The Deviant

by Tiana Laveen

  “Yes, a warning would have been nice.” She dabbed at the tears on her cheeks. “King, I need to talk to you about Tomas. I need your help.” He rolled his eyes. “I’m serious. Tomas is not responding to my text messages or calls. He listens to you though, King. You scare him.”

  “Evidently, not enough to make him stop doing the shit he does.”

  “Christopher and I can’t get him to pay us attention. I’m afraid he’s going to get hurt. Please call him.”

  “Nope.” He took another sip of his juice, then set the glass down. “He’s exactly what you said I painted, that you found so shocking. An asshole.” Mom slapped the arm of the chair and turned away. “Look, the truth is the truth, Mãe, even if it’s your own son. I know you’re worried about him, but you’re not helping by chasing after him. I’m in agreement with Chris on how to handle him, but you keep coddling him. He knows he can run around us and go straight to you. You enable and undermine everything we do.”

  “King, please! You are full of negativity. I need—”

  “Full of negativity? I’m negative? Really?” He pointed at himself, not believing his damn ears.

  “Yes! You have this hatred for people that are hurting! I know Tomas hurt you, but that was in the past. You… you’re mean!”

  “I have compassion for people who are sorry and want to stop fuckin’ over their family and friends. This isn’t negativity. It’s called the damn truth!” He got to his feet. “I tell it how I see it, and if you want to call that negative, Mom, then fine, but I am a realist. I have an artistic eye, but my brain is not in the clouds. This is life, and it’s serious. It’s fucked up. It’s real!”

  “He is your brother! He is brokenhearted. Something is wrong!” Her loud voice rang through to his very core.

  “He chose to be brokenhearted! He chose to hurt others, too. Tomas is a user! He is using you, and everyone who dares to care about him.” He could feel himself losing control, his temper soaring. Just like his father’s. “Most people aren’t shit, Mom, and I’m sorry that my brother, your youngest son, is the way he is, but he made choices, just like we all did. I decided to do my own thing, but show you respect as much as possible along the way. Lucas pretty much plays by the rules and prefers predictability in his life. Then, there’s Tomas.” She hissed, then sucked her teeth. “I could have never gotten away with what he has done, but for some reason, you’ve given him allowances that you never gave Lucas and me. I no longer even care why. I just know what I see and the consequences of it.”

  “You don’t know why, King, because that’s not true. You never had the struggles he had, and neither does Lucas. I told you, he’s hurting.”

  “So was I!” He could feel the veins spreading along his neck as he screamed. He felt as if he were leaving his body, as if watching himself fall apart from the sidelines. “I was hurting! I was in pain! Confused! I was many things. My father told me to always be a man, to not cry and look fear in the eye. My mother was telling me the opposite! I was torn. I didn’t know who I was half the time. My childhood was strange, beautiful, painful. I paved the way, Lucas did a final clean up, so that Tomas didn’t have to deal with any of that shit! The coast was clear for his entitled ass. I am sick of our family having to revolve around Tomas!” He stared at his mother, neither he’d had him of them blinking.

  This discussion was long overdue. King typically kept quiet when his mother broached the subject, or he’d reluctantly honor her request, just to alleviate her worries. Tonight, he simply didn’t have the patience. Money was on his mind, old memories haunted him, and now he found himself being pushed, once again, to be the savior to an ungrateful little brother who wouldn’t shed one tear if he were dead.

  “All of my children are different,” she finally said, calmer this time around.

  “Okay, then.” He threw up his hands. “Be happy about that. Look, you gave birth to three sons. One and a half outta three ain’t bad, but for some reason, you have this obsession with Tomas. You’re tryna make him be somebody he isn’t. Lucas is the male version of you. Nice. Quiet. Helpful. I’m like my father, much to your dismay.”

  “It was never to my dismay, King.” Her eyes watered.

