Walking on Thin Ice: Chapter 3

Upon waking up at eight thirty the next morning, nothing on his mind but the infernal itching in his cast, Michael bared his teeth at the plaster and began to dig at the culprit. Finding a pen on the bedside table, he began to scratch his wrist with the tool, smiling like a young child as the itch was appeased.

Jameison, looking tired and yet very pleased with himself walked in with a plastic tub filled with Michael's blood-soaked clothes. He held them out pitifully while Mike curiously scrapped around, keeping his wallet, car and house keys, and watch.

"The rest of that is all ruined?" He asked, rather liking the shirt that had his blood spattered all over it.

Dr. Jameison nodded with sympathy on his face. "Afraid so, most of it's tattered and bloody. If you want to get rid of it, just throw it away here and it'll get to the dumpster eventually."

"Alright, throw it out." Mike grudged, really liking the shirt he'd ruined. He immediately berated his own stupidity at falling asleep at the wheel, only he could manage sleeping on the highway. Only lucky he hadn't hit anyone else, he supposed.

Just as Jameison started to leave to dispose of the clothes, Gemma caught his arm and spun him around.

"Brad, is it nine yet? I have to leave-"

"Eight forty-five, why?"

She turned an eyebrow up. "I said, I have to leave, my guitar is coming out of the shop today."

His face lit up. "Oh really? It's been there for ages, are you going to play again?"

She nodded enthusiastically. "Yes! I looked into the Wave, and they have open mic night tomorrow night, at eight o' clock. If I'm here from nine to nine, I might have one good set to offer."

Jameison clapped once, plastic tub tucked under one arm. "Excellent!"

A nurse pressed her way past Jameison and Gemma, holding a stack of clothes for Mike.

"A guy named Eric left these for you late last night. Said you'd need them." She said with a pleasant smile.

Mike smiled and picked through the necessities Eric had left him. Socks, boxers, pants, shirt. His shoes were in the half closet by the door. "Thanks, I should probably wear something out of here, right?"

The nurse smiled again and left him, closing the door.

Mike dressed hurriedly, knowing that the doors didn't lock from the inside to allow him any privacy, and the adjoining room's member was using the rest room, so he was pretty much limited to this room. Finally having buttoned up the denim Oxford shirt, he ran his fingers through his hair and tried to cover a small bruise that had surfaced on his upper right forehead. He then proceeded to lace up his shoes and exit the room with full intent of getting some food before leaving. One meal had survived him so far, but his stomach was growling absently.

"Food food food food..." He muttered, searching for the cafèteria with no avail. Finally he found it, one floor up, hiding from him.

His cast proved to be the biggest nuisance to him throughout the entire meal that he ate, preventing him from using his left hand for even the most menial tasks. So he fumbled his way through and eyed his watch. Nine o' clock sharp.

"Leave leave leave leave..." He parodied himself slightly.

He paid the hefty bill ("I'm sorry, I thought you said one thousand pounds! Oh, you did? DAMNIT!") and left, curiously depressed to be leaving the hospital. He sat on the outdoor bench, squinting into the October sun and looking urgently for Graham's dusty colored Mini.

Fifteen minutes later, with nothing from Graham, he kicked the wall and started to walk home. After all, twenty six blocks was a healthy walk. He kidded himself saying he needed the excercise. With a roll of his eyes he began to set off when a familiar voice interrupted his angry gait.

"Not walking, I hope."

He spun around, eyeing Gemma, standing with car keys out and ready. "Oh, well, my friend has failed to show up."

She put on an empathetic face. "Poor thing, how many blocks are you goin'?"

"Twenty-six," he mumbled, kicking the heel of his left shoe with his right foot.

Her jaw dropped slightly. "Oh no you don't! Come on, I'll give you a ride." She tugged his arm, casted or not, over to her small car. He marveled for a moment at the intense red she'd chosen before slipping inside.

"Thanks a lot, you're doing so much for me and I've just-" He tucked the bags of food stuffs and stuffed animals between his legs while talking to her as she started the car
 
As he began to express his gratitude, she scoffed and waved it off. "Don't go thanking me. I don't think Hitler could have let a man who just got out of a car accident walk twenty-six blocks just to go home."

