I’d put considerable thought into the matter and decided neither alcohol nor motorcycles could play a part in our next evening together. I was going to be sober, safe, and sexually available.
I picked up the bottle of nail polish remover and the barbeque striker. “I think I’m going to invite him over for dinner.” I doused the destroyed couch cushions in nail polish remover and tossed the bottle onto the top of the rubble. “That way I don’t have to ride on that two-wheeled death trap again.”
I lit the striker. With slight reluctance, I leaned toward the couch. Halfway there with the tip of the flame, everything went black.
“Fucking lights,” I complained, leaning closer to the couch.
It burst into flames with a dull roar, illuminating the entire back of the yard.
“Jesus!” Mel shouted. “That’s not what I expected.”
I was equally shocked. Three-foot-high flames flickered above the surface of the couch. “Kinda burst into flames, huh?”
“Don’t even need those stupid lights now,” she said.
I reached for the loafers and threw them on top of the burning couch. “Nope.”
Mel tossed the Polo shirt remnants into the fire. “What about the lamp?”
“Let’s wait until it’s going really good, and we’ll toss it on there,” I said. “It’s metal and glass, so it’s not going to do much until that fire’s really going good.”
“Sweet fire, though,” Mel noted.
“Yeah, it’s pretty cool.”
I didn’t make threats I didn’t intent on keeping. I meant what I said when I asked Jared to remove whatever he wanted to keep from my home. Nonetheless, seeing his remaining belongings burning beneath the midnight sky was troubling.
I didn’t regret forcing him to leave. Regardless of who I was in a relationship with, sex with a stripper who doubled as a friend was a hard limit. Sad that he wasn’t the man I expected him to be, I stared at the flames with a bitter taste in my mouth.
“What’s wrong?” Mel asked.
“Just sad.”
“About what? The biker?”
“No.” I picked up a pair of wool slacks and tossed them into the flames. “About this. Just that he wasn’t who I thought he was.”
“Jesus, Reg,” Mel complained. “Please tell me that—”
“Oh, I don’t regret it,” I said. “It’s not that. I’m just pissed that I wasted four years of my life with him. I mean, shit. I’m thirty-two. I guess I’m glad he did it now, compared to ten years down the road, or something like that.”
“Yeah, I guess that’s one way to look at it.”
“It’s the only way I can look at it.”
She took a drink of the wine, slopping it down the front of her shirt in the process. She looked at the bottle like something was wrong with it and then wiped her mouth with her forearm. “I can’t believe he fucked a nasty-ass stripper.”
“Me, neither.”
“I’m glad he did, though.”
“Why?”
“Because. Now, he’s gone. For good.” Still clutching the steak knife in one hand, and the bottle of wine in the other, she began to dance a drunken version of the Mashed Potato, singing her version of Jared’s farewell song.
“Jared fucked a stripper and now he’s gone. Jared fucked a stripper and now he’s gone,” she sang, twisting her feet and wagging her knees in the process.
Drunk, and without a real reason not to, I joined in the fun. “Jared fucked a stripper and now he’s—”
“Suspect’s got a knife!” A deep voice shouted from the distant darkness. “Drop the fucking knife, lady!”
After nearly pissing myself, I stopped in my tracks. I peered beyond the flames, toward the voice.
“SDPD,” the shadowy figure shouted. “Lady. Drop. The. Fucking. Knife.”
I glanced at Mel. Frozen in place, she was standing beside the burning couch with a bottle of wine in one hand and a steak knife in the other.
“Drop the fucking knife, Mel!” I shouted.
She dropped the wine and the knife at the same time.
“Ohmygodwhatsgoingon?” she blurted.
“You! On the other side! Show me your hands!” the officer bellowed.
I raised my hands and cleared my throat. “My name’s Regina Gottschalk,” I shouted. “I’m the daughter of Ted Gottschalk.”
“I don’t give a fuck who you are,” he said. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”
“Your Tank’s daughter?” a voice asked from the other side of the house. “Tank Gottschalk?”