  “Yeah it was, and that’s okay, Mom. I know you still love me despite that Irish blood running through me, the iron hot temper, like my father’s.” He smiled sadly. “I understand that about myself. I own it. I’m not perfect, but I know for a fact I’m better than most of the people I walk past in the street because nobody gives a fuck about anybody out here.” He pointed towards the front door. “I refuse to be like them, but we have to recognize our enemies. The truth is the truth, no matter who is saying it. You told me I am the most honest person you know. I can’t help that. I don’t have a big circle of friends because of it. I don’t deal with many people because I can smell ulterior motives a mile away. I don’t like people, Mom. I just don’t.

  “We’re a shell of what we could be. I refuse to pretend with people, and that includes you. As much as I love you, I can’t do that. Mom, the city, the country, the world is all sorts of fucked up. I learned that the hard way. You know I did.” She dropped her gaze. “Bunch of killers, rapists, thieves, liars everywhere you look. I don’t live in fear. I live in disgust. There’s no love out here. That’s what my art is for! You were in here laughing about buttholes just ten minutes ago. My art gave you that deep, belly rumble shit! That’s medicine, and you needed it. Why? Because this place is sickening. My art shows, my storage studio, that little corner in my apartment is a hospital, Mãe! For me, and for you. The real world hits you, and it sucks.

  “It’s always a sucker punch when you least expect it. This is family. This is what we are. I am your child. I came from you. I’m the oldest. Your love child. You left your country to come here and make your husband at the time happy. You wanted to give me a better life than what you experienced in poverty, in Brazil. I love you more than I could ever explain.” His voice cracked as she started to cry quiet tears. “I never caused you any big problems, just the typical teenage stuff when I was younger. I’m my own person and do what I want so we bumped heads sometimes. But Tomas?” He chuckled dismally.

  “He’s what I detest most. Selfish. Willfully ignorant. Just like most of the people around here. He’s a product of the outside, not the inside. Inside this house lives love. ’Cause you’re in it, Mom! Tough love at times, but love all the same. You showed him the God in all of us. He chose evil. What he did to me was unforgiveable, but I still tried to help him, even after that. I’m done helping. I’m done hoping. I’m done hurting. He’s my brother, but I don’t like him. That’s my right.”

  “You don’t like him? Why do you say such horrible things?” She snatched a tissue off the table and blew her nose.

  “Somebody needs to. Where’s the tough love towards Tomas? You and Christopher were on my ass!” He gnashed his teeth. “King! Clean up your room! King, iron your clothes! King, get to school on time! King, we found weed, cigarettes, and porn movies under your bed. You’re grounded for the entire fuckin’ summer! King, keep your grades up! King, pull your fuckin’ pants up, you’re not a rapper! King, you better win that art competition because we gave you $300 for art supplies! King, why are you going to college for art? Go to school for science or technology, boy! On and on it went. Sometimes, the punishment fit the crime; sometimes, it didn’t. Sometimes, the advice was good, and other times it wasn’t. Sir Tomas walks in, with his lazy, entitled ass… ‘Do whatever the hell you want, Tomas,’” he said in a high-pitched, feminine voice. “Tomas, please don’t steal. It’s not nice, honey. Tomas, please don’t shoot up, snort or smoke drugs. Tomas, please be a good human being, but if you decide not to, that’s fine, too!’” he jabbed, tired of the shit. Tired of everyone’s shit.

  “I do not need you doing this, King. Your sarcasm. Malice.” She hissed. “You don’t care. You’ve given up on Tomas.” She shook her fist at him. “Just forget I asked you to call him. The hell with i
t!” She stormed into the kitchen, leaving him alone. King stood there for a moment, then pulled his hoodie over his head.

  “I can’t be fake just to make you feel real…” he whispered, then added, in a louder voice, “I love you, Mom.”

  With that, he walked out the door…

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The Clothes Don’t Make the Man

  “And over here are the two dressing rooms, but we’re remodeling them,” Mr. Ricky Garcia explained.

  King walked behind the Columbian guy whose wavy salt and pepper hair was flawlessly coiffed and his body dressed to the nines, clad in all white from head to toe. His cologne followed him, the scent strong but it suited him. Sporting a well-trimmed goatee, the man was the epitome of classic refinement. King doubted he was taller than five foot seven, yet, he owned a shop that catered towards taller individuals.

