Michael was standing in the bedroom doorway, decked out in his dirty grey sweats, stained t-shirt and ratty bathrobe. His thick black and gray-speckled hair was matted against his head, and his five o’clock shadow was creeping down his neck and up his cheeks. “Peggy, when’s lunch?” he asked.
Peggy sat at the kitchen table, head resting in her hands. Her fingers massaged her throbbing temples. “There’s some soup warming in the microwave.”
“Microwave?” Michael whined. “So, we’re just warming things up, now? That’s okay. Homemade is better, but microwave is okay.” And Michael shuffled back to the bedroom to park on the bed and binge on another SVU marathon.
At the time, it all seemed like such a good idea. It was a good idea. A spontaneous idea. And, okay, it was an illegal idea. But it happened and now this where they were. Peggy had to deal. Peggy had to get Michael the fuck outta her house.
In the beginning, Michael’s music was the soundtrack of all Peggy’s milestones. Michael’s maple syrup tenor accompanied her first “I love you” in her twenties. His charging guitar chords blasted through her 30th birthday. And his tender lyrics comforted her when that “I love you” became “Good bye.” His words were the story of her life. There was no greater joy than being in the front row of his concerts, letting his voice soothe away her woe.
Peggy was a borderline stalker, but stalking seemed like too much work.
How did it arrive that he was her willing and demanding hostage? To sum up, there was a concert, followed by a meeting and then drinks. And then you mix in flirting, touching and kissing with a passionate cab ride and the result was the beautiful, sensual, intense and pleasurable act Peggy had fantasized about for years. (Ahem, sex.)
Later, as Michael slept off was could be described as a colossal hangover, a fiendish plot tapped Peggy’s brain. A wonderfully fiendish, awful plot. She found the handcuffs she got has a joke gift for her 40th birthday and, quietly straddling her prey, Michael was hers.
That was about six weeks ago. That first morning was rough. Obviously, Michael was a little disturbed about his situation. He shouted, cursed, seethed and struggled against the handcuffs. Peggy floundered to find ways to placate him. She was unprepared for his anger. After all, kidnapping one of the music industry’s critical darlings was an impulse move; she had no words to justify her actions.
Michael finally settled down when she outlined his current reality: he was handcuffed to a bed. Complying was his best option. After all, she was willing to meet his every need, EVERY NEED; he should just sit back and enjoy it.
The first week was tense. He protested all of Peggy’s approaches. Nothing could cheer him . . . not his favorite music, TV shows, not even the promise of granting some of his dirtiest sexual fantasies. Then she cooked for him. Peggy knew her way around the kitchen. Her chicken piccata began to soften him. A dose of her homemade minestrone soup continued his conversion. Her dark chocolate mousse cake sealed the deal.
Peggy cooked and cooked and he ate and ate. They talked and talked. The second week was magical. Peggy was in heaven. For 20 years, her one hope was to get close to Michael. He talked about how a lonely childhood contributed to his songwriting. She talked about the trials and tribulations of being a single lady in her 40s. They were becoming close.
The third week was when things started to get weird. Peggy assumed his life as a rock-n-roll icon had laid down a level of expectations. Michael was not a household name; most of Peggy’s friends gave her the dead eyes when she spoke of him. But he was a critical darling, but everyone who knew him loved him. So maybe he had grown to expect a certain amount of accommodation. He was a borderline diva; she was a borderline stalker. They should have been perfect for each other.
They were not.
Things went south in week four when his disappearance hit the news. An icon of the alternative music world was M.I.A., and no one seemed to care, especially his band. At first, there were the CNN crawls about his disappearance. A few shows were cancelled. Then the rhythm guitarist, John, stepped up. He took over the lead singer and lead guitarist role. “Because we just can’t let our fans down,” John said in interview after interview after interview. He seemed to pop up CNN, MSNBC, NBC, ABC, CBS, and even FOX News.
“Bullshit!” Michael shouted at John’s earnest image on the TV. “That backstabbing asshole has been gunning for me for years. Well, if he thinks that the fans will like him, he’s fucking crazy!”
The fans loved him. John possessed a more innocent vibe and presented a more yearnful interpretation of Michael’s songs. He even managed to add a few of his own to the set list. Peggy had to admit, when she watched YouTube footage of the John shows (hidden deep in the closet to avoid Michael’s sulky whines) that she liked what she heard and saw. John was giving her all the feels.
Michael, on the other hand, was giving her agita. When John’s star began to rise, Michael began to sink. And stink. Peggy was sure to give him space to bathe and did some quick clothes shopping. But he settled on the sweat pants and t-shirt look, and eschewed the shower.
Michael would ball up on the bed and rail on about all the “atrocities” committed against him. From the unsupportive record label to the barista who messed up his order, the world was against him. Then he’d turn his sad, green eyes to her and say, “But here everything is fine. I should just stay here, stay with you. And can you mix me up some of that delicious clams marinara.”
“But I don’t have the ingredients,” Peggy said.
“Please. And don’t forget the garlic bread.”
Michael was becoming overbearing, miserable, and immovable. When Peggy suggested that it was time for him to return to the spotlight, he balked. Peggy concocted a great story for him, about retreating to the desert to mediate and recoup. She added to the story that a yogi suggested the desert trip to refine his damaged soul. But he said no.
“I’m happy here,” Michael said. “I don’t want to leave. What’s for dinner? I’m in the mood for steak and potatoes.”
Peggy was beginning to get desperate. Michael was unwilling to leave, unwilling to improve, and would make hints about what could happen to her.
“Kidnapping is a crime,” he would say. “I hear a person could get life for that. Now, if I could stay for a little longer, I could keep my mouth shut, but I could get real talkative if I had to leave. Now, for lunch how about a BLT? On that lovely homemade bread.”
Peggy’s temples throbbed as the microwave hummed. Michael was in the bedroom, cheering on Detective Benson’s latest take down of a perp. “Olivia is bad ass!!” he shouted. “She really came into her own after Elliot left. He held my girl back!” he called out to Peggy. “How’s that soup??”
“Almost done,” Peggy said.
The microwave dinged and Peggy rose from the chair. She took the bowl out, blew on the hot soup (because Michael’s delicate tongue) and stirred it. The crushed Ambien pills were dissolved in the hot mix and should be tasteless. He’d sleep for hours. Once midnight struck, she’d tie him to her office chair, sneak him out to her car, and drive him to a local hospital. To ensure he keeps his mouth shut, a little blackmail. Some compromising photos were attached of this alternative music, liberal icon watching the O’Reilly Factor that would do the trick.
And Peggy’s temples stopped throbbing.
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Barbara Morrison – bkmmorr@yahoo.com – 201-679-4446
The Barb Wire 