“That’s me,” I said into the darkness.
“Lower your weapon,” cop number two said to cop number one.
The flames provided a reasonable amount of light where we were standing but did little to illuminate the home or the approaching officers, who were now fifty feet away by my guess.
“Wave your arms!” I said to the two police men. “The porch lights will come on.”
Two seconds later, the lights came on, blasting the yard with light. I watched in drunken embarrassment as two uniformed police officers hesitantly walked in our direction, one from each side of the house.
The first officer looked at the burning sofa, and then at each of us. “What the fuck’s going on here?”
“Burning some stuff,” I said. “Stuff we…I’m sorry…stuff ‘I’ don’t need.”
“Just decided to burn a few things on a Sunday night?” he asked.
Now that their guns were in their holsters, my level of courage had returned to normal. I nodded. “That’s right.”
“It’s not evidence, is it?”
“Sure,” I said. “Evidence that my ex has zero taste in clothes and furniture.”
“The Airborne Toxic Control Measure prohibits burning of household items, ma’am,” officer number two declared. “For future reference.”
“I’ll make note of that,” I said.
Officer number one stepped between us and the burning sofa. He looked at Mel—who still had her hands sky-high—and then at me. “Do either of you have any ID?”
I was barefoot, covered in soot, and wearing cut-off sweats and a wife beater. My hair was in a messy bun, and I hadn’t showered since just before going on the date with Tito. I looked like I lived under a bridge.
“Not on my person,” I said. “It’s in the house, somewhere. I’m sorry about the airborne toxic thing, but is this really necessary?”
“What’s Tank’s favorite kind of wine?” officer number two asked.
“He doesn’t drink wine,” I said. “At all. Ever.”
Convinced that I was who I said I was, he nodded toward the flaming sofa. “Do you have a way to put out this fire?”
The flames were higher than the roof of my house. Extinguishing it without a fire truck, hose, and ten eager firemen would be impossible.
“I suppose I can come up with something,” I said, lying through my teeth.
“Get it put out and go to bed.” He glanced at cop number one and tilted his head toward the house. “C’mon Bradley.”
Bradley shot him a glare of opposition. “You’re not going to check their ID’s?”
“You want to piss off Tank?” cop number two asked. “Go right ahead. Harass his daughter. You’ll be writing parking tickets next week.”
“I don’t know who Tank is.”
“Believe me,” cop number one said. “You don’t want to.” He glanced at each of us. “Have a nice night, ladies. Be sure and extinguish this fire.”
“Will do, officer,” I lied. “Have a nice night.”
As Bradley and his unnamed partner disappeared into the shadows, Mel looked at me with saucer-sized eyes. “Jesus,” she whispered. “I thought the first one was going to shoot me.”
“What did you expect?” I looked at her in sheer disbelief. “You were drunk and covered in soot while dancing around a bonfire with a steak knife in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other.”
“Forgot I was h
olding it,” she responded. “Just caught up in the moment, I guess.”
“Yeah,” I glanced at the fire. “Me, too, I guess.”
“So, what now?” she asked.
I glanced at the bottle of wine that lay in the dirt, beside her. “Short-term, or long-term?”
She shrugged. “Both?”
“You spilled our last bottle of wine, so I guess I’ll go in and get another,” I responded. “That’ll fix things right now. Long-term? I going to make sure the next relationship I’m in doesn’t involve three bottles of wine, a bonfire, and a visit from the cops.”
12
Tito
Sitting in the passenger seat of Braxton’s Range Rover, I gazed across the street. The exterior wall of the tattoo parlor was covered in a mural that had faded from years of exposure to the California sun. The once vibrant reds, yellows, blues, and greens were now chalky and faint. Nevertheless, the images were recognizable.
A dagger pierced the blossom of a red rose. Beginning at the bottom of the rose’s stem, a green serpent was intertwined around the dagger and the rose. With the mouth open and fangs dripping with venom, the snake’s head faced toward the person viewing the mural.
“What do you think that means?” Braxton asked, nodding toward the faded image.
