Leap of Faith

Michael paced around his room. Though he was alone, his mind was flooded with a wild contraption of feelings: Fear, worry, excitement, blindness, and discomfort, at the forefront.

A quiet man who quite enjoyed his life of solidarity, “bravery” was an alien idea when we went through his daily routine. Usually, the closest he got to this “bravery” was grabbing Frosted Flakes instead of Corn Pops in the cereal aisle at Stop & Shop. Even this action, seemingly simple for those that were used to breaking a formula, greeted Michael with a mix of anguish, fear, and discomfort (it was always awkward when the cashier would ask why his right arm was shaking at checkout).

So, for Michael - a man who was more content watching eight straight episodes of Hell’s Kitchen than to go outside and take a half mile walk in the crisp, Chicago air – to receive an invitation from a friend to attend a meeting with “Typer’s Anonymous” and actually accept? Why, the sky must have been falling. Or, rather, that was what Michael was wishing would happen as he briskly turned away from his apartment window and back towards the chipping, white door.

You can do this, buddy, you can do this. He exhaled.

8 people. That’s all. 8 measly little people. He inhaled.

His cat, Sandy, watched him wearily on the fading leather couch as he stalked to the left, then back to the right, paused, and then went back to the left.

After a half minute of watching this bumbling spectacle, Sandy decided it was a better use of her time to bury her orange head into the cushion and flip onto her belly.

Michael, who usually gave the cat more attention than God - and he was devoutly Catholic – barely saw her twirl through his wandering eyes and breathless gaze. When his clock hit 6:00, his usual time for dinner, he threw on his finest pair of sneakers, the pair with only a couple of holes near the faded “Nike” symbol, and dashed out the door with the ferocity of a tiger.

Back inside, Sandy dreamed she was a tiger, flailing her little paws as she chased after the stubbornly quick gazelle.

***

They are people.

People are people.

People are nice.

You are nice.

You are people.

Michael stuck his gloved hands in his jacket pocket, his finest possession, which surprisingly only yielded a temporary reprieve from the harsh, Chicago wind.

Some cities, Michael thought, were called things simply because they sounded nice. When you went to Boston, you didn’t see city streets flooded with beans. There was no big apple at the top of the Empire state building. But, for Chicago, it lived up to its nickname. The Windy City may not have the same ring as Beantown, but at least its accurate.

This meandering thought excursion granted Michael some temporary relief from the fear crippling his every motion, but the second his thoughts reached an impasse, it was right back at the forefront.

He was just a block away now, a block away from the quiet library room that would serve as the second yearly meeting for “Typers Anonymous.” His friend, Rachel, the same friend that invited him, had raved about the group.

“Andy is just so funny, and Spiro is a fantastic writer…did I tell you about Whitney? The one with the fake teeth? How about Mush? You want to know why we call him Mush? These people are awesome! Amazing! One of a kind!”

Michael didn’t want to know why they called him Mush then and certainly didn’t want to hear why they called him Mush now. He just wanted to turn on his heel, take off his jacket, and fled back to his house for another Survivor marathon. Just the thought of it filled him with such a warmth that the Chicago wind was forgotten, just for a moment.

What was also forgotten, however, was how close he was to the library. In his entranced state, he had unconsciously waltzed right up to the library door. Breaking from his trance with an audible welp! He quickly shuffled out of the window view and turned around the corner into an alley, catching his breath.

He glanced down at his watch and saw the time: 6:13. He loudly sighed. As much as he wanted to head back to his room, that wonderful, fantastical idea was now out the door. Though he was never quite able to replicate his mothers outgoing and lively attitude, he did inherit her obsession with being on time. As stressful as the idea of going to an 8-person meeting led by a grown man named “Mush” would be, the idea of not arriving – or even worse, arriving late – put him in such a panic that he was walking into the library before he could stop himself.

It was surprisingly luxurious. The last time he had visited a library was in middle school, and that “library” was hardly a library at all. Rather, it looked more like a closet with assorted comics and magazines sprawled around the ground and lazily tossed on shelves. This one, contrarily, was a double-decker utopia that looked more like a Barnes and Noble than a place to rent magazines.

He caught the bottom of his mouth right before he gawked and awkwardly shuffled up to the receptionist desk. There, he saw a young, charming librarian who was clearly a little more than knee deep in the latest Nora Roberts mystery. He cleared his throat.

“Uh, hi…” his voice trailed off, immediately being captured by the surprising rambunctiousness of a stereotypically quiet location and dragged away. The young librarian didn’t move a muscle. Michael tried again.

“I’m looking for Typer’s Anonymous?” This buzz word seemed to grab her attention at once and she smiled up at him in a greeting.

“Ah, I’m so sorry sweetheart!” Michael was surprised to hear a southern twang in her voice, a rarity for Northern Illinois.

“The room you are looking for is in the back, number 36. Here’s the key!” She opened one of the many drawers underneath her desk and tossed it to him nonchalantly. “Just bring that right on back when you’re done, okay?” She flashed a lovely smile and was once again buried in her book, her eyes moving like lasers as she slid through the pages.

Michael silently thanked her and headed towards the back of the library, his breath quickening as he made it further and further up the numbers.

“10’” passed, a room full of businessmen seemingly trying to figure out the solution to competing with the Kindle.

“20” was next, a group full of pre-teens listening to music as they bobbed their heads in unison and laughed.

“30” was a singular old woman, turning the pages of Southern Living as she wearily watched Michael slide by.

When he finally reached “36”, he thought the receptionist had possibly made a mistake. When Rachel described the gatherers, he pictured them as extroverted, outgoing people with larger than life personas. When he glanced inside, he saw a group of 8 people, circled up, calmly reading their books as the time ticked by.

With a final balling of his fists and a long discharge of breath, Michael opened the door. As it creaked open, he expected a shot back to his high school days: the dreaded feeling of fifteen judging eyes washing over the “late guy” as you desperately searched for a seat. Instead, the glances up were short and polite, usually paired with a smile or a slight nod.

“Welcome.”

“Hi there.”

“Hello.”

“How are you?”

The greetings came in like a soft wave crashing on the beach, easily digestible and paired with a sense of calm.

Immediately, Michael, the king of stress himself, was at ease. He gracefully made his way over to the final chair and took a seat, crossing his legs as he pulled out his latest Chris Abani novel. You know, the one that you always say you’ll start but never do.

“We are just waiting on one more and then we’ll begin.” This came from the guy sitting next to him, a cheery looking bald man with the nametag of “Mush” hanging lazily from his left shirt pocket.

Michael, without hesitation, placed his book face down on the right side of his desk before looking the man in the eyes and asking, politely, “So, why do they call you Mush?”