Change of Heart
Chapter 5 of "Blurred Edges"
The third part of Absaraka’s narrative

I was scared this day would arrive. I never imagined it would be this soon after that night three weeks ago. Imagine it. One night. One dream. And three weeks later, Raphael is going to be showing up at my front door.

It’s about 6 right now, Friday evening. My dad said he was going to take off right after work and head out for the evening. That usually translates into 11 PM or later, sometimes midnight or 1 AM. So at least I won’t be interrupted. As if that’s any comfort.

I am scared. Never, not even in my darkest hour, did I ever think I would be facing Raphael in the flesh, here in my own world. I had expected that I would be the one doing the travelling, so to speak. And I thought, three weeks ago, that there was no possible way for Raph to come over here. I thought that by refusing to die, that I’d be able to avoid this little date with destiny. Guess I was wrong.

The reality of this whole thing is only now beginning to set in. In a few short minutes, he will be standing outside my door, waiting to be let in. In a few short minutes, I will hear the doorbell. In a few short minutes, he will be in my apartment, live, in the flesh, with me, and only Mikey to make sure nothing goes wrong.

To use the words "I’m scared" at this point—and something tells me I’ll be thinking that a lot before he gets here—would be an understatement to the order of describing the Super Bowl as just another football game. Or describing Michael Jordan as an above-average basketball player. Saying Bill Gates has a little bit of money to his name would probably be the most equivalent understatement I could think of offhand.

How did I get myself into this?

I know damn well how I got myself into this. A decade or more of dreams, wishes, and fantasies probably carries more than a little weight on the cosmic scheme of things. I know Edgar Cayce once said "Thoughts are things", but this is getting a bit out of control here. How could I create something, strictly in my own mind, that ended up manifesting itself in reality?

It all comes back to that "blurred edge" that Raph was telling me about. A dimension shift, a reality warp, I guess. But I thought he only existed in my own mind—how did he end up here?

And how the hell did he end up being able to talk to me, straight on, mind to mind? That’s not humanly possible, I don’t care what book you buy. If he’s my construct, and I created him, then the only place he can exist is in my mind. Right?

Unless…unless our minds…everyone’s…were all tapped in on some reality known only to us…? That almost makes sense, though. Everyone has his own dream world, I guess. I mean, who out there hasn’t imagined that they’re meeting someone they never could? Or visualized themselves winning the lottery? And if there really are infinitely many universes, then in one of them, somewhere, it has to be happening, right?

But how did he end up telepathically connected to me, though? Was there something in the dimension-crossing that made him that way? Or…or…

Maybe, just maybe…I was thinking of him, dreaming of him, so much that our minds ended up permanently linked…? Please, say that’s not true. I don’t want to be at his telepathic beck and call for the rest of my life. I want this to be over. I want to tell him to forget I said anything…just go back to his house and leave me alone for a couple of days while I reconsider.

But I can’t do that. I have to face him sooner or later, so why not just get it the heck over with right now?

I can’t do this. I just can’t do this.

What’s he going to do to me? And how much will it hurt…?

God, I am scared. I am so absofuckinglutely scared. How long will it take before he’s here? Will I be able to stand being in his presence, for the first time in reality? Will I be able to be in the same house, the same room with him, knowing full well why he’s here? And…and knowing that it’s all my fault?

I walk over to the patio door and look out on the street. I watch the cars cruising past—all those people, in their tiny steel universes, completely unaware that reality is twisting and blurring around them. A yellow New Beetle; a red Olds; a tan Taurus. God, what I’d give to be able to just run out there, stick out my thumb, and get the hell away from here, now. The 8 bus is going to be a joke this late in the evening, that’s a given. So what do I do? Thumb a lift? Call a cab? Run over to the shopping center and hide from him in public? What do I do?

A cab…how much money do I have? I pull out my wallet and look—twelve dollars. More than enough to get me to the Light Rail stop, and I could still afford a day pass. Hunt Valley’s too far. Timonium, maybe? Warren Road?

No. Warren Road’s out of the question. Raph’s probably walking up Warren Road right now, and if he felt my presence, and then it dropped out just as the cab went past, he’d know I was on the run. And then he’d never let me hear the end of it.

No, he’s not going to let me hear the end of it if I run away period, much less take a cab right by him. I have to stay. I have to face him.

But what do I do? I can’t just sit here, waiting for him, knowing he’s coming, and knowing I can still get away. I have to run. Away. Far away. I can’t even leave a note, or else he’ll find me.

That’s it. That’s what I’ll do.

