For my entire childhood, I had looked at my eighteenth birthday as a line in the sand, a line that I would step over on that day. An actual graduation, if you will, from being a child to being an adult. On that day, of all days, I would not be perceived as being an adult, I would be an adult. The day following my eighteenth birthday, things would be different. I may not act different, I may not do anything different, but I could. I would be able to think freely, and make decisions without feeling the need or necessity to have an authoritative figure give me the nod of approval. To me, the chains that bound me for my entire life would effectively be removed. My shackles set aside, I would be free. It wasn’t as much about the tattoo as it was about the freedom. The freedom to decide. Me, once again, being me
After the one-sided tattoo discussion, I believe I felt similar to the way a slave would have felt during the civil war. Not knowing if the day would ever come that I would be set free. Not knowing what the future holds. Not feeling that I had the authority to make a decision without it being second guessed. Feeling that if I did make a decision, it may not be a decision after all. It may just be a thought. A thought. A thought that may develop into a decision. I would just have to check with the person that was superior to me first, and find out if the thought that I possessed was worthy of becoming a decision. Thinking of all of this began to make me ill. That night I didn’t look at tattoo drawings or photos. That night I cried myself to sleep.
A prisoner sat in his cell. He had been locked up for years, knowing the date all along of his eventual release, June 15, 2013. It was printed in his legal documents that he kept in his cell since his first day of incarceration. Since his arrival, the prisoner made a hash mark each day on the concrete wall in his cell, to indicate another day removed from his sentence of confinement. The marked wall, 823 days later, stood behind him as he waited at his cell door for the authorities to arrive and release him. During his entire incarceration, he had drawn, sketched, and planned that on the day he was released, he would get a tattoo. Etched onto his skin would be a permanent reminder of the day that he was released from confinement. A new beginning. His tattoo representations were kept on a sheet of paper, folded neatly in his right pocket.
Yet.
On that scheduled day of release, the authorities arrived with the key, and unlocked the prisoner’s cell. The prisoner, with a shaved head, and neatly trimmed goatee, stood erect and proud. Tall, lean, and muscular, he stood in the doorway. They handed the prisoner a sheet of paper. On the paper are written rules. Rules that must be followed after his ‘release’. Things that he could do, and things that he could not. His ‘freedom’, in a sense, was just a thought in his head. A thought he would be incapable of implementing. He would be bound, by these written instructions, to comply with the requirements expressed within them. The man took the provided sheet, and looked at the list of rules:
HOUSING - (location) Check with authorities for approval prior to commitment.
HOUSING - (value, rent or lease agreement, regardless of location) Check with authorities for approval prior to commitment.
CLOTHING - If using generally good taste, no restrictions. If poor taste is used, removal and replacement with alternated clothes is required. Taste is defined by the authorities.
EDUCATION - Required. Housing and location must be approved by the authority.
TATTOOS - Prohibited.
The prisoner turns and looks at the wall behind him. He looks at the sheet of rules. He takes another look at the authoritative figures. He looks back at the sheet of rules, and stares. The prisoner thinks. Ponders. He could, after being given the list of requirements, smile and nod, and sign the sheet of paper. Neatly folding his copy, and placing it in his pocket, he could exit the cell, and walk free of the confines of the institution. And, after he was free from the watchful eye of the authoritative figures, he could just say, “Fuck It. Fuck You. Fuck Prison. Fuck Authority. Fuck the Man. Fuck Hard-boiled Eggs, Fuck the System. Fuck Racism. Fuck the Government. Fuck Confinement. Fuck This. Fuck Oatmeal.”
“Fuck NOT getting a tattoo.”
The prisoner decides. He takes the provided pen, and signs the sheet of paper. The man leaves the institution, avoids the authorities, and later that day, he walks to the local tattoo parlor. Standing at the door, prepared to enter, the man notices a sign. The message is bold, clear, and meaningful.
