Memoirs Of An Antihero

by Drew Blank

  As I strolled into the studio, Tom interrupted his tale to introduce me.

  “Ladies, do you know Orphan?” Tom refused to acknowledge I had a real name.

  “Hi Orphan!” The three skinny girls all greeted me in unison. While the sickly emaciated smoker types were not the kind of girls I would ever give a second glance to, they were just what Tom was looking for. I was almost afraid to interrupt what may very well turn into a sexual smorgasbord for my old friend, but I had nowhere else to turn.

  “Hi,” I meekly motioned in the direction of the couch, being completely aware I was not looking my best that particular evening.

  “What the hell are you doing here this late, Orphan? Isn’t it past your bed time?” Tom chuckled, aware that ever since Moxie was born I was not a real social butterfly. While I was usually awake by seven-thirty each morning, there were days Tom would ask me to call and make sure he was up by noon. The only time I ever really saw red in Tom’s eyes directed at me was the April Fool’s Day where I frantically rang his bell at six in the morning, only to get him out of bed and downstairs so that I could invite him on a bike ride. The joke was lost on him and I came close to getting shot by a man in a black terry cloth robe and bear paw slippers.

  “I was wondering if I could have a minute,” I said to Tom as I nodded my head in the direction of the three girls, “alone.”

  “What? Yeah. Yeah, sure.” Tom knew me well enough to know when there was trouble. “Ladies, would you

  mind stepping into the waiting room for a moment?”

  The skeleton crew shuffled past me, all the while looking me up and down cautiously. I stepped towards Tom’s desk.

  “This better be good, Orphan,” Tom warned, turning the volume down on the radio blasting The Who and finding his place back on the stool.

  “Look, do we have some sort of artist/client confidentiality agreement?” I asked, half joking.

  “It’s late, you look like fuck pie and I am in no mood for bullshit. You know you can trust me to shut up. Whatta you need?” Tom was obviously getting impatient, so I cut to the chase.

  “I need your help,” I explained, opening the hoody and lifting my t-shirt. I winced as the thin cotton of my undershirt peeled away from the wound.

  “Holy Shit!” Tom bolted from his stool and poked his head out the arch to the waiting room. The girls had been waiting patiently on the uncomfortable couches, with the Ramones t-shirt girl among them now.

  “Ladies, I am going have to call it a night.” Tired groans of disappointment came from the waiting room. “But to make up for being so inhospitable, next time you visit me, free tattoos for everybody!” Tom’s concern for poor customer service was about as sincere as a Hanukkah card from Hitler. The free tattoos were bait to get the women back in so he could seal the deal with each and every one of them. His transparent effort was lost on the girls, who all squealed with joy at the prospects of free tattoos.

  “I want to leave you ladies with one question,” I knew what was coming and I mouthed the words out of sight in the studio as he asked the girls “Have you ever been kissed on the bellybutton?” All the girls shrugged and mumbled affirmative replies such as “of course” or “umm…yeah”.

  That was when Tom would come back with his perfectly timed response

  “From the inside?” He would then open his mouth and unleash a tongue the size of a baby’s leg, wiggling well below his chin. More squeals were heard from the waiting room as the girls tried their best to act disgusted. They giggled among themselves as they packed their things and began to file out of the waiting room. Tom remained stationed at the arch until he heard the door to the alley slam shut.

  Once he was sure we were alone, Tom began to take action. He pointed me into the black dentist’s chair as he fiddled with supplies he was pulling from a cabinet under the autoclave table. Being a medic in the Vietnam War, Tom had seen plenty of injuries worse than mine. Patching up a beer bottle laceration would be a cakewalk compared to a land mine blast or bullet to the jaw. As I fell back into the leather chair, it occurred to me how exhausted I was. I hadn’t had the opportunity to sit since I pulled on the snow boots in Oxford Pines and my body was demanding rest.

  With a handful of supplies, Tom nestled back into his creaking stool and laid out his utensils on the desk. I simply put my head back and tried to not pay attention.

  “So what the hell happened?” Tom inquired as he wiped my chest with a cotton ball he had clasped in a pair of tongs. The cotton had obviously been soaked in something because I heard my flesh sizzling on the outside and I felt it burning on the inside.

  “Fell off my bike.” I figured I would try and lie, well aware it wouldn’t work.

  “Mmmhmmm. And you fell on a beer bottle?” It didn’t work.

  “The little green shards I am pulling out now aren’t typical of a bike accident, Orphan.” Tom now had a large pair of tweezers between his massive fingers, pulling out debris. “ Looks like you fell victim to a nigger knife, my friend.” Tom was never one to be politically correct, but he certainly knew his weapons.

  “I don’t believe you need artist/client privilege for a bike accident. So what really happened?” He again swabbed my chest with the saturated cotton ball.

  “Got in a fight.” I was afraid to be forthcoming with too much information. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust Tom, because I did. My fear was that if he knew too much he may try to get involved, as if I was starting a revolution against all the scum and dirt bags that have ruined this city. Tom was nothing if not passionate, and while I did this for a quick buck, he may be inspired to rally behind me and take action for a cause I just don’t care that much about.