  King felt underdressed in his black long-sleeved shirt and matching pants, jacket, and shoes he’d owned since a friend’s wedding a couple of years prior. At least, he looked neat and well put together. He tugged at the red and black damask print tie his mother had given him for his birthday, relieved he’d removed his earrings before leaving his place for the interview. Still, he’d kept his nose rings on.

  “You’d also be responsible for training the new cashiers. I have six rotating cashiers, they work in teams. All of them part time. That way, if someone is sick or needs a day or two off, I can quickly have them covered. We’re expecting a lot of business for the Christmas holiday.” They walked around the large modern Manhattan store with white walls interspersed with exposed brick and ceiling beams. “Even though we’ve only been open for three years, King, we’ve done well, and it gets exceptionally busy in here starting late November. As you saw, we also have an area for wedding attire for men, and those are big sellers, too. It can be hectic at peak times.”

  “That’s fine. I’m used to work related deadlines and pressure. I’ve also had experience training others.”

  “Yeah, I saw that on your resume.” The man stopped walking and faced him. “I noticed you have some experience in design, so that will help with some of the displays. Usually I do them, but possibly, you know, some fresh eyes could help.” The guy shrugged, as if what he said were an afterthought. King however had a feeling nothing with this man was an afterthought. Everything was mapped out to a ‘T’. Garcia exuded buoyancy and know-how and to some, he might appear intimidating, proving that height wasn’t always a factor.

  “Second opinions never hurt.”

  “Yeah? I agree. Look, with your art background and all that jazz, can I pick your brain for a sec?”

  “What’s up?”

  “Tell me what you think of this. See, I was thinkin’ of modifying this wall here. It’s kind of plain.” Mr. Garcia pointed to a blank white wall, except for the word ‘Alpha’ in plain block letters in the center, behind the black cash registers with clear plexiglass around them. The store was closed for the day, which allowed King to fully visualize the possibilities with no distractions. Yeah, that definitely could be improved.

  “If you want, I could draft up some designs for you, not just for the wall, but maybe a new logo, too.” Shit, even if I don’t get the job, let me take this opportunity to make some money. Hell, he offered. Why not?

  “Oh, yeah?” The man tossed him a curious look. “That’s totally fine by me.” Garcia then proceeded to explain his company philosophy and how he’d chosen that location and established the business. But all King wanted to hear was whether he was hired. The guy still hadn’t told him if he’d gotten the job or not, despite this being their third interaction—once on the phone, followed by an in-person interview, and then this tour. The first thing he had him do was prove that he knew how to work a cash register, fold shirts properly, and perform other typical tasks in a retail environment.

  King hadn’t visited this part of the city in quite some time. His mother often visited Little Brazil, which was nearby, stopping at her favorite grocery store and eateries on W 64th Street. Occasionally he would tag along, drive her around in his stepfather’s car if she wanted to go later in the day. She didn’t drive, and he didn’t like her venturing out alone late at night as she sometimes was known to do. Christopher often worked crazy hours at the hospital, forcing Mom to make a go of it on her own.

  “What do you think about baseboards?” Ricky asked out of the blue.

  “Baseboards?”

  “Yeah. Art on the baseboards. I look at them sometimes when I’m in here and think, ‘You know what would be nice? Some design or something on them. Spice it up a bit.’”

  King removed his jacket, placed it on a counter, rolled his sleeves up, and dropped down to one knee to study the wall and beveled baseboards.

  Just as he was about to speak, Mr. Garcia’s hoarse voice came forth.

  “You’ve got more tattoos, man? I saw the ones on your fingers but now I see you have more.”

  King briefly closed his eyes and grimaced. This might be the end. He probably has a problem with that sort of thing. If so, he’s been wasting my damn time, and I don’t have any to waste. I could’ve been doing something that would bring in a check, like that modeling gig Shane told me about last night, which I turned down to bring my ass over here instead. An easy three hundred dollars just to take some cheesy photos for some online magazine.

