The morning of March 8, Mike woke early. His bumping around as he ran into some junk Micky had scattered around woke me up, but not Micky. Micky was oblivious to the world, as usual. Mike and I tip-toed downstairs, and I headed out for an early-morning swim to wake up. When I came back in Mike was sitting at the table eating cornflakes.
"Good job," Peter said, walking out of his bedroom.
"Congratulations Mike," I added.
"Thanks. What time is it, anyway?" he asked.
"Ten AM," Peter answered. "Think we should wake the birthday boy and get him out of the house?"
"Let me." Mike stood and headed up the stairs. Minutes later we heard the sounds of a pillow fight going full force and raced up to investigate.
Micky was attacking Mike with his pillow, annoyed enough by Mike’s jovial insults to attack with his usual full force, and Mike was holding his own, despite the blindness. Peter and I grabbed pillows off my bed and joined them.
Half an hour later Micky headed into the upstairs bathroom to shower, I headed into the downstairs one, and Peter and Mike headed into the kitchen to make breakfast. I showered quickly and dressed in my favourite moccasin boots, powder blue jeans and a rainbow-coloured Nehru shirt.
Micky slid down the stairs wearing his blue shirt with the laces and powder blue jeans. Peter chuckled when he noticed that we had inadvertently matched out outfits that morning.
"What’s so funny?" Mike asked from the bandstand where he was practicing our latest piece.
"Len and Micky are both wearing powder blue jeans."
"Oh. Well what’s so unusual about that? They’re linked and they think alike. Naturally they’d dress alike."
"Yeah right. She and Peter wear blinding colours! I don’t!" Micky protested. "What’s for breakfast?"
"Scrambled eggs and toast," Mike said. "Help yourself."
Micky and I both gobbled down several platefuls each. Then I insisted he drive with me to the beading store and the library -- claiming I was gonna need an extra pair of arms to carry all my books into the library and carry all the ones I planned to checkout back out to the Monkeemobile.
In the beading store, he followed me half-heartedly, yawning as I chose more black beads to make some more earrings for Isa, and several different rainbow selections for myself, then chose more findings to replace those I was running low on.
Next we went to the library. I returned to large piles of books -- about 40 books, and left Micky checking out the physics section while I gathered some more books on Scottish history for research and some beading books for new ideas. Checking my watch before I headed over to the circulation desk, I saw that it was time to head back so I checked out and found Micky.
"You didn’t get that many books Len. You really didn’t need me!" he said as we headed back to the Monkeemobile.
"I needed you to help with that pile I returned!" I retorted while slowly backing up the huge car and pulling out of the library parking lot.
"You could have carried some on fields," he pointed out.
"And risk people discovering my powers?"
"Oh yeah." He was silent the rest of the way home.
"You head on in. I wanna organize this pile of books first." I said when I’d parked in the driveway. He snorted and floated out and to the front door. I crossed my fingers that everyone was ready as he opened the door.
I looked up to see Micky jump up in surprise. Leaving my books and packages in the trunk, I floated over to him. "Surprise!" I whispered in his ear.
"How did you keep THIS secret!?" he gasped as we walked in.
"Oh come on it wasn’t that hard! I just kept it in the back of my mind, that’s all."
Five minutes later, there was a huge pile of wrapping paper on one side of the bandstand, Micky having already finished opening all his gifts. I quietly mused about the jokes my cousin had been subjected to for years due to her slowness in opening gifts. Micky wouldn’t be subject to those jokes! I chuckled to myself.
"Thank you! Thank you everyone!!!" Micky cried. I looked over to see his gifts. From Mike, a new pair of drumsticks, that I had helped him pick out the day before. From Isa, a long orange shirt that hung to his knees. Davy had gotten him a clock kit, since Micky loved working with his hands. Peter had made a set of stationary, with potato stamps. I’d strung several strands of love beads and stitched a pin -- a pair of drumsticks over a snare drum.
"Gee, pins too, Len? What next, belts?" Micky joked.
"I’d need to make a loom first," I retorted. Everyone broke down into giggles at the look on Micky’s face.
"So where’s my cake??"
A moment later, it appeared just in front of his face. The cake cutter shimmered into view a few inches from his hand. I grinned at his incredulous look. He grabbed the cutter and energetically sliced into the cake.
"Who made this, might I ask?"
"Me. I hope you like it -- it’s white cake with strawberry rhubarb filling. A new recipe I devised," I said.
Giving me a wary look, he bit in . . . and grinned. "Hope you wrote it down -- this is GREAT!" Everyone else dug in then and smiled.
"I’m glad you like it," I said quietly. "I never was much of a cook but . . . well I can’t resist strawberry rhubarb anything."
The cake soon vanished and we went onto other exploits until five, when we had to head over to the club for our regular gig. MacTavish gave us drinks on the house in honour of Micky’s birthday, and we sang to him up on the bandstand. Later, as I drove home, Micky turned to me with an enormous smile on his face and told me that he’d just had the best birthday of his life.
Last updated 03 DEC 98
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