Needles, flesh, pain, blood. But then
you take a step back and see a piece
of artwork. Creation from
destruction. That’s what tattooing is.
That’s how God created and saved
the world. That’s what life is.
Keep calm and get inked - The Management
The man enters the tattoo parlor, and walks to the front counter to make an appointment. He unfolds the sheet of paper and shows it to the person scheduling the tattoos. He is told it will require a one and a half hour session. The man agrees, and makes an appointment.
On the scheduled day, the man arrives on time. He stops to read the sign again, and smiles. The tattoo artist greets the man as he enters, and motions to the rear of the parlor.
“There’s an old barber chair back there that I just finished recovering. Take a seat and get comfortable. I will be just a minute. I’m Steve,” the artist extends his arm, offering his hand in a friendly gesture.
“Call me Hoot.” Smiling, the man grasps the artists hand and gives a firm hand shake.
The man walks to the rear of the parlor, and finds the restored barber’s chair. Placing himself in the chair, he finds himself immediately comfortable. He begins to relax and listen to the music. As the Five Finger Death Punch’s “Coming Down” plays over the speakers, the man remembers the video. It reminds him of some of the thoughts he had while remaining in his cell in prison. Thoughts of living, of dying, and of recovering from the unhealthy thoughts. The recovery takes time. This was his new beginning. The man closes his eyes, and gets lost in the music.
“Hoot, you about ready? You alright?” the artist asks.
“Shit, I think I may have nodded off for a minute, Five Finger Death Punch. Hell I haven’t heard that song for a bit,” the man apologizes as he opens his eyes.
“Good stuff, it sure is. I loved the video. Makes a man think, you know. Now, what are we doing today?” the artist asks as he sits in his chair.
The man reaches into his right pocket, removes the yellowed sheet of paper, and unfolds it, handing it to the artist. Tapping his right inner forearm with his left hand, the man responds, “Here you go. On my right forearm.”
“Just like this?” the artist asks, holding the sheet of paper where the man can see the depiction.
“Exactly,” the man responds.
The artist nods. As the man watches, the artist sterilizes the table, prepares the ink, and gets the tattoo machine out of a drawer. Holding the tattoo machine at arm’s length, the artist looks at it, admiringly. After removing a pair of purple rubber gloves from a drawer in the table, the artist carefully places his hands inside. With his gloved hands, he removes a razor from a glass container on the top of the table.
Quietly, the artist takes the man’s right hand, extends his right arm, rubs a soapy substance on the skin, and begins to shave the hair from the skin. The artist traces the outline of the sketch with a pen, and presses the paper to the man’s skin. The man closes his eyes, and leans back in the reclined chair. The man hears a buzzing sound. He gets lost in the music and the buzzing. He feels as if he is being hypnotized. “Ready, Hoot?” the artist asks.
The man, without opening his eyes or speaking, nods his head.
As the needle begins to dig into the man’s arm, he starts to feel a feeling that he has never felt. The destruction of his flesh begins. With each stroke of the needle, the man feels as if something is being added, not to his skin, but to “who” he is. The man, lying in the chair, is not asleep nor is he awake. He feels as if he is elsewhere. As the tattooing process contin
ues, the man feels as if he begins to float. He feels as if he is rising above his past, his mistakes, and his former self. He feels lighter. He begins to feel freedom. Freedom of incarceration, accusations, unanswered questions, and of his entire past. The man gets lost in the feeling, lost in the buzzing, and lost in what is being added to his soul. He feels as if this is exactly what he had hoped for. A new beginning. The man loses concept of time, and of being.
“Hoot, we’re done. You want to take a look?” the artist asks sharply, tapping the man on the shoulder.
The man opens his eyes, rotates his head to the right, and looks at the newly applied tattoo. Unable to hide his satisfaction, the man smiles and simply responds, “Perfect.”
