The Magic and the Mayhem, a Novel
by Julie Miliner
March 2008.
John took one last glance at his reflection in
the mirror hanging in the foyer and then
opened his front door. Standing there,
leaning against the inside wall stood a boy
with an odd arrangement of bags gathered at
his feet. The boy’s eyes looked magnified
behind his coke bottle glasses and his tiny
head looked like a pea compared to the size
of the frames. The boy looked down,
dejected. John’s head cocked to the side
before searching beyond the boy to see if
there might be something about this picture
that would give a clue to why the kid was
standing outside his door.
“What’s up?” John asked the boy.
The boy adjusted his glasses with a push in
the middle with his right index finger then
said, “My mom said you’re my dad.”
John smiled; certain there had to be a
practical joke coming. A second passed.
John’s smile disappeared.
“Your mom said I’m your dad?” John replied
in awe. “Who’s your mom?”
“Stacy Green.”
“Who?” John flipped through an imaginary
Rolodex above his head.
“Stacy Green.” The boy squeaked.
Oops, John thought. Stacy Green was a
chick he used to hang out with when he was
stationed in Texas, during those few fateful
army years. Most of it was a blur of cheap
beer, bad haircuts and hangovers but the boy
standing there looking like he might be
contemplating suicide brought the memory of
at least the mother back to mind.
“Stacy Green.” John recited as he moved
against the door to open it for the boy’s
entrance. “Well, where is she?”
The boy hunched his shoulders.
“What cha mean you don’t know?”
John stepped out to the hall and looked from
one end to the other, then put his hands on
his hips and looked down at the boy.
Shaking his head he said, “Well, come on in.”
The boy sprang away from the wall.
“Really?” He asked with an almost comical
timing.
“Well, I don’t know what she’s talking about
but I’m going to find out real quick. You might
as well come in while I do.”
John held the door open with his foot and
grabbed the bags off of the floor.
The boy moved from outside the door to just
inside, leaning on the wall as he had been
before. “Don’t lean on the wall, man,” John
said. “I just had them painted. Go on in the
living room. Make yourself at home.”
The boy walked ahead of John to the living
room. John stashed the bags near the
entrance. “What did you say your name
was?”
The boy sat at the edge of the sofa as if he
didn’t want to take up more space than was
required. “John Michael Drake, Junior but
everybody calls me Tiny.” He pushed his
hands between his clasped knees.
John’s response to the new realization that he
could now stamp ‘senior’ at the end of his
name left his legs without feeling. He fell into
the chair across from the couch.
“Hold, up… Start over. Where did you say
your mom went? Where do you live? I mean,
where did you come from?”
The boy stared at John wondering whether or
not the man’s suddenly ashy lips meant he’d
overstayed his welcome.
“Go, on.” John goaded him.
“Um, my mom said that she had to go and
that she couldn’t take care of us any more
and that our dad’s should take care of us.
We came from, um, Texas and drove to
Tennessee to my sister’s dad’s house and
then we came here. Now, my mom’s gone to
Philadelphia to take my other sister to her um
dad’s house.”
“She dropped you off just like that? How did
she get my address? How does she know I’m
even at home?” John threw his hands in the
air and quickly crossed over to the bar.
“Um, we found your address on the Internet.
And, we got here this morning and we waited
across the street at McDonald's for you to
come home. I like your car.” Tiny flashed his
grin.
***
by Julie Miliner
March 2008.
John took one last glance at his reflection in
the mirror hanging in the foyer and then
opened his front door. Standing there,
leaning against the inside wall stood a boy
with an odd arrangement of bags gathered at
his feet. The boy’s eyes looked magnified
behind his coke bottle glasses and his tiny
head looked like a pea compared to the size
of the frames. The boy looked down,
dejected. John’s head cocked to the side
before searching beyond the boy to see if
there might be something about this picture
that would give a clue to why the kid was
standing outside his door.
“What’s up?” John asked the boy.
The boy adjusted his glasses with a push in
the middle with his right index finger then
said, “My mom said you’re my dad.”
John smiled; certain there had to be a
practical joke coming. A second passed.
John’s smile disappeared.
“Your mom said I’m your dad?” John replied
in awe. “Who’s your mom?”
“Stacy Green.”
“Who?” John flipped through an imaginary
Rolodex above his head.
“Stacy Green.” The boy squeaked.
Oops, John thought. Stacy Green was a
chick he used to hang out with when he was
stationed in Texas, during those few fateful
army years. Most of it was a blur of cheap
beer, bad haircuts and hangovers but the boy
standing there looking like he might be
contemplating suicide brought the memory of
at least the mother back to mind.
“Stacy Green.” John recited as he moved
against the door to open it for the boy’s
entrance. “Well, where is she?”
The boy hunched his shoulders.
“What cha mean you don’t know?”
John stepped out to the hall and looked from
one end to the other, then put his hands on
his hips and looked down at the boy.
Shaking his head he said, “Well, come on in.”
The boy sprang away from the wall.
“Really?” He asked with an almost comical
timing.
“Well, I don’t know what she’s talking about
but I’m going to find out real quick. You might
as well come in while I do.”
John held the door open with his foot and
grabbed the bags off of the floor.
The boy moved from outside the door to just
inside, leaning on the wall as he had been
before. “Don’t lean on the wall, man,” John
said. “I just had them painted. Go on in the
living room. Make yourself at home.”
The boy walked ahead of John to the living
room. John stashed the bags near the
entrance. “What did you say your name
was?”
The boy sat at the edge of the sofa as if he
didn’t want to take up more space than was
required. “John Michael Drake, Junior but
everybody calls me Tiny.” He pushed his
hands between his clasped knees.
John’s response to the new realization that he
could now stamp ‘senior’ at the end of his
name left his legs without feeling. He fell into
the chair across from the couch.
“Hold, up… Start over. Where did you say
your mom went? Where do you live? I mean,
where did you come from?”
The boy stared at John wondering whether or
not the man’s suddenly ashy lips meant he’d
overstayed his welcome.
“Go, on.” John goaded him.
“Um, my mom said that she had to go and
that she couldn’t take care of us any more
and that our dad’s should take care of us.
We came from, um, Texas and drove to
Tennessee to my sister’s dad’s house and
then we came here. Now, my mom’s gone to
Philadelphia to take my other sister to her um
dad’s house.”
“She dropped you off just like that? How did
she get my address? How does she know I’m
even at home?” John threw his hands in the
air and quickly crossed over to the bar.
“Um, we found your address on the Internet.
And, we got here this morning and we waited
across the street at McDonald's for you to
come home. I like your car.” Tiny flashed his
grin.
***