Broken People (6 page)

“Hoot, you about ready? You alri
ght?” 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 sur
e 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, “Her
e you go. On my right forearm.”

“Just like this?” t
he artist asks, holding the sheet of paper where the man can see the depiction.

“Exactly,” t
he 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 ey
es 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 continues, 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.”

“W
hat do I owe you?” the man asks.

“Aren’t you that guy that got sent to the joint on that bullshi
t gun charge?” the artist asks.

“Ye
s 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?”

“D
on’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 t
he 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 i
nto 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 Oatme
al.

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 do
n’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 ha
s 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 can
not 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 coa
t 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, mo
ther,” 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 hours. 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, s
he 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
.”

“And Marc, when they’re gone, like your father, nothing on or of this earth can ever replace them. Ever. You choke. You try to breathe. You suffer. And time passes. It’s difficult. They provide you with your breath, your heart resides in
their
chest, and theirs resides in
you
. They
are
your heartbeat. And, because your heart dies with them, and you remain, you suffer a life of loving
yourself.
With a heart inside of you that belongs to someone else, and is incapable of loving others. Because that heart, Marc, loves only you.”

And it made sense. The statement that I had heard so many times.
My heart belongs to someone else.

I looked at my watch. 8:00. Things happen. I opened the refrigerator. I removed a slice of lasagna from the dish in the refrigerator. I ate it cold. I brushed my teeth. I looked at my watch. 8:10. I walked into my bedroom and changed my shirt. Looking in the mirror
, I felt at peace with who I had become. Mentally. Physically. Emotionally. I looked at my watch. 8:15. I placed the dirty shirt in the laundry room. The doorbell rang. I ran my fingers through my hair. I opened the door, and there she stood. She was crying. I felt sick.

“What’s
wrong?” I asked.

“My father,” she responded. “I posted something on Twitter about you. Not much, just talking
about you. How you make me feel,” she wiped away her tears, and continued, “someone said something to someone, who said something to someone else, and then someone’s parent called my father and said I was dating a white boy.”

She stood there, in my arms, with my heart in her chest, and sobbed. I held her. She hurt. I hurt with her. She placed her head on my shoulder. I ran my fingers through her silky smooth black hair. Tall, thin and curvaceous, she stood, looking back into my eyes.  “I’m sorry, Britney. But. K
now this. I cannot imagine a day without you in it.”

She smiled. We kissed. “I’m scared,” she said looking at me w
ith her beautiful brown eyes. 

“Of what?
” I looked into her beautiful eyes when I spoke.

“That…
” she responded. And her mouth stayed open. But. No sound.

And then, she cont
inued, “I’m afraid I love you.”

I reached to the back of the chair, and got my leather coat. I wrapped her in it. “Britney,” I said, “I love you, and I am
not
afraid.” I placed my hands on each side of her face and looked into her eyes, and continued, “Together, we can get through anything. You’re Egyptian, I’m American. You’re Orthodox, I’m Catholic. But, we are both
human
. Your ethnicity or religion does not come into play. Not to me. How I
feel
does.”

She looked at me. Pul
ling my coat tight to her body, she spoke. “I feel the same way, Marc, but I am afraid my father doesn’t. Nor will he. But, that doesn’t change the way I feel. I love you. You love me, let’s just be together. Tonight. And every night. I want every night to end with you in my arms.”

I slowly walked toward the bedroom. She followed. I looked at my watch. 8:30. “When do
you have to be home?” I asked.

“11:00,” she said. We embraced. I held her. Time passed. We fell on the bed. And there we remained. I touched her face with my fingers. We kissed. She smiled. I took off my shirt and began to
lie beside her.

“I like lo
oking at your body,” she said.

“Thank you. I like looking at you, period,” I responded. She removed her shirt. She asked for help with her bra. We embraced. Our skins touched. I felt her heart beat against my chest. I felt my heart beating. Our h
eartbeats became one. One heartbeat.
We
became one. Time passed. I looked at my watch. 10:10. I stood. She remained on the bed, defining beauty.

“It’s getting close to eleven, baby. You should probably get up,” I said, looking for my shirt. I
ran my hands through my hair.

“Stand right there,” she said. “Don’t move.” I stood. She reached to the side of the bed, and got her phone from her purse. She held it at arm
’s length. “Don’t move,” she said.

“I heard you,” I responded. I stood. She took three
photos. “I wish I could paint a picture of you,” I said.

“Do you paint?” she asked.

“No,” I responded, “But I wish I could. I would paint a picture of you right now, lying there without your shirt. I could stand here, Britney, and admire you for all of what is forever. You make me want to cry. But. That part of me is broken.”

“I know,” she said. “I know.”

“Take a picture of me, and you can look at it whenever you want. You can practice, and one day, maybe you can paint it,” she offered.

I agreed. I
picked up my leather jacket, reached into the pocket, and retrieved my phone. And… I took a photo of the most beautiful woman in the world. “You define beauty, Britney. And you do so by merely existing,” I said. “All you have to do to be this beautiful is just be yourself.”

“I wish I was as skinny as the rest of th
e girls. As pretty,” she said.

“You weigh 110
pounds, Britney. You are thin, almost too thin. We have discussed this. You are more beautiful than any other woman on this earth. Ever. And, the more I know you, the more beautiful you become. I love you,” I responded, shirtless.

“I love you,” she responded.

“I love you back,” I promised.

She smiled. We got dressed, and w
ith my heart in her chest, the most beautiful woman in the world walked to the door, out to her car, and home to a father. That night, of all nights, I wrapped myself in my leather coat, and fell asleep.

A boy and a girl are standing in a field of flowers. She, wearing a little black dress, holds his hand. He, dressed in nothing but swim shorts, smiles a smile of a lifetime. Their hands are empty, all they hold is each other. A train slowly inches down the tracks as it approaches an intersection a mile from where the couple stands.