Part II-Mickey

Mickey

I watch the students filter in a few at a time.  Everyone looks rather normal, even a bit uninteresting.  I am wearing an old Pink Floyd concert shirt with a picture of the cross section of a World War II plane.  My faded jeans have a ragged hole in the knee, my shoes are a tattered pair of Chuck E. Taylors.  I may look like a rough and tumble kind of girl, but for anyone who would not judge by appearances only, I am harmless, big-hearted, soft, loving, and trusting, if a bit reserved and perhaps fearful.  However, I am careful that my face welcomes a hello or conversation.  No one seems open to the idea.  I turn to doodling in my nice, new notebook, labeled for this course and ready to be filled to the brim with knowledge. 

Suddenly, something actually catches my attention.  It’s a sound-the unmistakable jingling of much jewelry, heavy chains, the chunky sound of modern day armour.  I peer over the rims of my glasses, only to see a warrior, a goddess, gracefully gliding into the room-an Amazon with fire hair dyed in various shades of orange and red, treading across the floor in black combat boots.  She has donned a long, black trench coat against the January chill, on the back of which is painted a white anarchy symbol.  Exotic jewelry adorns this punk beauty.  Silver chains of various thickness and design are draped about her neck, along with a black leather thong with what looks,for all the world, like a fork with bent and twisted tines in a pattern of diamonds.  She is wearing many silver rings as well, some with odd stones, like Tiger’s Eye and onyx.  In her flaming hair is shaved a checkerboard on one side, like Cyndi Lauper’s at that time.  One look at her facial features and I can’t help but know she is Irish, probably almost completely so.  She is a stunning creation, and as I watch her enter the room, I can feel an instant bond beginning to form.  I don’t know why, and I don’t care how, I just know I feel it and cannot resist it. 

She strides down the aisle and looks directly at me.  For that second, we lock eyes, and we both know each other’s heart.  She and I smile at one another and hold up our left hands in a welcoming gesture of what could be friendship.  She says, “Hey,” and I reply softly, “hello.”  She sits beside me and we share a special understand which will last through the ages.  She puts out a hand for me to shake, and so I do.  She says, “I’m Mickey,” and I answer, “I’m Tanya, nice to meet you.”  My heart is leaping; finally, someone who can see beyond appearances.  I get a tingling, just an inkling of what would become a sisterly love, begin to well up inside.  A warm glow surrounds her, engulfs me. 

She sits there for a bit, looking concerned, anxious, serious.  Then she turns to me and asks, “I have to go to a court hearing.  Could you please take notes for me so I can copy them on Thursday?”  I readily agree and state, “sure, no problem.” She puts a hand on my shoulder and expresses her gratitude.  I smile and wish her the best of luck with her court thing.  She smiles back, thanks me, and rushes out the door with a swoosh of her long coat. 

Class is exceedingly dull.  The professor drones endlessly without tone or inflection.  His mind wanders, his lecture gets off track easily.  I dutifully take notes and agonize in boredom.  Finally, the long hours end and I am released back into the snowy, sunny, slushy January day, and I take a moment to feel the warmth of new friendship.

On Thursday, I take my usual position in class, second row from the back, left side of the room.  Mickey enters as only someone so grand could enter a room and plops down beside me.  We greet each other and I ask her how the hearing went.  She shrugs and says, “It wasn’t bad.”  She seems much more relaxed.  We chat a bit, and then are drawn into the dusty, sleepy world of American Lit as the dullest man in the world meandered through a lecture.  All through class, Mickey and I exchange notes and silly jokes about this man’s apparent lack of personality.  She asks me if I’d like to go out Friday night to her brother’s frat house party.  I agree, because it’s at the Skull house, and I rather liked those boys-they were the outcasts, the burnouts, the cool kids on campus.  She tells me to bring some friends.  The professor has run out of words, and we head outside to grab a smoke.  Mickey is full of animation, dramatic flair, charisma, and sharp and witty humour.  I cannot help it-I am caught up in her exuberance and I love it.

At the dorm, I tell my floor mates about the invite, and we decide it would be great fun.  We primp and preen as young women do, with a bit of makeup here and a touch of perfume there.  I find a red button down shirt that isn’t yet filthy and a pair of jeans without holes and we hit Mo-town (Morgantown). 

Once we are in the Frat house, we desperately try to act as if we are old enough to drink.  The guys don’t much care either way and fill our cups readily.  I see Mickey chatting with her brother, and she spots me and beckons me over.  As it turns out, I had already met Jim previously.  I remember him right away, because he has the same heart-stopping smile as Mickey does.  Just being around them both causes me to lose contact with my dormies and join these two in a rousing game of Quarters, and I am getting to be rather good at the game.

The night wears on, the cups spilleth over.  Jim asks me to dance to a reggae song with him, so I do, in my clumsy, very lit way.  He puts a Panama hat on my head and we both laugh.  Mickey sees it and says it suits me.  I wear it the rest of the evening.  Mickey asks for my phone number and I give it to her, then part company with the party goers.