  He glanced at his now exposed forearm, maps of ink running across the prominent veins.

  “Yes. I have more tattoos.”

  “What kinds?”

  “All kinds.”

  “Did you get them just on a whim?”

  King hesitated to respond. The energy was shifting, the vibe getting gritty and full of muck. He held his chin high and looked the bastard in the eye.

  “I don’t do anything on a whim. A mind and an ink-free area of flesh is a terrible thing to waste.” The guy chuckled and rolled his eyes. “All of them mean something to me. Art. Cryptograms. Cultural symbols. I like ink. Be it on a wall, a piece of paper, or my body.” He shrugged, then got back to his feet. “Do you have any?” Yeah… he was feeling a bit defensive. There was one thing King wasn’t going to do, and that was pretend to be someone he wasn’t or kiss ass just to get paid.

  “I do.” The guy smirked and rolled up his sleeve, revealing a large crucifix on his upper arm. “I have just this one, but considered more. I got this over ten years ago, right after my mother passed away. Your ink is nice, King, from what I can see of it. You’ll have to tell me who your artist is.”

  King nodded.

  “I have a few artists that I go to. One is booked out for like ten months, but I have an appointment with him next fall. So, uh, about your baseboards, my suggestion is to leave it pretty minimalistic, but you could use a stamper, a simple handmade border if you really are set on this. Just understand that when you add art to borders, it shortens the wall,” he said, bringing his palms together to emphasize his words. “The area seems smaller because you’re drawing attention to the edges.” The man had a passion for fashion, so King surmised he’d get what he was saying as the same rules might apply. “I’m safely assuming you want to keep the upscale feel in here, and larger is better, right?”

  “Definitely.”

  “All right, well, this clothing is for taller guys with a little cash who want to look sharp and edgy. The clothes in here aren’t cheap, but the prices aren’t unreasonable, so you’re attracting the nine-to-fivers, the guys with an office job, perhaps, or the blue-collar men who have a special occasion. These guys are six feet and taller, bigger guys like me, who want to keep up with the times and not look like their grandfathers. They’re classic looks with a little bit of a street vibe, too.”

  “Exactly. That’s it.” The man nodded and smiled, seeming impressed.

  “So, make the room like them, the men, you know? You know fashion, and though I appreciate it, I’m no expert. People tend to be drawn to their exact opposite, or what they mirror. There really isn’t a g
ray area here. I’m not an interior designer or anything like that, either. That’s not my expertise I suck at it, but I know art. Fine art. I am just giving you the information I know based on how I approach wall length paintings and murals I’ve been commissioned for. If we want to make a room look large, we don’t paint the baseboards with anything that will draw the eye to them. To elongate something, you must have it all the same color. When you introduce new colors, lines, or what have you, you place a period there, at least, in the eye of the person looking. It stops the flow, so that’s just something to keep in mind.”

  “Ahhh, yeah, I see what you’re saying.” The guy crossed his arms, and narrowed his eyes, mulling over King’s words. “I’m thinking of updating the website, too. I’ve gotta guy who takes care of that for me, so maybe you can draft up some logo ideas to implement there, too.”

  “Have you thought of starting a clothing line with your logo, Mr. Garcia?”

  “Call me Ricky.”

  “All right, Ricky. You have a lot of name brands in here,” King looked around, pointing at various clothing displays, “but what about your own brand?”

  The guy chuckled.

  “You know, King, I had thought about that years ago when I worked at Alan David Custom. I looked into it,” he shrugged, “but the market is so competitive and saturated and it seems like it was more than I wanted to bite off and chew.”

  “Well, I have experience in that specifically, so, if you are ever interested in giving it a trial run, let me know. It’s really easy, actually. You could just start with some basic T-shirts, and if you know who to contract and deal with, it’s inexpensive to do a small-scale test, then grow from there. We can get more into that though, if you hire me. So, you said you have back-up cashiers but—”

  “If I hire you?” The man’s brow rose, confusion on his face.