The artist slowly takes the man’s right hand, extends his arm, and cleans the area. The artist admires his work. Retrieving gauze and medical tape from a drawer in the table, the artist applies a bandage to the tattoo. As he tapes the gauze, he offers the man instructions, “You’ll want to keep that on there for about an hour, and then you can remove it. After that, keep it uncovered. There’s an instruction sheet at the counter on your way out.”
“What do I owe you?” the man asks.
“Aren’t you that guy that got sent to the joint on that bullshit gun charge?” the artist asks.
“Yes sir,” the man responds. “I bought a machinegun from the ATF. It was an entrapment case. The judge sentenced me to probation, but I decided to fight it to the U.S. Supreme Court. As a matter of ‘law’, I was not guilty. The Supreme Court didn’t hear the case, and I was re-sentenced to go to prison. It was my choice to fight, my choice to risk prison time. I did my time. What do I owe you?”
“Don’t worry about it, brother,” the artist says, removing his gloves and throwing them in the trash.
The man offers a nod, and turns and walks from the parlor. Walking through the front door, he turns and reads the sign again. “Creation from destruction.” As he walks home, he feels as if his vision is better than before. His hearing. His sense of being. The man looks at his watch. 10:10 pm.
Sitting at home, the man, looking at his watch, sees that the hour has passed. He carefully removes the bandage, and goes to the bathroom. He discards the bandage in the trash, and as the instructions indicate, cleans the tattoo with soapy water. He applies lotion to the tattoo, and turns his right arm to meet his eye. Prideful, the man reads his newly applied tattoo:
STAY HUMAN.
When the alarm went off the next day, I awoke from the dream, stretched, and sat up in bed. Realizing that it was a school day, I reluctantly got up to get ready for the day. Walking into the closet, I remembered the disappointment with my parents from the night before. The failed attempt at being an adult. I picked out my clothes for the day, and got dressed.
I walked into the kitchen, remembering the discussion with my family from the night before. The more I thought about it, the more I didn’t want to think about it. Filled with disgust, I opened the pantry. I had intended, as always, to prepare breakfast before school. I stood and looked into the pantry. For some reason I was no longer hungry. I decided I would just go to school without eating. I turned, went to the refrigerator, and grabbed a bottle of water. Headed for the door I thought: Today, no breakfast.
Fuck Oatmeal.
Chapter 6
She took my heart
MARC. Growing up without a father was second nature. It was not, however, easy. A collision on his way home from college took his life. He was killed instantly. He wasn’t wearing his leather jacket. My then pregnant mother cried for a year. My first recollection of realizing that I didn’t have a father was when I was four years old.
“Why don’t I have a father?” I asked.
“You do have a father, Marc. He was killed in a car wreck. But. He is still your father,” my mother responded. She placed her hand on my shoulder when she spoke. I cried. I found a way to make all of that make sense in my head. That was the last time I cried. Fourteen years have passed. No tears. I do feel emotions. More than most, I imagine. Yet, no tears.
My mother completed college, and went to work for a local hospital as a nurse. She has worked there my entire life, helping others. She never remarried. She loved one man. According to her, giving herself to someone else would not be fair to them, my father, or her. She could give herself, but she could not give her love, she had no heart. My father had her heart. Her love existed for one person only. She remained in love with my father.
“I cannot love your father and love someone else at the same time,” she had told me once. I do not recall my age at the time, but I was young. When I was older, maybe thirteen, we talked again. About love. She placed her hand on my shoulder. “Marc, you don’t give someone your love. They take it. Love is taken. And, when someone takes your love, you will know it. Do you understand?” she asked. I did not understand. I nodded. She smiled. We had this discussion often. The taking of love. Last year, she placed her hand on my shoulder. She said nothing. I looked in her eyes. I was seventeen. “Yes,” I said. “Yes what, Marc,” she responded. “Yes, I understand,” I smiled. We embraced. She smiled. It was summer. My mother. My best friend. “Yes, mother, I understand,” I said again. She smiled. Again.
