“I didn’t do anything.” He looks down at the table, worrying a scratch in the Formica with his thumbnail. “When it happened, when the cops showed up and asked what was going on. I could have said something.”
“The rest of your family said Sammi was a psycho-bitch from hell. Didn’t matter. Didn’t matter that she couldn’t prove shit. They wanted a reason to put me away, and they found it. Not like I could afford any kind of lawyer. I got some kid who just got out of junior college pissing his pants at being in front of a judge. Hell, I could have mounted a better defense.” Mickey opens his own menu. “My own reputation got me in there. You don’t get to take credit or blame for it.”
Yeah, but...”
“I’m out now. I survived. It’s kind of like AA, man. One day after another. Don’t look back, just look forward.”
“You go to AA?”
“No. Lots of guys in the joint did though. Not that they had access to booze really, but they talked a lot. One day at a time gets you through a lot of days though. And I spent a lot of days there.” Mickey glances over at the waitress. “Okay, well, you don’t have to get anything, but I’m starving, so I’m gonna order.”
She comes over and Mickey orders a burger and fries and a Coke. She glances at Ian and he tentatively orders the same thing, minus the onions. Mickey makes a face and Ian smirks. “What?”
“No onions, huh? You need to have sweet-smelling breath for the new man?”
“I just don’t like onions on burgers. Hot dogs are different.” Ian sips his water. “You really saw me in the paper?”
“Yeah. I mean, I wasn’t going to contact you at first. Figured neither of us needed that, but when I saw you, I thought you looked good. Like I said. Healthy. You looked different, but you looked like the Ian I knew. The one before the disorder kicked in and knocked you for a loop. I figured it couldn’t hurt to reach out.”
“I was surprised when I heard from you.”
“I can imagine, since I was still supposed to be locked up.”
“Not just that.” Ian frowns as the waitress brings their Cokes and then leaves. He looks at Mickey, his brow furrowed. “I didn’t really give you much reason to want to talk to me again. Ever.”
“You had shit going on. Whatever the reason, you didn’t think I could be there for you, be what you needed. It sucked. It fucking sucked, but, like I said. Even one day at a time, two years is a lot of days to think about shit. Didn’t matter what I felt or what I wanted. You didn’t feel it and you didn’t want it. Case closed.”
“How come you’re so fucking calm? I’d want to smash my face in for being a dick to you. For throwing everything you’d done away like it was so much trash.”
“Not trash. Trash is what you wanted, because that’s what you felt like. I loved you, so I couldn’t treat you like that.” Mickey shrugs and unwraps his straw, rolling the paper up between his fingers. Neither of them say anything for a long time, and it takes their food showing up to break the silence. “Two years was a long time for you too. Three years, I guess.”
“Yeah. I was fucking up. Fucking around, fucking up, fucking myself over. I pushed everyone away as far as I could. They were all relieved too. Easier not to feel guilty for not helping if I won’t let them help. Reason enough to go back to their lives without worrying about crazy Ian. We used to be a family, you know? But...well, I guess everyone grows up. Grows apart.”
Mickey shrugs. He and his family are still close. They call even though they don’t always see each other. Mickey stays away from his brothers and cousins because it’d be easy to fall back into old habits, and Mandy’s moved to New York. Mickey hopes like hell she hasn’t gone from bad to worse, but she seems happy, so he doesn’t ask too many questions.
“How’s Mandy?” Mickey starts and looks up at Ian pointing a fry at him. “You got this look on your face. You were thinking about her. Is she still with Kenyatta?”
“Nah. Got smart and got the fuck away from him. She’s in New York now. Probably shacking up with someone, but she doesn’t sound like she’d rather be dead on the phone, so it’s a step up.” He takes a bite of his burger to keep from having to say more, and Ian does the same. They eat like that, trading turns taking bites so neither of them have to talk. Ian finishes his burger and takes a drink of his Coke.
“I’ve been taking my meds. Volunteered at the fire station, got my GED, got my Associates degree in fire science, got hired. It’s hard work, but I like it.”
“It suits you. Even better than the Army. You were always good at saving people.” The sentence is more loaded than Mickey intends it to be, but once it’s out there between them, he can’t take it back. “Plus you had all that practice back in the day when Carl was setting all his action figures and neighborhood cats on fire.”
“Carl would be thoroughly offended to know that he did a public service.” Ian laughs. “But it does. Suit me. I never considered it, but I pulled a lady out of a burning car and it felt...like there was a purpose. I was there at that moment in time for a reason. And I was tired of not having anything. Not having a reason. A dream. A goal. I thought maybe if I had one, even if this didn’t end up being it, maybe it’d be easier to deal with everything else.”