I felt numb. My mind was incapable of processing much of anything. I shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“The rose symbolizes beauty, vitality and love,” he said. “The dagger? Betrayal, death, destruction. Together, the rose and dagger represent the everlasting fight between good and evil. Life and death. Love and betrayal. The serpent? It’s somewhere between the two, offering the temptation to choose. I find the fact we’re here—right now, looking at this—ironic.”
Considering the source of the pain I’d been plagued with for the past week, he was right. It was ironic.
Eerily so.
“Do you really think this is going to help?” I asked.
Gripping the steering wheel loosely with each hand, he studied the mural. “I do,” he replied. “Suicide is a difficult thing for a survivor to understand. That lack of understanding causes us to question our worth as a support system for the deceased while they were living. What did we do wrong? What could we have done differently? The answer is nothing and nothing.”
“You said, ‘the lack of understanding causes us to question our worth.’ Has someone you’ve known committed—”
“My younger brother.” He stared blankly at the mural. “While I was at basic training. Sounds like he had some of the same problems as the girl you spoke of. When he was alone, he struggled to find his place in this world. In the presence of others, he was just like you and me.”
My throat tightened. I had no idea. I felt awful for bringing up Shelley, which undoubtedly dragged Hap and Braxton through the memories of their loss.
“Hap’s never said anything—”
“We all deal with suicide differently,” he said. “The Old Man doesn’t like to admit it happened. It was an overdose. He still believes it was an accident.”
I swallowed heavily. “I’m sorry,” I murmured. I cleared my throat. “For your loss. For everything.”
“Thank you.”
“Did uhhm, Did you,” I stammered. “Did you get a tattoo?”
“I did.” He glanced in my direction. “A rose. Everyone sees is as nothing but a flower. To me, it’s much more than that.”
I nodded. “It’s got special meaning.”
“It’s a rose that’s beginning to blossom. Nine petals are visible in the tattoo. The stem has three leaves. He dies on September third. I didn’t want to get a date tattooed on my chest. Seems when someone does that, it’s an invitation for people to ask questions.”
“Did it help?” I asked. “Getting it?”
“We’re only as sick as the secrets we keep,” he replied. “You may not be getting an inscription on your arm that reads, on August 8th, 2009 Shelley committed suicide, but in your mind, that’s what the message the tattoo carries. Did it help me? Yes. Immensely, in fact. Getting it allowed me to release…” He drew a breath and let it out slowly.
“That’s what I need,” I said. “To let all of this go. Release these memories.”
“I doubt the tattoo will rid you of the memory,” he responded, looking at me as he spoke. “That’s not what I meant. You need to find a way to forgive yourself. Let go of the guilt. You did nothing wrong, but deep down inside your gut, I’m sure you feel guilt. The what ifs are eating you up. My guess is that you’ve repressed your loss for ten years, clinging to that hat as a means of salvation. Now that the hat’s gone, you’re left to discover the truth.”
“What’s the truth?” I asked.
“The truth?” He nodded toward my door, and then opened his. “You’re getting a tattoo. That’s the truth.”
As if I had no choice, I followed him across the street and into the tattoo parlor. Maybe I wanted his idea to work. Maybe I wanted to get on with my life. Maybe I simply wanted the pain to cease. Whatever the reason, I was willing to give anything a try.
Just inside the door, a lean man with a 1930’s style haircut and a waxed mustache stood behind a high counter. His hands, arms, and neck were so heavily tattooed there wasn’t room for one more drop of ink to be placed on his skin.
Mounted to the surface of the island, a weathered metal sign gave warning to all who dared to enter.
IF YOU’RE
DRUNK, RUDE, STUPID, BROKE,
SICK, ANNOYING, ON YOR PHONE,
OBNOXIOUS, SUNBURNED, BAREFOOT,
STINKY, LOUD, HOPING FOR ROMAN NUMERALS,
PREGNANT, OR SEARCHING FOR A BARGAIN
PLEASE
COME BACK WHEN YOU’RE NOT.