  “I was leaving work and some dudes jumped me,” I kept up the charade. Tom just nodded as he finished cleaning the wound.

  “And that’s why you came to your neighborhood tattoo artist to get fixed up instead of a hospital. Makes perfect sense.”

  “Well, I think I hurt the guys pretty bad. I really can’t risk getting in any trouble right now.”

  “Kid, it would be self defense. Are they alive?”

  “Yeah, I am pretty sure they’ll walk away from it. But I may have been a little rougher on them than I needed to be.” With that, Tom got the hint and his suspicion was put at ease.

  “Well, this is a hell of a bike wreck. It’s gonna need stitches.” He had obviously anticipated that, since all the necessary tools were within reach on the desk. With a tiny vial in one hand and a syringe in the other, he began readying an injection of some sort.

  “This will numb you up real good,” Tom chuckled as he flicked the tip of the needle. I leaned my head back and relaxed as he began his procedure. With the push of the plunger I felt tiny burning fingertips push through the wound. A few more sticks and I couldn’t feel a thing.

  “Go ahead and rest. This will take a little time. Let me know if something hurts,” Tom warned me “so I can do it again.” His laughter was oddly comforting as I let my eyes close.

  I must have nodded off for a few moments because when the cell phone began vibrating in my pocket my body jolted awake, causing Tom to yell at me and tell me to “Sit the fuck still!” After apologizing for being a bad patient, I reached down and pulled out the phone. The front display read MOXIE. I had gotten her a phone a few months earlier, for emergencies. It put me at ease knowing she could get a hold of me anytime if she needed to. I had given it to her with a stuffed white bear that had a zipper enclosure on the front. It was called a Forget-Me-Not Bear. This toy had gained great popularity with military families during wartime. The zipper opened up and revealed a small pocket large enough to fit a miniature stuffed sateen heart with the gift giver’s name embroidered on its face. It was intended to be a way for children to remember family members that could not be present, such as parents deployed on active duty. Reggie assumed I had given it to Moxie as yet another reminder of me to keep around the house, so never gave it a second thought. In reality, the zipper fron
t held the phone snugly in place, hidden in plain sight. If Reggie were to have found the phone I am sure she would have confiscated it, racked up as many calling minutes as possible, then thrown it in the trash, followed by the white Forget-Me-Not Bear. Moxie had named the bear Cowboy.

  “Cowboys are heroes and this bear is very heroic,” she explained to me. Cowboy certainly made me feel more comfortable when I couldn’t be around.

  As Tom was stitching up my chest, I flipped open the phone.

  “Hey sweetie. What’s up?” Unfortunately, these late night calls were nothing new or out of the ordinary. Moxie never slept the whole night through and would very frequently call me to talk her back to sleep. That night her mind was racing.

  Hi Daddy, she whispered into the phone. Did I wake

  you up?

  “No honey. I’m awake. You all right?”

  I just keep thinking… She was quiet for a moment … about tomorrow. We would be going to visit her oncologist in eight hours to discuss treatment for the cancer that was rapidly spreading through her body.

  “What are you thinking, sweetheart?” This was a stupid response, because I knew exactly what she was thinking.

  I’m scared. What if the X-Ray stuff you talked about doesn’t work? We had briefly covered some of the options her treatment could entail. Her physician refused to give me any definite answers until we had met with the specialist, but he did not seem optimistic about surgery. Getting Moxie prepared for the worst, we discussed radiation and chemotherapy, X-Ray stuff.

  “Baby, you have to have faith in the doctors. They know what they’re doing. Thousands of kids get sick like this every year and they come out perfectly healthy, and none of them are as super strong or super cool as you. So you obviously have nothing to worry about.”

  “And if none of that works, I’ll come kick that cancer’s butt!” Tom chimed in as he pulled the last of the stitches through. Talking to Moxie was the only time I ever heard Tom use a word as tame as “butt”.

  Is that Tom? Moxie asked in hushed excitement. She loved him. The burly biker tattoo artist was just a big teddy bear when Moxie came around. Tom was the closest thing she ever knew to a grandfather, which certainly said a lot for our dysfunctional little family.

  “Yeah. I’m at Tom’s. We had some stuff to talk about.” She was always jealous when I would talk to her from the shop. Between the animals in the aquariums, the big video game and all the fun trinkets to look at, she loved being at Tom’s place. Under Tom’s tutelage she even tattooed a star on the top of my foot one slow afternoon. Rarely was I barefoot around her when she didn’t have to take a moment to admire her handiwork.

  Tell him hi!

  “Moxie says hi,” I tipped the phone down and relayed the message to the back alley surgeon that was just finishing up with me.

  “Get to bed!” Tom growled jokingly. That made Moxie giggle on the other end. The phrase ‘laughter is the best medicine’ is normally referring to the one laughing, but in my case, it was Moxie’s laugh that cured all. At that moment, everything washed away to the sound of her giggling.

  So you think all this stuff is going to be okay, Daddy? While we had momentarily distracted her, the issue at hand was forefront on her mind.

