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? It started out innocently enough, as far as kidnappings are concerned. Michael and the band’s popularity had begun to wan. Which meant smaller venues, like the bar close to Peggy’s place.
It was like the rock-n-roll gods had smiled upon Peggy that night. Michael spotted her for the fist time as she was lining up outside.
“I’ve seen you before,” he said.
“This is not my first time,” she answered.
“So . . . . you’re experienced?” (Was he flirting?)
“I know my way around the front row,” she tried her best to coo.
Michael walked away, but not without one last look over his shoulder. Peggy sucked in her gut and pushed out her B-cups as far as she could, mustering up her best “come-hither” look before Michael disappeared into one of the doors. She exhaled, releasing her gut and boobs back to their normal state.
During the show he would glance her way between songs. Peggy thought she was imagining it. But the long look, with a smile, as he walked off the stage convinced her. Oh my god! He was flirting.
Then came the tap. A roadie was tapping her on the shoulder. “Michael is wondering if you want a drink,” he asked. He led her through the crowd to the back room of the bar.
The band was having an after-show party. Michael sat in a booth, nursing a beer. When he saw Peggy, he smiled again and waved her to sit next to him.
“How was the show?” he asked. “I saw you in the front row. You looked like you were enjoying yourself.”
Peggy searched for words. She had mentally scripted this meeting many times before and she was always witty and charming. Now she was mute. She felt like a huge steal door had been shut on her face and all intelligent thoughts were slammed out of her head.
Then the words spilled out, in no coherent order or meaning.
“I’vebeensugeahugefanofyourdforyearsandyourmusicmeanssomuchtomeandhastouchedmeinsomanyyearsand…”
Michael held up his hand. “Are you drinking?”
“Yes,” Peggy nodded. Michael called for the waitress. And the night dissolved into fog of booze, a little weed, and an offer to finish this party back at her place.
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.
Peggy was not a villain, she didn’t even have a moving violation on her record. This was her first crime, and it was a dozy. But she went all in on the felony. Why? As she watched him sleep, Peggy tried to calculate the math that led her here.
Lately, Peggy believed that life had been leaving her out.
She had been laid off from the company that had employed her for close to 20 years. She left with a comfortable severance package and time to contemplate her next move. Even though in her head she knew it was a dollars-and-cents decision, in her heart Peggy believed she had failed.
Peggy’s identity had been wrapped up in her career. It took years to claw up that corporate ladder and establish herself among the big boys, and then they just yanked it away. Who had time for relationships when there was work to do? Who had time for kids when there was a deadline? She wasted it all for a job that saw her as a line item.
She didn’t have a husband to come home to. No kids, no pets, not even a plant. She rarely saw her friends, whose calendars were all dictated by their kids and spouses. Peggy’s career had been her “thing” and now that was gone.
But she had music. When everything else disappeared … the job, the men, her friends, the “kids”, there was music. It was her greatest joy. And Michael was the source.
It all hit her as she watched him sleep. The disappointments. The rejections. The loneliness. These things cracked through her brain like lightening strikes. She just snapped. Then she got the cuffs.
Michael started to stir. When his eyes opened, he struggled to focus on his hands, bound to the bed frame over his head. Realization slowly crept across his face and he pulled on the handcuffs. He lifted his head and saw Peggy standing at the foot of the bed.
“The fuck?!?” he shouted.
All things considered, his reaction was not that bad.
“THE FUCK?!?!? You BITCH! What the fuck? Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”
“Now Michael, try to calm down,” were the only words Peggy sheepishly muttered. She was not convincing anyone to calm down. He just flayed on the bed.
After a few minutes, Michael calmed down and lifted his head off the bed to look at her. “Why are you doing this?” he hissed through clenched teeth.
Peggy floundered. Her reasons were not perfectly clear to her. She nervously pulled at her fingers as she tried to explain. Finally, she just shrugged and signed. “I guess I just wanted some more time with you?”
He was silent. His head fell back on the pillow with a stony look of defiance. It dawned on Peggy that kidnapping an alt-music darling was not the best idea. She was always so thoughtful about her actions, but this was an impulsive move. She was in unchartered territory and had no words for her completely out-of-character actions.
“Listen. I’ve got you handcuffed to the bed. You are not going anytime soon. I promise, I will never hurt you. In fact, I will make every effort make you comfortable and happy. I only want to make you happy. I will make sure every one of your needs is met.”