The man twisted the ends of his mustache between his thumbs and forefingers. “Evening, fellas. Welcome to Forever Inked.”
“My friend needs a tattoo,” Braxton said.
The man’s eyes shifted to me. “How’s it going?”
“Not bad, thank you.” I held out my left forearm, which had a few small tattoos on it, leaving plenty of room for more. “I’d like a cherry tree branch with three sets of blossoms. The left portion of the branch has eight blossoms, the center has eight more, and then, on the far right, there’s a cluster of nine.”
“One tree branch, twenty-five blossoms,” the man said, nodding his head. “Color, or black and grey?”
“Black and grey on the branch,” I replied. “Pink blossoms.”
The man hoisted a large bound ledger onto the countertop. It hit the surface with a dull thud. “When were you thinking?” He flipped through the pages. “Stanley’s got an opening—”
“Tonight,” Braxton said. “He needs it tonight.”
The man looked up, made eye contact with Braxton, and then looked at me. “Which one of you two is getting this piece?”
“I am,” I replied.
“When were you thinking?” he asked. “He’s got an opening three weeks from next Monday, at four o’clock. I’d guess that’ll take two hours.”
Braxton nodded toward the rear of the shop. “Looks like Stanley’s cleaning up. I’ll pay him to stay late.”
The man chuckled in a manner that left little to the imagination. “Stanley,” he shouted over his shoulder while eyeing Braxton. “Got time for a tattoo? Tonight?”
“Fresh out of time,” Stanley replied from the rear of the shop. “Explain what you want. Make an appointment. Leave a deposit.”
“I’ll make it worth his while,” Braxton said.
“He’ll make it worth your while,” the man with the mustache shouted into the shop’s abyss.
“Life ain’t about money, man,” Stanley replied. “Explain what you want. Make an appointment. Leave a deposit.”
“Are you a basketball fan?” Braxton shouted.
“Sports fan in general,” Stanley replied. “I like ‘em all.”
“How about courtside tickets to the Lakers game next Sunday?”
/>
Stanley came to the counter. His dark hair was combed with a definitive sharp part, held in place by styling gel. A long—but well-trimmed—beard hung nearly to his chest. Every exposed inch of his skin—short of his face—was covered in colorful ink.
“Lakers-Celtics?” he asked. “Courtside? As in, courtside?”
Braxton reached inside his sport coat, fished around for a moment, and produced four tickets. He fanned them with his thumb. “Take three of your friends.”
Stanley reached for the tickets, and then hesitated. “Do you mind?”
Braxton handed him the tickets. “Not at all.”
Stanley inspected the tickets over thoroughly. He looked at Braxton. “This has got to be eight grand in tickets. Hell, playing the Celtics, maybe it’s ten or twelve. This is Jack Nicholson shit right here. How did you…”
“I know people,” Braxton replied.
“If I do this piece tonight, I get these tickets?”
“If you do that piece tonight, you’ll be paid for the tattoo,” Braxton replied. “Look at the tickets as a tip. A thank you for helping us out of a sticky situation.”
Stanley looked at each of the tickets. “Nobody’s gonna arrest me or any dumb shit like that, are they? When I show up and take these seats?”
Braxton took a step back and tugged at the front of his sport coat, which I guessed cost just north of a grand. On his left wrist he wore a Breitling Chronograph that cost more than a new Toyota.
“Do I look like a thief?” Braxton asked.
“You didn’t answer my question,” Stanley said.
“You won’t be arrested,” Braxton replied, smirking. “In fact, if you stick around after the game, The King might say something when he walks by. Suppose that’ll depend on whether they win or lose.”
Stanley’s eyes widened. “Lebron James?”
Braxton nodded toward Stanley’s hand, which still held the tickets. “He’s the one who gave those to me.”
“Damn,” Stanley said. “You do know people.”
“So, we’ve got a deal?” Braxton asked.
“Abso-fucking-lutely,” Stanley replied. “Let me get my station ready. Sign the form and come on back.”
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