I go into my room and take out my suitcase. I open it up and set it on my bed. I don’t have much time, I tell myself.

I go to my closet and start grabbing every single shirt I can get my hands on. Purple Arizona shirt…White Arizona shirt…Gap polos in green, brown, and red…Towson University sweat shirt…Marquette University sweat shirt…Sweat shirt from the Hard Rock Café in Reykjavik…Navy-issue black wool sweater…Black sweater from L.L. Bean…That should do it for shirts.

Pants, pants…Black Eddie Bauer jeans, relaxed fit…Loose fit jeans from Structure…A couple of pairs of Levi’s 560’s…God, I need more jeans than these, four pairs won’t cut it for a cross-country panic trip…but it’s too late now.

OK, um…unmentionables. I move over to the dresser and grab about 14 pairs of tighty-whiteys, and ten pairs of white socks, some of which are too laced with holes to wear under normal circumstances. Trouble is, these are anything but normal circumstances. Only ten pairs of socks…hope that’s enough.

I scoot the suitcase over a bit on the bed, and sit down hard. The reality of this is only now just starting to hit me. If I run, I’ll never see this room again…I’ll never see anything in it again…I’ll be leaving behind so much sentimental stuff that it might actually cause me more damage than just staring Raph down and letting him do whatever the hell he wants to me.

I look at the books on my bookcase. "To the Brink"—I can’t leave that. That’s the only book anyone’s ever really written about the Utah Jazz. And some of the John Stockton anecdotes in there are worth gold. Autographed copy of Jon Miller’s "Confessions of a Baseball Purist"—no way I could leave that behind, either. "101 Reasons to Hate George Steinbrenner"—that’s always good for a chuckle. My high school yearbooks—no, I’d never leave those behind. Sharon Shinn’s "Archangel" trilogy—those are the most inspiring works of fiction I’ve ever read. Every single Jack Ryan novel that Tom Clancy ever wrote—no, those I can replace. "Pick a Better Country"—heck, if I head west, I’ll be able to listen to Ken Hamblin on the radio and not just read his words over and over. Yearbook of the Broadway production of "Tommy"—that has to be one of my fondest memories, seeing that show on Broadway. Anchor Bible commentary on Tobit—I paid 35 bucks for that thing, and it’s one of the most influential pieces of literature I’ve ever read. Couple of books on Jeopardy!, both of Rush Limbaugh’s books in hardcover…I can’t choose between these. And I can’t bring them all with me.

Despairingly, I go over to my CD collection. European special edition of "Adiemus 2 Cantata Mundi"—God, that’s probably worth a lot over here to a serious collector. British copy of "The Journey, Best of Adiemus", personally autographed by lead singer, Miriam Stockley…God. To think that one of my favorite female singers of all time actually wrote my name. To think that she acknowledged my existence. To think that the CD I’m looking at was actually in her presence. I can’t do this. Afro Celt Sound System Volume 2…"Sylvia Hotel" by Cheryl Wheeler…autographed copy of "You Will Go to the Moon" by Moxy Fruvous…too many Mike Oldfield CD’s to count, including some rare ones. Let’s see. Hergest Ridge…Platinum…QE2…Discovery…US version of Earth Moving…Heaven’s Open and Amarok, both imports, those are probably worth a lot to a collector, but I can’t part with them…The Millennium Bell…Tubular Bells 3…God. I can’t leave all this.

Knowing my fate, but only wanting to confirm it, I start going through my drawers. Navy boot camp scrapbook…A Rubik’s Cube I got when I was 6, back when they first came out…Program from my All-State Chorus concert. The program, complete with my own box score, of the last Anaheim Angels game I saw when they came to play the Orioles…lots of music tapes that I grew up with…what’s in the closet? Baltimore Sun commemorative section of the night Cal Ripken ended his streak…Cal, Cal, Cal. What else do I have…Commemorative cups from Camden Yards. Cal…Baltimore’s 200^th anniversary…first season of interleague play. God, so many memories. And if I run away, I’ll never see any of this stuff again. I’ll forget it all…forget who I am…maybe even forget I’m on the run. And then he’ll have me. And then it will be for naught.

Can I really afford this? Can I really afford to leave everything behind, and never see any of it again? Can I really afford to live my life on the run, a fugitive, and never be able to explain why I’m running? Can I really afford the possibility that, one day, he might catch me…and that if he does, that I’ll be as good as dead?

But what’s the alternative? If I stay here, he’s going to come into my apartment. He’s going to talk to me, live, in the flesh, with no time limit on how long he can stay. He’s going to, no doubt, ask me to be close to him. In the flesh. And I can’t handle that.