"Hitler could have done it, and I think someone as intelligent as you could figure that out." He said, eyeing her suspiciously.

She shrugged. "He WAS crazy."

Mike laughed and looked out the window, watching the trees fly by.

She slowed down suddenly, almost to a stop. "Where am I going?"

"Oh! 344 Warwick-"

She nodded. "Got it. I'm going to 345, if it makes you feel any better."

"You leave something in Larry's shop?" He asked, knowing his neighbor repaired violins and other stringed instruments for a living.

She nodded, eyes never leaving the road. "Yeah, my old Washburn guitar. I screwed up the neck after staining the wood myself. Never was good at the putting it back together part." She smiled sheepishly.

There was an awkward silence as the car roared along, radio on but too quiet to hear what was playing.

"So, Mike, what do you do for a living?" Gemma asked, curious but yet still wary of talking to him with the presence of Jonas still hovering in her mind.

He shifted. "I'm a writer in a comedy series. The first show airs some time next week, after it's done editing."

"Ooh! Television show, huh?" She was instantly interested.

He nodded. "Yeah, I've been doing stage and theater since I was in college."

She looked at him suddenly. "You were on other shows?"

"Yes, I was on 'Now!' and 'Do Not Adjust Your Set.'" He answered, still feeling like she was only talking to him because he was sitting in her car.

She smiled, impressed. "Impressive, if I can say that without having a biased opinion."

"Biased how?" He was curious.

She shrugged, looking at him for once. "Well, have you ever been impressed by an actor that you've never seen any of their work? Having met you I'm sure you're great at it."

He blushed slightly, cursing his mild shyness. "Not biased," he mumbled.

Gemma blushed, now, looking at her feet. "In an infinite universe-"

"Anything is possible." Mike finished, looking up.

She looked fully at him, ignoring the road. "Do you read Nietzsche?" She asked, wonderment in her voice.

He shrugged one shoulder, smile working it's way to his face. "I used to read him all the time, for philosophy and such. Great man."

"'And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.'" She threw at him, wondering what quote he would cough up.

He stroked his chin comically. "What shall I top it with?"

She smiled. "I'd like to see you try!"

"'Architecture, in general, is frozen music.'" He responded, quite pleased.

Gemma sighed and looked back to the road. "'On the mountains of truth you can never climb in vain: either you will reach a point higher up today, or you will be training your powers so that you will be able to climb higher tomorrow.'"

Michael clapped. "My good lady, I have been beaten!"

She feigned a look of shock. "Did I win?"

He smiled wickedly. "Well, give me one more chance."

"Shoot!"

"'Courageous, untroubled, mocking, and violent-that is what Wisdom wants us to be. Wisdom is a woman, and loves only a warrior.'" He finished finally.

Gemma whistled. "Sir knight, I lay my sword at your feet!"

He laughed again, turning to see how her expression matched. "Really though, there's a lot more to be said on the subject."

"I'll have to concur, my friend. Philosophy is highly underestimated today." She said, slowing as she neared the end of their trip.

Gemma found herself dreading letting him out of the car and watching him walk out of her life. Not since Jonas had died had she found somebody she could talk to about something so unique as Nietzsche, or agree on in the first place. Nietzche was a anti-God, she was sure of it.

She stopped in front of the modestly sized apartment and giggled at the small black labrador puppy with its wet nose pressed against the glass, tail wagging so ferociously it was beating itself up. 

"Oh Christ, how many times has he crapped on the floor to be so happy to see me?" He muttered, unbuckling his seat belt.

Gemma laughed again, smiling at Mike after she stopped her guffaws. "Well, as fun as it was, I do have a guitar to pick up and you have a dog to beat with a rolled up newspaper." 

He nodded slightly. "This is true, once again."

"Thanks for giving me a dose of philosophy, it was fun." She said it, and meant it.

Thoughts flashed through Mike's head quickly. "Yeah, thanks to you too. For the ride, for the conversation. Thanks."

"No problem, I enjoyed it, like I said." She smiled again.

With sudden ferocious thought, Mike leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek before climbing out of the car and flying up the steps to his apartment, door unlocking in record time and not even caring that his dog was licking and smelling him up the wazoo. His heart thudded almost as hard as Gemma's while she stared at the closed door that Mike leaned against, hand on her cheek and a small smile.