The Comeback
By Josh Medsker
(Originally published, in a slightly different form, in geekamerica.com, fall 2001)
Milton was shifting around in his sleep when the alarm clock went off. He sat up in bed for a moment and ran his hand across his face; he didn’t notice it yet. It was five o’ clock; only four hours till he had to be to work. He figured he’d better hurry. He liked to give himself more than enough time to get ready, just in case.
He made his way to the bathroom and clicked on the light. That’s when he noticed something was different. His hair didn’t look right. It seemed a little longer than usual. Had it been that long since he’d had a haircut? He didn’t have any way to get it cut before work, because his regular barbershop didn’t open until ten. He didn’t want to risk going somewhere else — his barber cut it just the way he liked it. He decided to wait until lunch. In the meantime he’d deal with it. He dabbed a bit of gel on his palm and slicked back the sides of his hair. No, that wouldn’t do. He put in more gel, so the sides were plastered to his head. It wasn’t perfect, but at least they lay flat. He ran his hands under the faucet, and wet his hair until it was shiny, like plastic. He snapped his fingers and pointed at himself in the mirror, then gave a puzzled look. “Why did I do that?” he said quietly, and then went to get dressed.
No white, no blue… Was everything dirty? Milton looked through his closet for a shirt to match his black sport coat. He finally had to wear the pink one his mother gave him last Christmas. It had been hanging untouched for six months, and to top it off, all of his ties were at the cleaners! He thanked heaven it was a casual Friday! He finished getting ready, and decided to have breakfast at the new cafe down the street. He smiled as he walked out the door — right on time.
He felt a little peculiar. He was walking slower than usual; he thought he felt his hips swaying, but he wasn’t sure. By the time he reached the cafe he had slowed down to a near-strut. He opened the door for a young lady who was coming out, and said “Hey.” The girl smiled and said hello back, but Milton was busy puzzling over what he’d just done. He thought some food might make him feel better.
“What can I get you?” the kid at the register said.
“Ah, give me a toasted onion bagel, a cup of decaf coffee, a blueberry muffin, and a deep fried peanut butter and ‘nanner sammich. And some grits too, boy,” Milton said.
“I’m sorry, sir,” the kid said, giving him a strange look.
“We don’t have the ingredients for the sandwich, or grits.”
Milton looked embarrassed.
“Sorry, ah, just the bagel, and the coffee will be fine,” he said.
“And the muffin.”
Milton went to sit down.
“…Nah, I’m more of a Beatles person,” a college kid said a few tables away. “His early stuff’s ok, though.” Milton smirked. He didn’t like anything but classical music. Anything with electric guitars was too… loud and wild for him. He looked down, and grimaced as he watched a bug skitter across the table. If there was one thing that gave him the creeps, it was bugs. He killed it with his napkin and threw it in the trash can, as if it were on fire. (He once found a cockroach in his apartment, and spent the whole day cleaning every single room. Even the bathtub caulking!) The rest of his breakfast was without incident. He finished eating, and was off to work again.
Milton did his usual Friday routine of re-arranging his desk, alphabetically, left to right. He sighed with pleasure, knowing that his desk was in order, and he still had a half-hour before he had to start working. He went to the water cooler, and saw Denise from payroll.
“Hey Milton,” she said, looking at him in a way she never had before.
“Mmm… That’s a great shirt,” she said.
She gave Milton an up and down look. He felt his face flush.
“Thanks,” he said, nearly spilling the cooler over onto himself.
“See you,” she said, turning to look at him as she walked away.
“See you,” Milton said, hunching his shoulders and giving a quick wave.
He wondered why he hadn’t worn the shirt before! He went to the bathroom to splash water on his face.