Cripes, you’d think that after wishing for this for twelve years, that I wouldn’t be considering whether I’d run away from everything when it happened. Guess I got linguini for a spine, and no…marbles. "Major League 2." God, that was a stitch. Baseball was never that funny in real life. And they filmed it at Camden Yards, too.

Maybe I can just get on the bus and stay out all night…? Maybe then he won’t find me. No, that’s a joke. He’ll just follow the MTA and find me eventually. I can’t run strictly to Baltimore. If I leave, it has to be far away, and for good.

And—God help me—I’m not going to do that. I’m going to stay here. Face him. Stare him down, here in my apartment, and tell him that it’s over. That he doesn’t have any say in how I live my life.

What was that line from the movie "Labyrinth"?

"For my will is as strong as yours…and my kingdom is as great…you have no power over me…"

I’d never be able to say that to his face. Would I?

That’s why I’m going to stay. I’m going to damn sight find out.

Resolved, I start unpacking my suitcase. I put the socks back in the top drawer, on the right side; the briefs go in the same drawer, on the left. The jeans…hang ‘em up, put ‘em back in the closet. Hang up the polo shirts. Put away the suitcase. There. It’s over. Now I have to face him. I’m going to. He’s not going to have any control. If I brought him into this world, I can control him. His only power comes when I give it to him.

I can do this.

I walk out into the kitchen, and grab my Tigerfest 98 mug. I pour myself a mug-full—twelve ounces—of fruit punch, and silently toast myself. I’m going to face him down. I’m going to confront him. I’m going to tell him that we’re through. Reality warps be damned, if he wants me, he’s not getting me. Period. Final answer. End of show. This is over, as of today. Raphael can go to hell for all I care. He’s not going to hurt me ever again.

Just then, the doorbell rings.

I’m so startled that I nearly choke on my fruit punch. So much for bravado.

I slowly finish what’s left of the punch.

The bell rings again.

I walk over to the front door, and, my heart in my throat, look out the peephole.

Two figures in trenchcoats are in the hall, heads covered. On one’s shoulder is a red piece of cloth; on the other’s, a gold cloth.

My hands suddenly start shaking, bad. No, this isn’t right. I’m strong. I’m resolved. I’m going to stare him down, damn it.

My hands could care less about resolve, it seems. Somehow, I get the chain in the door, and slowly open it.

"Yes?" I ask.

Silence from the two.

"Show me your faces."

Only one of them looks up. And as Raphael’s eyes meet mine, for the very first time, I suddenly realize that there’s a lot more to this than I think.

"Let us in, Rock." It isn’t a command; it isn’t an order. Raph says it as casually as if he were ordering breakfast.

All I can do is stare. I’m losing my color; my hands are suddenly shaking. He can see the fear.

"Hey, let us in, OK? You look like you could use some comfort."

The fear a knot of ice in my stomach, I nod. I close the door, take out the chain, steel myself, and open the door.

"Come on in." My voice was trembling.

Raph and Mike walk in, taking off their hats. I close and lock the door, and quickly run over to the patio door to close the curtains.

"We hang our coats up, Rock?" Mikey asks.

"Yeah, let me get you some hangers, there aren’t enough out here."

I feel very nervous turning my back on Raphael, but I head into my room and grab a couple of large hangers for the turtles’ coats. Raph doesn’t follow; he and Mike stay out in the living room, hardly moving from where they stood when they walked in.

I return with the hangers, and each turtle hands me his coat. I take Mike’s coat, then Raph’s, and hang them in the main closet. I close the closet, then lean on the closet door. God, some resolve I’ve got today.

"You OK, Rock?"

"Yeah…Mike? Mikey? Which is it?"

"Mike’s fine. Mikey if you feel like kidding around. But judging by your body language, you’re not in the mood for kidding around. You’re scared stiff. Am I right?"

I steal a nervous glance at Raphael, who hasn’t said a word since he walked in. Fine by me. "I’m terrified, Mike."

"Come on over to the couch and sit down, OK?"

I nod. Mike comes over and takes my arm, guiding me to the couch, while Raph sits in one of the high-backed chairs across from the couch. Mike puts me on one end of the couch, and he takes the other end.

Mike talks up again. "You’re going to be OK, Rock. We just came over to see how you were doing. You know, get you used to being in the same room with us and all that."

"You mean, get me used to being in the same room with Raph." I shoot the darkest glance I can at him.