Michael calmed down and thought for a second. “Every need?” he asked, raising his eyebrow. Defiance transitioning into something different, compliance? Peggy nodded.
“Even that one thing you did last night?” She nodded again.
He let his head drop to the pillow. “I guess I can stay for a little while.”
***
Those first few days were tense. The promise of sexual hijinks was not much of a motivator. After a few failed attempts at seduction, Peggy just gave up.
His captivity was not a high-security situation. Peggy was unarmed, a fit woman, but not strong enough to keep anyone down. And her one-bedroom apartment was hardly Alcatraz.
It was the home of a mid-forties single lady and music fan. Her art was framed posters from the many concerts she attended. One wall was covered with shelfs stacked with CDs and albums, yes, vinyl. There was the combo CD/Record played, plus speakers for her iPod.
Michael was kept in the bedroom off the living room. He was being held by novelty handcuffs. A toddler could eventually break free. Cleary, Peggy thought, Michael was not trying to escape. There had to be something else keeping him there.
But Michael continued his angry, yet half-hearted, protests. “How can you be here day in and day out?” he growled one day. “Don’t you have a job?”
Peggy stood in the bedroom doorway. “I was laid off,” she bit back. “Twenty years. Can you believe it? Twenty years and they just show me the door.”
Michael was quiet. “Sorry about that. Fuck Trump!”
“Yeah, fuck him.” Peggy paused. “Wasn’t really a Trump thing. The company had been failing. Just happened.”
“Oh. Sorry. But, seriously, fuck that guy.”
“Yeah, sideways.”
Michael was sullen, yet compliant. He’d growl at her attempts at a truce, but never would make run for it when she uncuffed him or biological breaks. Peggy was starting to believe that he kind of liked it.
Then she cooked for him. That’s when his angry pretense really started to dissolve.
It was the beginning of the second week. Some people could sing or paint, Peggy could cook. It was always her way to de-stress. She floated her way through the kitchen, creating edible symphonies with spices and sauces.
She was orchestrating a lasagna when Michael called from the bedroom, “Smells good out there. What’s cooking?
“Lasagna,” she shouted back.
“Is that with ground beef?”
“Sausage.”
“I like sausage.”
And with some pasta, sauce, and ground sausage, an armistice commenced. Her lasagna began to soften him. A dose of her homemade minestrone soup continued his conversion. Her dark chocolate mousse cake sealed the deal.
The way to Michael’s heart was through his stomach. Funny, Peggy thought, she assumed it would have been a little lower.
Michael had completely stopped pretending to be a hostile prisoner. Peggy was dying to understand why, but was scared that asking would push him away.
She cooked and cooked and he ate and ate. They talked and talked.
At the end of week two of his captivity, Peggy had taken off the handcuffs. Michael was sitting up in the bed, she was parked at his feet. They were watching Seinfeld on TBS, the “Vandelay Industries” episode.
“There was a time I was thinking about being an architect,” Michael said between bites of homemade mac & cheese.
“Really? I can’t imagine.”
“Yeah,” he continued with a full mouth. “My father’s idea. Not mine. But I entertained the idea to make him happy, which he rarely was. About me, anyways. He was your typical ‘Company Man’ – corner office, suits, ties, 401k – didn’t get his quiet, thoughtful son who was happy hiding his room with his records.”
“How’d that end?”
“Badly. One word: math. I just don’t think on that side of my brain.”
Peggy enjoyed how Michael liked to pontificate because she liked to listen. She felt that it fit her position in life as a supporting character. She was content to lift others and let her own story simmer on the back burner.
The time of the great thaw was magical. For 20 years, her one hope was to get close to Michael. And there they were, pleasantly chatting away over leftovers and day-time TV.
“What was it that first attracted you to me?” Michael asked as he finished her homemade chocolate cake. He had graduated to the couch and they were watching Bones.
“Ugh,” Peggy groaned and hid her face on her hands. “I don’t want to talk about me.” He had just finished the story on how he met John, his band mate who’s been his devoted right-hand for two decades.
“Oh please…regale me with your love for me. How have I added color and music to your life?”
Peggy thought about it and sighed. “It’s your words. When I can’t come up with the words to express myself, you do.”
“You realize most of my songs are about loneliness, despair and trying to find love and meaning in a dark, cold world?”