  “Baby, I assure you we are going to do everything we can to beat this thing.” I never broke a promise to Moxie. That isn’t to say I was the perfect father, by any means. I was just always careful about what I promised. As much as I wished I could have promised that little girl the cancer spreading through her bones wouldn’t get the best of her, I couldn’t.

  I love you, daddy. She whispered dreamily. Moxie’s sleep schedule was anything but ideal. However, I wouldn’t have traded those late night calls for anything. Lasting less than five minutes every time, it felt so great to hear her put at ease just from the sound of my voice. My angel would sleep well now.

  “I love you too, beautiful. Get some sleep.” Her breathing became heavy and I could just imagine her eyelids drooping.

  “Make sure to give Cowboy a hug and a kiss for me,”

  I told her as a subtle reminder to hide the phone before falling off to sleep.

  I will. She yawned into the phone. Good night Daddy.

  “Night sweetheart.” I waited for her to hang up first. As silence came to the headset, I closed the phone and returned it to my pocket.

  “That’s a good kid ya got there, Orphan. Don’t fuck it up.” That was the extent of Tom’s compliments.

  “Well, you’re fixed for now.” Looking down all I saw was a huge bandage strapped to my chest. “Keep the bandage on there and take these extras so you can change it out. It’s important you keep this shit clean.” Tom handed me a paper bag full of supplies I would need to nurse my wound.

  “I can probably take the stitches out in a week or two. Just don’t do anything too strenuous or those little bastards might pop right the hell out. Can you handle that?” Tom’s concern was apparent, even through his typical condescending remarks.

  “Yeah, I got it,” I said, as I wearily brought myself to my feet. “Oh, and this is for you.” I reached into the front pocket of the sweatshirt, where I had slid the gun while partially disrobing for my “surgery”. Dropping the 9mm on the desk Tom recoiled.

  “Dude! I don’t want the evidence hanging around here!” He pushed the gun back towards me.

  “Relax. It’s not evidence. It was never fired tonight,” I reassured him.

  “Some guy did that to you,” Tom pointed at my bandaged chest “and you didn’t fuckin’ shoot him?”

  “I told you, they have been taken care of. You know I hate guns. I just figured you might want it for your collection or something.”

  “Well thanks.” Tom tucked the 9mm into the front of his pants. “It’s a shame you are so anti-firearms. You’re a hell of a shot.” That was true. Although I detested guns, I had a natural understanding of them. Tom always insisted if I practiced I could be a real sharp shooter. Unfortunately, I did not share his passion.

  “Before I kick your ass out of here so I can get some sleep, I want to give you something. Hold on a minute.” Tom disappeared under the waiting room archway.

  A few minutes later he returned with something wrapped up in a large plastic grocery bag.

  “I don’t know what you are involved in, but I think it is something beyond a random act of violence. Keep this, just in case you find yourself in any other bike accidents.” He handed me the bag, encouraging me to peek inside. Reaching in I discovered a heavy black vest.

  “Bulletproof. Police issue. Don’t ask where I got it. Just keep it handy. I know you, Orphan. You are a magnet for trouble. I can’t afford to be patching you up every weekend.”

  “Thanks, man,” was all I could say. I wasn’t sure at the time just how much use I would get out of his present, but I politely thanked him anyway. His concern was sweet. As sweet as a Yeti sized biker man can get, anyway.

  “Now get the fuck outta here. It’s three in the goddamn morning. I need my beauty sleep.”

  “Yeah you do,” I joked as I made my way to the exit.

  “Fuck you,” Tom grumbled while cleaning the desk of any supplies used for the operation.

  CHAPTER TEN

  3:00 am was certainly late for me to be awake. Fortunately, my friends were not as conservative as I was regarding a bedtime. After leaving Tom’s, I hopped on my bike and headed towards home. En route, I flipped open my phone and called Phil and Jim to see if the great debate about nothing in particular was still going strong. Phil picked up on the first ring.

  Where the hell have you been?

  “Oh, I’m fine, Philsie. And how are you this beautiful evening?”

  Living with this man is insufferable! I can’t take it anymore. I swear to you I will stab him through the heart in his sleep.

  “You guys sleep?” I joked. Phil was gay, but only during these spats did he display anything that might be construed as a gay stereotype. He went from nerdy computer wi
zard to the most flamboyant drama queen this side of Emerald City usually by the third hour in.

  This is no laughing matter. I am at my wit’s end!

  Rarely did I ever hear Phil use the term “no laughing matter” when it was not indeed a laughing matter. The fights between them were always ridiculous and overblown. I have no basis for comparison, but I imagine being their friend was like being the child of an unhappy marriage, stuck between a mother and father who constantly argued. Phil and Jim were practically married, except for the fact that Jim was not a homosexual and although Phil was, he very frequently announced his physical repulsion towards Jim. Jim was a trim, good looking guy by most standards but Phil made it abundantly clear that when you live with and smell him on a regular basis, there is no way you could be attracted to him. While it may seem harsh, I had caught a whiff of Jim after a hard day’s work and I could see Phil’s point.

  “What is it this time?” Sincerity had become impossible for me to muster during these conversations.

  Just get over here!

  The phone went silent.