Raph breaks his silence. "Hey, you’re the one who invited me over here, remember."

I hang my head. "Yeah."

"Hey. Rock." Mike slides over to my end and puts his arm around my shoulder. "Rock. It’s all right. I’m here. Raph’s not going to hurt you. Not if I have anything to say about it."

I bury my head in Mike’s shoulder, and he gently puts his hand on top of my head. "It’s OK. Everything’s going to be all right."

I look up at him. "No…it can never be all right…not until I’m done being hurt…"

Mike draws me closer. "No, Rock, don’t even think that. I’ll protect you, OK?" I say nothing. "OK?" I slowly nod. "Good. You need me to hold you for a second, or do you want me on the other end of the couch?"

"No…I want…Raph…to hold me…"

A look of concern flashes across Mike’s face. "You’re sure?"

I slowly nod.

Raph speaks again. "I want to hear you say it with your lips."

"Yeah. I’m sure."

Mike wordlessly moves over to the chair, while Raph comes over to the couch. As he sits down next to me, I shrink from him. "Hey…Rock…relax, you got Mikey here to protect ya."

"But I’m scared of you…"

"I’m not going to hurt you. All right? Don’t nod, say it aloud."

"All right."

"Touch me. Anywhere. You’ve always wondered what my body feels like, and now you get to find out. Nothing’s off limits."

After a tortured minute or more of silence, I place a trembling hand on Raph’s thigh, then look him in the eye. "I was afraid I’d be feeling this before too long."

"Shall we?"

"Raph…" Mikey warns him.

"Rock’s decision, Mike."

My head drops, and my eyes focus on the hand I have on Raph’s right thigh. I gently move my hand around over the top of it, staying well clear of the inner part.

"Raph…I’m scared…"

"Tell you what." Raph takes his right hand, and lifts my head so our eyes meet again. "You think you’ve got angels protecting you, right?"

My eyes move down, and I say yes.

"Well, let’s see if they’ll protect you. Let’s play a game of chance. You decide the game. If you win, hey, we’ll wait. If I win…hell, if I win, then it’s destiny, right? I mean, your angels can intervene to protect you, right?"

"Yeah…"

"Well, give them a chance to prove it. I can take it. You win, hey, it wasn’t meant to be right now. But if you lose…well, then, it’s just destiny, right? I mean, if even your guardian angels aren’t going to protect you from me—and they can control chance, right?—then it was simply meant to be, for us to be together as one. How ‘bout it?"

"No."

"What, you don’t believe in your angels?"

"I do, it’s just—"

"Well, what do you have to lose? They’re on your side, they’ll protect you, there’s no way I’ll win, right?"

Mike coughed. "Raph…"

Raph shot his brother a "be quiet" look. Mike bowed his head. I could tell he knew he was beaten.

Raph turned back to me. "Let’s play it. Name the game. You can’t lose. You’ve got the angels on your side, after all."

I close my eyes, swallow hard, consider, and then state the game. "Oddball."

Raph nods. "All right. One round of Oddball, win or lose, all or nothing. You win, then we just kick back and chew the fat. You can’t lose with the angels protecting you, but if you do…" He looked into my eyes, and we both knew full well what he meant.

I nodded. "Let’s do it. And may destiny name the winner."

Raph nodded. "Destiny will decide. Good luck, all right?"

"Thanks." We walked over to the dining room table, and took out the game.

You have to learn to pace yourself
Pressure
You're just like everybody else
Pressure

You've only had to run so far, so good
But you will come to a place
Where the only thing you feel
Are loaded guns in your face
And you'll have to deal with

Pressure

You used to call me paranoid
Pressure
But even you cannot avoid
Pressure

You turned the tap dance into your crusade
Now here you are with your faith
And your Peter Pan advice
You have no scars on your face
And you cannot handle

Pressure

All grown up and no place to go
Psych 1, Psych 2
What do you know?
All your life is Channel 13
Sesame Street
What does it mean?

Pressure
Pressure

Don't ask for help, you're all alone
Pressure
You'll have to answer to your own
Pressure

I'm sure you'll have some cosmic rationale
But here you are in the ninth
Two men out and three men on
Nowhere to look but inside
Where we all respond to

Pressure
Pressure

All your life is Time Magazine
I read it too
What does it mean?

I’ll tell you what it means…
PRESSURE!!

I'm sure you'll have some cosmic rationale
But here you are with your faith
And your Peter Pan advice
You have no scars on your face
And you cannot handle

Pressure
Pressure
Pressure

One, two, three, four
PRESSURE