Peggy nodded.
“I get it.”
***
Spending all that time alone together, Peggy got some insight into Michael’s compliance. He never fully explained but would let out hints. The road, she gleamed, was not as glamorous as it seems.
About three weeks in, he asked, “Do you know how long it’s been since I was in one place for more than a few days? I can’t remember. Man, it’s nice not packing another bag. Hey, what’s for dinner? Italian?”
Another day, laying on the couch flipping through the channels, Michael listed all the recent cities he passed through. “There was Boston, then Portland, Burlington, Hartford, Kingston…then here. Just stopping in, never staying. Small venues, crappy hotels, fast food on the bus. I’m hitting 50 soon, and I spent more time on a bus than in my house. That’s rock-n-roll for ya.”
Michael was exhausted. Naps were frequent. A typical day went something like this: wake-up at about 10:00 a.m., breakfast, then a nap until after noon. Lunch, then the afternoon shows, with periodic naps throughout. After dinner, they’d watch whatever was on TV or something on Netflix. The night ended after Colbert.
It was all very comfortable, this lazy routine they had. Then it started to get weird.
Michael and his band were never household names and their limited popularity had begun to wane. But after about a month in, his disappearance changed that. Suddenly the news was asking, “Where’s Michael?” He became a hash tag and his concert clips were trending on YouTube.
Michel loved it. He sat on the couch and watched the coverage obsessively. Worried fans lamented his absence; critics commented on his brilliance and that, much like an Old Testament prophet, he was simply not appreciated in his own time. Michael was eating it up.
“He spoke for a generation who felt lost,” Kurt Loder oozed.
“His words had the power to lift up and sooth,” Greg Kott gushed.
“His warn voice was like a hug from grandma,” Jim DeRogatis babbled.
“Where the fuck were these guys when I released my last album?” Michael shouted at the TV. “Loder called it ‘pretentious’, Kott said I had lost my touch. DeRogatis just flat out hated it! Peggy,” he pointed a ham-filled fork at her, “never trust a critic. It’s all BS.”
Memorials were being set up outside the Chicago club where Michael got his start. Downloads started to spike. There was even a Spotify playlist compiled by Lin-Manual Miranda.
“Alexander Hamilton! I got Alexander Hamilton missing me. Peggy, this ‘kidnapping’ or whatever is the best thing that has happened to me in ages. I’ll need to thank you when I win that Grammy.”
Peggy didn’t need him to thank her. She needed him to take a shower.
“We need to stretch this out for a couple of weeks. We can really make the most of this!”
A few more weeks? Peggy secretly “ughed” over the corned beef and hash she was making.
***
That’s how it was for a few days. Michael reveling in his newly found spotlight, plotting his triumphant return to the stage. Peggy patiently listening to his fanciful rants.
“You know what would be great?” Michael said. He was sprawled on the couch, bowl of chips resting on his stomach. “I could just show up at one of those memorials. All those crying fans! They’d love it.”
“Yes,” Peggy replied from her hiding place in the kitchen.
“Or. . . or I can release a video. Put it up on Instagram. All about my need to get away from it all to write my masterpiece. That’s it. Brilliant.”
But he didn’t write. Michael just sat on the couch and watched the news.
And then the tide began to turn. Rather than cancelling the few planned shows, John – Michael’s trusted right hand – 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!”
They did. Rather than playing half-filled clubs, John and the band played sold-out venues. Fans lined up outside hours to stake their claims on the front row.
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.
“I started this band,” he whined. “Those are my songs he’s stealing. My emotions. He’s hijacking my emotions. And those fools in the audience are eating it up.”
Peggy must have been a fool. Because she was eating it up with a knife and fork.
Then Michael turned 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. She concocted a great story for him, about retreating to the desert to meditate and recoup.
“You can say that a yogi suggested the trip to refine your damaged soul,” she pleaded. ‘That you found peace in the desert and you are ready for your masterpiece. You are going start writing that masterpiece, right?”
“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 talkative if I had to leave. Now, for lunch how about a BLT? On that lovely homemade bread.”
Peggy was at a loss. He wasn’t leaving. She had to rethink her situation.
***
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 would be attached of this alternative music, liberal icon watching Sean Hannity. That would do the trick.
And Peggy’s temples stopped throbbing.
Barbara Morrison; bkmmorr@yahoo.com
The Barb Wire 