His face felt different, and it wasn’t just the blushing. It felt like it was different under the skin. And his hair had grown visibly since he left his apartment. Milton took an Alka-Seltzer from his bag. He sat in his cubicle, happily crunching numbers. He heard some sort of humming, or maybe singing. It was barely audible. “Does anyone hear that?” he asked. They didn’t. The noises subsided, and he went back to work, relieved. After a few minutes he heard them again, louder this time. And there was someone talking, in between the singing. He didn’t want to ask his co-workers again. They’d think he was losing it. He got up to get some water, and the noises grew louder still. And he could have sworn he heard someone calling his name.
Milton labored through work until lunch, unable to concentrate. He got the rest of the day off, and booked an appointment with his psychiatrist, after getting his hair cut.
“So, you say you’ve been hearing voices?” the doctor said.
“Yes,” Milton said.
“Singing too. And it feels like there’s something wrong with my face.”
The doctor looked at him, concerned, and said, “Milton, I want you to take some time off work — as much as you can get. You need some time out to relax.”
“You’re probably right. Thanks, doc.” Milton said.
“Thank you very much.”
“Hey, that’s pretty good!” the doctor said.
“You a fan?”
“Huh?” Milton said
“Never mind,” said the doctor.
Milton went home, and trimmed his plants restlessly for an hour, then went to bed early. The next morning, he woke up feeling great. No voices, no nausea, and no sideburns; he had had them trimmed at the barbershop.
He yawned and stretched and got up, making his way to the kitchen. His heart pounded as he caught a glance at his reflection in the hall mirror. The sideburns had grown back overnight, and so had his hair! His upper lip began to twitch. He ran to the bathroom, and frantically dragged a razor across his face, nicking himself in several places, which he covered with toilet paper, to staunch the blood. The dashed out into the living room, and started re-arranging furniture. “A… a… a…” he repeated feverishly. He cleaned the bookshelf, and re-arranged the titles by author, date of release, and genre, then went to work on the carpet. He began to dance around with the vacuum cleaner; the music in his head getting louder and louder. He threw down the vacuum cleaner, got down on his hands and knees, and scrubbed the kitchen floor. The voices and singing got louder, and he scrubbed until his knuckles were raw. He fell onto the linoleum, his legs and upper lip twitching uncontrollably. After a few minutes the voices and singing stopped. Milton was wet with sweat. “I gotta get out of here,” he said. He put on pants and a shirt, wet down his hair, and walked to the restaurant down the street.
Milton flagged down a waiter. He coughed, and gave his order in a voice that was not his own. The waiter looked at him and nodded slowly. Milton began to sweat profusely. His left knee kept banging the underside of the table. The waiter eyed Milton warily as he talked to the manager. “…because you know there are two kinds of people in this world,” someone next to him said. “Beatles people and…” Milton leapt up and flipped the table over. He grabbed his chair and began dancing around the restaurant with it, singing the song he’d been hearing in his head.
Then he jumped up on the table, and shouted, “Everybody! Let’s rock!” The manager walked briskly over to Milton, who then jumped down from the table. Milton grabbed him by the shoulders, and shouted, “Bless my soul! What’s wrong with me?”
Milton grabbed a hand mirror from a woman sitting at a table near the window. He shook his head slowly in disbelief. “No!” he said almost to himself. His face had now completely changed shape. “It’s impossible!” he said, louder. He rushed out the door, and ran down the street, clawing his chest and tearing his shirt, stopping every so often to dance with a stranger. He came to an intersection and ran out into the street. A long black Cadillac with tinted windows and fuzzy dice in the mirror flew past him, missing him by about a foot. He turned his head to watch the caddy go past, and didn’t see the VW Bug. Milton heard a dull thud, and felt sharp pain in his legs. That’s when he realized he was tumbling through the air. He did a somersault and landed on his head. He lay on the ground, unmoving, as people gathered around, some gawking and some dialing on their cell phones.
He lay on the pavement for a minute, and then stood up. “It’s ok folks,” he said, raising his arms, unaware of the blood streaming down over his face. “I’m ok. It’ll take more than that to stop… The King.” He karate chopped the air, and threw out a kick. The doctors were on the way.