Last Thursday at the bar, while we were fumbling out our wallets to pay, Michael started telling us about the new kick he’s been on. Michael’s the sort of guy who’s always on a new kick, at least since he and Evelyn split up three years ago. You might say that being without Evelyn was Michael’s first kick, since they’d been together since the fifth grade and it’s only adults who go on kicks whereas kids just kick stuff.
Michael has had all the regular kicks—a health kick, a yoga kick, a therapy kick—and lately he’s been branching into some less standard kicks like lapis lazuli and kimchi. Now we love Michael, we really do, we’ve been pals with him a long time, but we made nervous eye contact as soon as he said, “Guys, I gotta tell you about this thing I’ve been trying.” Leon’s jaw visibly tightened and Ritchie coughed.
The thing is, Michael isn’t the sort of guy who just goes on a kick and is happy doing his weird little solo side quest until he gets sick of it; he likes to get us involved. You could say he’s evangelical by nature. And we’ve been good sports. We’ve gone to spin classes. We’ve shared warm details about our mothers. Hell, Michael even convinced Josh to convince Tracey to let him go to a good men retreat and the two of them came back wearing hemp bracelets.
The problem is that these kicks only seem to change things for us and not for Michael, which is why he’s always onto the next one. But we’ve gotten mixed up, emotionally and physically. It’s been a rough few years. We’ve put out our backs. We’ve gained and lost a collective eighty pounds. Some of us have had manicures. Gene’s rash has been flaking since October. Leon’s dead grandmother asked him to go to Thailand to find her lost cousin. Our partners are running out of patience. Our siblings are demanding we stop interfering with family dynamics. Poor Ritchie’s sick of the fold-out couch. We’re having all these insights about our childhoods on public buses. Michael has not changed a bit, but we’re different. And we hate it.
So, as soon as Michael reached for his phone to show us the photo of the thing we all had to try, we stood up. Maybe Michael’s kicks had finally worked, had finally inspired us to try something new, to take control of our lives. It could’ve been the beers, but we felt good. Powerful.
Bruce puffed out his chest like the brave man bear we knew him deep down to be and hoisted Michael up by the armpits.
As Michael’s eyes grew large with fear and he demanded to know what was going on, Leon pulled the paper bag over Michael’s head, covering those wide eyes and that same old big mouth.
“Guys?” Michael said, as I grabbed his ankles and Josh grabbed his wrists and we carried him like a pig on a spit through the bar.
“Guys,” he pleaded as we manoeuvred him like a sofa out the bar’s back door, chanting, “Pivot,” and into the alley.
“Guys, stop it!” Michael shouted. But we were only starting our kick. Our kick was just beginning.
Buy Kayla Czaga’s books, Dunk Tank and For Your Safety Please Hold On, at bookshop.org.