Britney took my love. The day we met. A piece of me remained. In Macy’s. I walked through the store to leave. I held the door for a family that was walking in. I looked back into the store. I watched her through the glass as she walked away from where we were standing. And as she walked away, a piece of me walked with her. She had taken my love. And yet, she was unaware.
I started walking to the car. I thanked God for having an opportunity to meet Britney. Winter was hanging in the air. I zipped my coat, grateful for the warmth it offered me. The coat was my fathers. He believed it to be good luck. It was a Christmas gift from his father. He was not wearing it at the time of his accident. When I was sixteen, my mother gave the coat to me.
“I want you to have this,” she said. “It was your father’s good luck charm,” she smiled.
“I know,” I said. “I’ve been waiting, thank you. I love you mother,” I smiled.
“I love you back,” she promised.
I wore the coat when I drove. Or, I placed it in the seat beside me. The coat provided me with what it could not provide my father that day. Protection.
Outside Macy’s, I sat in my car, bewildered. Something was missing. I stuck my hand in my pocket. Nothing. I stuck my hand in my other pocket. Empty. My inner coat pocket. Void of substance. I pulled the sleeve of my coat back and looked at my watch. I looked back at the store entrance. And I realized. It was there. In the store. My love. My heart. I had misplaced nothing. She had taken it. And with her my love would remain.
At home, I asked my mother about her love for my father. “How long had you known my father before you knew, truly knew you were in love with him,” I asked.
“Five minutes,” she responded. She smiled. As we ate our spaghetti, she continued to talk. Of love. Of relationships, and of being without. Being without a husband. My being without a father. And having a family, by most people’s standards, that was incomplete. I didn’t really yearn to have a father in my life. I understood my mother. I have a father. I yearned to be a father. To be, to my children, what my father could not be for me. Active. Present. Alive. I opened my mouth. My tongue wouldn’t form words. I had so much to say. I took a bite of spaghetti. Time passed. When she stopped speaking, her eyes were wet. She wasn’t crying, but her eyes were full. Full of eighteen years of what someone had taken from her. I smiled and stood. I looked away. I ran my fingers through my hair. As I carried my plate to the sink she raised her hand to her face. Wiping eighteen years of love from her eyes, she spoke, “I love you Marc.”
“And I love you back, mother,” I responded. She smiled.
Time passed. Britney filled my thoughts. Time, with her, passed at a pace much different than without her. We had been together for two months. When she was away, moments seemed like hour
s. Hours seemed like days, and days were like months. Together, a two hour evening easily passed in moments. I had not told her that I loved her. I had, through my actions, given every indication of my feelings for her. She had my love. I waited to see what she would do with it.
My mother’s love for my father began to make sense. Love that just was. “There’s love that’s developed,” she had told me. “And there’s love that just is.”
“Please explain,” I asked.
“Well, Marc, I believe that love can be developed. Two people meet. He thinks she is cute. She feels the same way. He asks her out on a date. She accepts. They go on a date, and nothing goes wrong. Because nothing goes wrong, when he asks again, she agrees. They go on a second date. And nothing goes wrong. And then, they go on a third date. And because nothing went wrong, they are now dating. Exclusive. Committed. And, time passes. And, to keep her convinced that he cares for her, and because his family encourages him, he buys her a ring. They are now engaged. And time passes. And they get married in June. Because that’s what everyone does. And then, because it’s what married people do, they have children. And now, they are a family. Because two people met, went on a date, and nothing went wrong. That, Marc, is love that is developed.”
Then, she continued, “Then, there is love that just is. The love that can’t always be explained. The love that, according to those that have it, can’t ever be anything but what it is. Endless. Instead of sitting home and imagining the next ‘girls night out’, you sit at home and anxiously wait for him coming home from work. Because you can’t fathom spending an evening without him. That person doesn’t give you reason to live. That person is your life. Love that just is.”
Broken People Page 6