Mike the Mysterious: Episode 6: Writer Wannabe

Mike, The Writer Wannabe

Mike had been out in the living room in his basket and still wearing that silly feathered hat for over a month now. I was getting worried about him. I was thinking it was time for a change of scenery. I must have broken the spell he was in when I moved the living room sofa back to its winter position, against the wall. I finally persuaded him to put the orange and black hat and cape away until October. "Besides, you're getting very dusty, Mike!" I complained to him.

He reminded me that I was supposed to be making him a new costume. A sparkly wizard's hat and cape. "We'll," I said, "that won't happen for awhile. So let's just put this costume away and pick out something else to wear. At least until it's time to pull out the bear's sweaters again." He frowned, but gave up his costume willingly. "It's been way to warm for this thing anyway," he groaned.

I gave him a good shake to get off all the dust that had accumulated on his melted back fur, and wiped the dirt from his golden, glass eyes. I could tell he was very appreciative of my efforts to spruce him up a bit.

So, today when I came into the office to turn on the computer, I found Mike already at the keyboard. He said it was time to write a story for Cat Tuesday and he was going to write his own story. I'd said I wasn't ready to do that yet, but he'd just jammed on a pair the bear's glasses; how he'd found them I'll never know, and started up the computer.

"I wanna be a writer like you," he stated mater-of-factly, and started clicking away at the keyboard.

"Wait," I yelled. That's my new computer. You're gonna mess things up. Move aside and let me do the typing. You just tell me what you want to say. Nobody, and that includes you fluffheads, is gonna use my keyboard!"

A wry glint flashed across a golden eye as he politely reminded me that Gretchen was allowed to blog, so why couldn't he blog, too? I had no rational answer that I could give him that didn't sound prejudiced against fluffheads, no matter how smart they were."Okay," I finally relented. "But if you mess things up I'm going to de-fluff you piece, by wiry piece.'
I'm sure the thought of being de-fluffed was horrifying to him. He didn't argue with me anymore, he just climbed up on the desk and started dictating to me.

"Okay," he began. "My name is Mike the Mysterious, as you well know, and I'm gonna write my memoirs."

"Wait," I said, holding my hand up to stop him from continuing. "Your memoirs? You have memories to write about?"

He just looked at me through a pair of yellow lenses that belonged to the bears, and stated: "I had a life once. Maybe it was a long time ago, but I did have a life."

"Sorry," I said. "Please continue."

"I need to get my thoughts together. Hand me a pencil, will you? And I'll need some note paper, those colorful sticky things you're always using will do. I'll need a Dictionary and a Thesaurus…"

I rolled my eyes as I watched him scurry about on my desk writing notes, thumbing through the Dictionary, the Thesaurus, and the spelling book I keep by the keyboard. I didn't even try to explain that the word program I used had a thing called spell-check.

Minutes ticked by while Mike made notes. Sticky note paper flew in all directions. I think he just loved the idea of scratching a few words and tearing off sheets of tiny paper and sticking them to things, more than he did in making serious notes about his life.
"Ummm, Mike?" I asked, after about twenty minutes of this activity. "Are we going to write today, or what?"

"Oh, yes," he squealed with delight. "Yes, just let me get something to nibble on first. All this thinking has made me hungry." Gretchen had woken up from her nap in her Crystal Geyser Box on the desk and had padded over to her munching table for a light snack. The distraction was too much for Mike, he flew across the desk to where Gretchen was happily scarffing down Temptations and solicited her for a few morsels.

I shouldn't have been surprised that Gretchen moved over so Mike could grab a few bits for himself. Had it been a real-life, furry creature, I'm sure Gretchen would have had a few distasteful words to say, maybe even a well placed swat to the nose…I don't think she's the snack-sharing type. But Mike is Mysterious and has a way with getting around things like sibling rivalry—in this case fluffhead annoyances. Besides, I think Gretchen's already aware that Mike can't really eat. He just pretends. So her little stash was in no real danger.

I had emails to answer and some blogs to look at so I let Mike alone for a spell. Next I noticed he'd found the extra pouch of Temptations and had taken over Gretchen's napping box. Would Gretchen allow him to do that? I looked around. Gretchen had departed for other parts of the apartment. She probably had to visit the little girlcat box and take a drink from the toilet.

I continued to blog, thankful that Mike was distracted from wanting me to write his memoirs. I glanced over at him after a few more minutes. He was enamored by the blue, foil packet that Gretchen's treats came in. It must have been like catnip to him, he got all glassy-eyed as he rolled around and bunny kicked the packet.

Okay, this was weirding me out. I took the packet of salmon flavored treats away from Mike and put them back in the cubbyhole on my hubby's desk. I noticed a few Hershey's chocolate bars stashed in there, too. Hmmm. I poked around some more and stole a candy bar for myself. He wouldn't mind. After all, it was chocolate, and when a woman comes across a chocolate bar, no matter who it belongs to, it's hers.

"Enough!" I told Mike. "Either you get back over here and tell me what to write, or take a nap. I've got work to do."

Mike looked up at me with widened, glazed eyes. For a moment there I was afraid for the candy bar I held in my hand. You don't suppose Mike wants chocolate, too? Naw, I reminded myself. He's just a fluffhead. A quirky little piece of melted back nylon and…hmm, what was he made of, really? I had to take a look at his tag. Aw, yes, "Ty Inc © 2000 (hmm, he's just seven years old? how on earth could he have memoirs?) OAKBROOK, IL., REG. NO. PA—oh geesh, I had to get the magnifying glass—1965 (KR), ALL NEW MATERIAL, CONTENTS POLYESTER, FIBER & P.E. PELLETS IN CLOTH BAG, HANDMADE IN CHINA, CE." Well, that told me nothing. Whatever the outer material was, it certainly was defective. All but his legs and tail had melted in the dryer.

"Hey, come on, Mike!" I startled him out of his salmon flavored induced trance. "Let's get going here I've got other things to do today. I've also got to produce a story for Cat's on Tuesday."

"Oh, dear," his apology was a bit slurred. "Where were we? Ah, yes…my memoirs. Grab me that yellow legal pad, will you?" Mike shuffled across the desk, stepped on a few keys 3lzj;oirtiasfj and settled himself on the note pad by the hard drive, a small pencil tucked behind his ear. "It all began, a hundred years or so, ago; in a land very far away…" he paused, looked up at me over the tops of his glasses, "so far in fact that I'm afraid you've never heard of it, D."

Okay, I was beginning to see that this project was going to take longer than I thought, not to mention the stretch his imagination was going to take. I took his dictation without comment. He was pretty good at story telling actually, and I told him so. In the fluffhead world his story could possibly become a Best Seller.

Mike grinned, and as I was editing a few details, he had scurried back across the keyboard, stepping on a few more keys jwerjgno;ijheoiujtu9235hr and settled himself back in Gretchen's napping box. When I looked up he had my cell phone open and was punching numbers with his thick, black stub that he had for a paw.

"Hey, Mike! Not my cell phone!" I grabbed it before he could punch send. "Who in the world are you calling?"

"My agent," he said.