A few days later, Mickey calls and invites me over for a Native American ritual to celebrate friendship and to bring on the rainy season to wash away the snow.  I readily agree.  In class that day, she draws me a map to her house, and that evening I make my way to Reah Alley and find a three story white house and Mickey in the front window waving to me.  She shares the house with her two brothers, Jim and John.  She ushers me into her room, a magnificent display of art, magic, photography, and fun.  There is incense burning and candles lit, including a giant one, three feet tall, carved with bakers and blacksmiths and other such things.  She has herbs and plants in packets and bundles, bottles and jars and boxes with various stones and carved beads in them.  I quickly learn that the term “Native American” she used to get me to come has to do with my heritage only, as she was unsure if I would be willing to come if I had known there was going to be some magic involved.  I am open minded enough to not be insulted and curious enough to continue.  She is a great teacher and I am a free-thinking, quick student.  She reads my Tarot cards, tells me to close my eyes and tell her the first thing I see.  It is my Dad and I playing guitar together at my home.  She tells me this reveals my protection, my guardian.  She senses two distinct entities-trust and fear.  She nails it.  I am most definitely ruled by those two guiding forces.  She gathers a handful of stones and has me pick one.  I do and she tells me it is bloodstone.  She smiles, rubs her hands together with her eyes closed, and when she stops and opens her hands, a shark’s tooth is in the place of the stone, and the bloodstone is in my hand.  She asks if I had seen the shark’s tooth before in her hand, and I said no, and she said, “Good.  That means you are observant.” She does not, however, explain how the bloodstone got into my hand, and I do not ask.  She then starts teaching me about white magic, ancient magic, pure magic.  I tell her I’ve always been drawn to Earth magic and the practices of the ancients.  I tell her I am willing to learn all I can, I just need a teacher.  She says, “Well, you’ve found one.”  I smile and feel a tear well up in the corner of my eye.  We hug, and she asks me to stay the night.  I readily agree and begin this new life.  Through the night, Mickey talks in her sleep, but I do not mind, I listen and gaze in wonder at everything around me.  In the morning, I am a grumpy sort, mumbling about a cigarette and coffee, then snarling about it.  Mickey quietly places a Marlboro and a steaming cup of coffee with creamer on the floor next to me.  I am placated, then I wonder how she knew how I take my coffee without me telling her. 

In the course of the next several weeks, then months, I meet a group of amazing young people-Joey, Norm, the two Darrens, Rose, Tom, Dan, and a few whose names have been lost to the passing of time.  They are into playing Dungeons and Dragons, and Mickey is the Dungeon Master, because she is the greatest story spinner, and has all the props, and the dice, and the Marlboros, and the tape of Irish songs and sea shanties, and the Mountain Dew.  They invite me to play.  I always had wanted to, but did not know how.  They enthusiastically help me develop a character and ponder how to inject me into the story.  One of the Darrens, whose character name is Reese shrugs and says, “Wanna get married?”  I shrug back and say, “Sure.”  Mickey weaves me into the tale.  “Reese the pirate and his band of rogues capture this lovely, strong maiden from her father’s estate and take her to the docks.  While standing there, the Lady notices there is no ship, for Reese has a magic ship that shrinks to fit into a pocket when unmanned.”  I nod in understanding and then turn to Darren and say, “Is that a ship in your pocket, or are you just glad to see me?”  Everyone bursts into laughter and Reese declares, “I shall marry this woman tonight aboard my ship!”  And so we marry, and then we party to celebrate the union. 

Spring becomes Summer, and the school year ends.  I have not fared too badly, grade-wise, though the American Lit class was so exceedingly dull, I could not retain any of the required information and bombed the final.  Somehow, school has taken a back seat to the learning I am taking in from Mickey and the Morgantown Crew.  We spend afternoons at the Student Union, called “The Lair” and play ridiculous card games with awesome names like “Spite and Malice”, which involves arm punching.  Mickey teaches me to play darts and attempts to teach me how to shoot pool.  I’m far better at the darts, but have fun anyway.  She teaches me spells, incantations, and herbal magic and the usage of plants, stones, and crystals.  She teaches me to read the Tarot cards, too.  In the Summer, we go to the movie theater in town and see Indiana Jones-The Last Crusade.  She excitedly tells me about stunt work and cinematography.  Outside, she starts humming the theme from I Dream Of Jeanie.  I join her, and soon we are dancing joyfully down the street singing the song loudly, holding onto each other until we run out of breath.  Some nights, we go to the cemetery on the edge of town, where there are cool grave stones and a statue of Joseph holding the baby Jesus, and if you look at it, real eyes form and will look at you, blink, look at each other, blink, and look back at you, then fade away.  I discover Decker’s Creek and lovely pieces of glass left behind from the old glass factory.  One night, we all dress as pirates for no reason and “raid” the Dairy Mart.  (We pay for our provisions, Mountain Dew, Slim Jims, barbecue chips, pepperoni rolls, candy bars, with our “loot”.)  We raid the Salvation Army dumpster on some nights for clothing and shoes and costumes.  We all make wooden swords and practice swordplay in the street in front of Mickey’s house.  I am living a fantasy, but I have never felt more alive and real.  I am accepted and loved and part of something truly magical.  I have Mickey to thank for all this, and for introducing me to two more incredibly important people from that era-Norm, and Joey.

-End of Part II.