“And it did?”
Ian nods and reaches across the table to steal one of Mickey’s fries. “It did.”
“Good. I’m glad. Plus, you know, hot firefighters everywhere.”
“That is not a downside.”
“Have you posed for a calendar yet?”
“Fuck off,” Ian laughs again, and the last knot in Mickey’s stomach unties. “No.”
“Oh, come on. Shirtless in your pants and suspenders. Holding...a bunny or something. In black and white so your stubble stands out. Probably wet from the hose spray. You, not the bunny.”
“Is there something you’re trying to tell me here, Mickey?” It’s the first time he’s heard Ian say his name in years and, even preparing himself for it, it still punches Mickey in the chest. “You got some firefighter fantasy? Or just a bunny fetish?” Ian fakes a horrified look. “Oh my god, is that what the bunny slippers were all about?”
Mickey laughs and throws a fry at Ian. “You’re such a dick.”
Ian just smiles and picks up the fry from where it fell on his plate. He chews it, looking at Mickey the entire time. “I didn’t ask what your job was.”
“Nothing big. Not like I can get much work with these.” Mickey looks at his knuckles. “I’m a janitor at a hospital. The pay sucks, but it pays the rent.”
“You’re paying rent?”
“Yes. Asshole.” Mickey kicks Ian’s shin. “I have a room in a rundown piece-of-shit house that has no insulation and you’ll probably end up spraying water on its ashes at some point in the near future. Not that I’m planning on doing anything, but it’s prime arson for insurance money fodder, especially with all the gentrification going on.”
“Yeah. We lost our house.”
“I heard. Didn’t even give Iggy and Colin a chance to get half our shit out before they condemned our place. They managed to break in and clear it all out before they demolished it. Nobody mourning its loss though. Probably should’ve burnt it before and salted the earth.”
“Terry still in prison?”
“I assume so. Don’t really know. Don’t really care. That’s another thing prison taught me. I decided when I got out that I wasn’t going to be that person anymore. The one I was. The one that got me in there.”
“Is that what this is about? Seeing if you’re still that person? Or making sure you’re not?” There’s no real inflection in Ian’s voice, so Mickey isn’t sure if he actually cares about the answer.
“Neither. Honestly all I wanted to do was see how you are. Make sure the camera didn’t lie. See that you’re happy.”
“I am.” It comes too fast, like Ian has something to prove.
“I’m glad.” Mickey signals for the check then drains the last of his soda. “We’re clear. I guess I did want to say that.”
“Clear?”
“Even. Okay. You and me. I don’t blame you for anything. And I really do hope you’re happy.” He gets out his wallet and hands cash to the waitress. “You deserve that.”
“You sure?”
Mickey nods, and he can’t help smiling. “Yeah. That I am sure of.”
The waitress brings the check back with Mickey’s change and he lays a tip on the table. Ian’s frowning, and Mickey’s not sure why. Instead of looking like he’s been granted some sort of reprieve for the punishment he seems like he’s been laying on himself, Ian looks confused. Uncertain. “What does it mean?” Ian nods at the tattoo again and Mickey rubs his thumb over the dark lines.
“They’re months. Months of my life that I don’t get back. Twenty five months that I stole from myself, and now I’m going to do everything I can to get them back.”
Ian’s frown deepens. “Are you seeing anyone?”
He can’t help the laugh. It’s at his own expense, not Ian’s. “No. Not yet. Maybe someday if I find someone I like enough to put up with. Take another chance on.”
“Since the first time turned out so great?”
Mickey looks Ian dead in the eye for a moment before standing up. He walks past Ian and touches his shoulder, leaning down and keeping the words between them. “You helped me accept who I really am. You helped me into a place where prison could change me. I don’t regret it Ian, and I wouldn’t change it.”
“Really?” Ian looks up at him, his face too close. “Not a thing?”
“Well, it would have been nice if you had loved me. But it would have been harder too.” Mickey taps his chest. “Hard lesson to learn.”
“Okay, you have to regret that.” Ian nods toward his chest.
“That’s the moment I realized how you felt. Or didn’t. Like I said, I wouldn’t take it back. But I did get rid of it.”
“Like I got rid of you?”
“No.” Mickey’s tired of Ian’s insistence that he be destroyed, that his life be shit, that it hinge on Ian. “It hurt when I got rid of the tattoo.”
Mickey walks out the door and doesn’t look back. He feels like when he was a bookie, paying out the winners and then closing the books. He’s not sure where he and Ian fall on where their bets have left them, but he knows that, no matter what, he’s finished paying, and he’s moving on.