Everyone tells me that I should write screenplays, and like I said before, it’s mostly because they think that I’m not a very good writer, and screenwriting is the gutter of all literature. I’m not sure that’s true or not, but whatever … they’re dicks. I did, however, write a short story that is pretty deceptive. I actually wrote this as a prelude to writing a screenplay. I think it’s more fun to write a short story, but I do think this will become a pretty good screenplay if I ever decide to do it. (by the way, when I work-shopped this for a class, people actually commented “I don’t know this michael flanagan or anything, so I’m not sure how accurate this is …” If you read this and have that comment, (duh!), let me make it clear, there is no michael flanagan, or brad davis … well maybe there are, but they are not these people.)
MIKEY-BOY by Kael
I’m that Michael Flanagan. I’m the one you’re heard about, bet you thought I was dead. You thought that my mother stole me from my father in the dead of night to give me a better life, but during my journey to America I died. The plane that was carrying my ten-year-old self had crashed over the North Channel, and there were no survivors, only I never got on a plane. I remember when they put the white makeup on me, made me lie down, and took pictures of me. “Don’t breath,” they told me. The room was ice cold. I don’t remember them, but I remember them talking when they thought I wasn’t listening. They were saying “that’s Michael Flanagan, Mike Flanagan’s son … you know Mike Flanagan that IRA guy.” I remember saying good-bye to my mother. I remember I was sick from crying; my stomach felt empty, and my lungs hurt for days afterwards.
What I remember of my father was that he was an old 32 year old. The few times a month I would see him, he would be wearing different wounds, and different scars. He would be limping on different legs, and he would have different arms in different slings. He called me The Gosling, or Mikey-Boy. He would play football with me, but he always played too rough. When he hit me too hard and I would cry, he would laugh, and say “Mikey-Boy, you want to be tough like your Da now don’t you?” And he would lift his arm and flex his muscles, and say, “Look at that, boy, you want that someday?” He would tell me no strength comes from tears. I can’t picture him today, but I remember those words. I still turn around every time someone yells Michael, even though they told me not to.
It’s second nature and I don’t think about it when people ask me my name and I tell them Brad. Brad Taylor Davis, a good Anglo name. My hair has darkened over the years, but I stopped dying black years ago, so now it’s a dark blonde. During my life, I’ve seen my mother again five times, mostly during the last couple years. She is an old woman now; the stress of hiding everyday has aged her. She lives in a small town somewhere in Eastern Europe; below the radar, as they put it. Our visits are short, and are mostly in airport hubs between connecting flights. She cries when she sees me, but I am strong like my father, and I do not. She wants to know all about my life, and what I’m doing, but we never have enough time. She always asks me, as she is leaving, if she did the right thing, and am I happy with my life, and I tell her yes. I mean, what else am I going to say?
Brad Taylor Davis speaks with a distinct Chicago inflection. He was born in Iowa City, but when his parents died they willed their farm and their estate to their only son and requested that he be put in the custody of an aging Aunt. This Aunt, Aggie, spent her life single, and was formerly an employee of the federal government. Knowing she couldn’t provide the proper care for the boy, she enrolled him in a day school outside Chicago, and he lived in the dormitories. During the summer, he would study abroad, but often times resided with various professors at his school and was tutored. He had jet-black hair, and deep blue eyes. He played soccer, and had a serious aptitude for science and early on in his life he decided to become a doctor. He was funny and bright, never raised his voice in anger, and was a born leader.
After high school he went to Miami University of Ohio, and studied Biology. It was there when he met Maryanne O’Neal, the woman he later married. After, he went to the University of Chicago and studied Medicine. During Medical School, Maryanne gave him two sons, identical twins who they named Mickey and Kael.
I know Brad Davis well, but there are times when he’s a stranger, and his life is nothing more than those two paragraphs of description. Last year my father died training Al Qaeda terrorists in the Sudan. It seems he ended up turning informant for the CIA, and when they found out … they shot him. To be honest, I’m surprised they took him so easily; he was a tough asshole. Brad’s Aunt Aggie came to Chicago invited him to lunch and told him. I’m not sure what she expected me to do. Do I suddenly become that Michael Flanagan again? Do I cry? I said nothing for a long time.
I broke the silence by saying, “Is it over now then? When I see a guy in a blue suit behind me on the train, can I assume he’s a fucking stock broker or something now?” She told me that my father had accumulated a small fortune after 911, training terrorists around the world. She told me he left all of it to Mikey and Kael Davis, the four-year-old sons of Brad and Maryanne Davis, of Chicago Illinois, and then there was this long pause, when she finished by saying that now they have it on good authority that Al Qaeda has put a hit on them.
***
I’m that Brad Davis, the one you heard about, but I bet you thought I was dead. You thought a member of Al Qaeda had broke into my house at night and shot my entire family, but you were wrong … he was working for the CIA.
