Miracle Michael Reinvents the Messiah With a Bellows

By Casey Vachon, B.A. Literature (University of Kansas)

They were trying times. Restless, neurotic times of struggle. Plagued by the overwhelming realization that everything is hopeless, the need to strike out and make a stand, to make (or pretend) the case was otherwise was at the forefront. A young Michael Rice, perhaps "romantically ready," perhaps hopeless, perhaps intent on disappointment, ventured a trip to the woods.

In a kind of trance, Michael demanded a camping trip. I assured him it would be very cold; perhaps this is the cankerous sense of "reality" with which I have been diagnosed. Michael, of course, insisted. We went to the grocery store, where we acquired a gallon of water and an enormous bag of terribly dense wheat rolls. Michael had brought along a comforter and his cell phone, assuring me it was only to call in case of emergency. I drove him to Clinton Lake, just outside of Lawrence. He picked a flat spot that must have been no less than an excruciating twenty yards from the road, and spread out his comforter. We agreed that I would check in on him the next day at six o'clock in the evening, as that would be roughly one day, unless he contacted me with an emergency. After some philosophical talk, probably concerning the inherent nature of running and the vastness of the universe (as Michael's friend Kara would later tell Michael, “Tell Casey he's in the Milky Way” -somehow I can't help but feel that this really sums up everything Michael and I may have ever learned together), I left him there.

What actually happened over the course of the night, only Michael really knows, though I have my speculations…

The next morning my phone rang at what was in the dorm an ungodly hour, outside an unbelievably beautiful November morning. It was, of course, Michael, sounding as though he had just walked over his own grave and saying something like, "Casey! Where are you? You were supposed to be here, like, an hour ago!"

"It's six in the morning."
"Oh…Ya, well, can you come get me I can't find my horse and they're getting rid of the Queen in England."

When I got there Michael was robed in his comforter, walking aimlessly and barefoot in the tall grass with a fistful of flowers and flowers behind each ear, singing hymns to himself. His speech had decidedly changed, in fact it had become quite inspired and he seemed to be speaking in parables.

"Why, hello Casey. It's a beautiful day, isn't it." I must admit the light hit him in a rather strange way. "Would you like to help me pick flowers? I'm picking a bouquet for Kara, and you can pick one for her grandmother. She would be very grateful to you Casey. It would be a very nice thing to do. Oh, yes. The real reason I'm leaving is because Kara needs her Felicity tape back. I have to go straight over there. She's not very happy with me. No, not happy at all. Oh my."

And so we picked flowers. To be honest, I just didn't know what else to do. I imagine Alice must have felt similar when the Mad Hatter and the March Hare agreed it was time to change chairs. The whole thing was really rather disconcerting somehow. When we finished the bouquets, which consisted primarily of weeds, Michael offered me a wheat roll. I had the overwhelming sense that we must have looked from a short distance as though we were putting on a very bad production, and me, breaking bread with some kind of modern day Christ.

-Casey is a free lance writer living in Lawerence, KS, pursuing a Masters Degree. Despite enjoying a weekly dialogue with Michael via email, they have not spoken in nearly four years.