Coming Soon- part twenty-five- Independence days

twenty-four- Scrambled

Nick settles on a hue then a shade then a location on the painted over canvas.  A brush in his hand, he smells the tip to keep himself focused.  If he admits that he’s hungry, he’ll have to stand up and walk away from his work.  Not the worst thing to do, but he’d rather finish before rewarding himself.  Besides, at this time in the morning, if he waits till he’s finished then he can have breakfast around the time when most people normally have breakfast.

He stares past the easel and at the wall.  At a scuff that’s eye-level with him sitting down.  By staring at it he can zone out without having to close his eyes and get confused in the blackness of his lids.  With eyes open he can choose what to drown out.  But darkness is another sort of canvas that he’s not the painter of.  All kinds of visions appear, brought to life by the unskilled hands of one’s subconscious.  Too random and the colors used are too bright.  One can get lost or worse, fall asleep.

The painting he ignores is almost finished.  He’d been working on it for the past week in the breaks between the shop and his bed.  And at night he’d wake up to dreams of brushstrokes and scenic memory pulling him back to paint.

As he stares away, he’s suddenly dowsed in smoky aromas of bacon searing and bread toasting hard.

“Hey!  Watch what you’re doing!  I don’t want that burnt smell in my house!”

Behind him, running footsteps out the bathroom and across the living room to the fogged kitchen.  A click.  The pop of a metal spring.

“Shit!  We can’t eat this…”

“Is there any more bacon?”

“Plenty…”

“Great, more time to work.”  With a laugh, he brings the brush back under his nose and sniffs.  Focuses.

The sound of ripping paper.  Clink and clanks dropping on a ceramic bowl.  Another rip, more clinks and clanks.  A deep sigh that can be mistaken for a gasp exhausted.  Then a scratch.

“Careful!”

“Sorry, Henry…”

He walks over to the living room and gives her a stern face.

“What are you putting on?”

“Paramore.  I like the record ‘cause it’s so pretty and the record’s white!”  She holds up the record, glossed white and grooved.

“No chance.  It’s too late.  Find something softer.  Middle shelf.”  He points to the tall wide bookshelf to the left of the player.

“Put on Al Green or Elvis.  Or Sade.  I think she’s in there.”

“You’re the king…”  She returns the record to its sleeve.

Back in the kitchen, Henry scours the back of a box for direction.  For time.

“It says 3 minutes for one of these things.  Do I just double it if I put two in one bowl?”

No answer.

“Thanks!  I’ll just double it.”  Another sigh, heavier than the last.

“I hate instant food.  We can’t eat this shit!”

“Well I can’t cook and you won’t.  We have to eat that shit!”  She giggles.

“If this doesn’t work then I’ll cook—if this doesn’t work.”

In bed, Chloe sleeps on her stomach, her black slip lacey and curling unevenly just below her straying legs.  She dreams of nothing and wakes a little every few minutes and searches sleepily the mussed bed sheets.  The groove to her left, where her hand lies palm down, is losing warmth and her palm is sweaty.

“This bed’s too big for just me…” she whispers to the pillow north of her hand.

“Come back!”  She’s not sure how loud she yelled, but after a few minutes the door remains closed.

She turns on her side, readying to stand up, but gives up.  She won’t be the one to compromise.  She picks up a thin silver watch she eyed shiny on the floor beside the bed.

“2:59?”  She rolls back over on her lithe body and hides her mussed hair under a pillow.

People do it differently.  Find an edge and lightly tap out a circumference.  Or just bash it against the edge.  Others use a tool like a spatula to make a good crack to start.  Some use two hands and split the two halves away.  Some just one with their fingers along the whole length.  Catch it in a bowl.  Or drop it straight onto the pan.  People do it differently but they’re all doing the same thing.  They’re making eggs.

How many variations are there?  Benedict, Ranchero, Over, or Over easy.  It’s amazing how many incarnations an egg can accomplish.  Different styles for different people.  Different ways to make it.  But it all begins with the same act.  Done differently in different houses all over Portland.  Differing people who want the same thing.  And to do it they do the same thing.  They crack eggs.

Audrey opens the foamy top of a full egg carton.  It doesn’t matter to her which one to take, they all look identical.  So she takes two from one end.

At the same time, she breaks the eggs on opposite sides of a skillet and opens them onto it, dropping two slimy suns onto the black greased surface.  She turns her head over her shoulder and shouts.

“I’m making mine first!  How do you want yours?”

“Omelet.  Two eggs.  Are there peppers?  Can you melt cheese over it?”

“What kind?”  She bows into the refrigerator.  The cold makes her nose itch.

“…!”

She pulls her head away and sneezes.

“I didn’t hear you!”

“White American!”

“That’s kinda funny…”  She giggles to herself.  The microwave dings.

“The Easy Mac is ready!”

If Sade were water, she would be a stream pouring soft from a bath’s silver faucet.  Into a perfectly oval pond rising through your straight lain body, ever floating.

“No one sings like her…” Henry whispers to the faraway kitchen.

He kicks out his feet, his legs out, knees unseen slightly bent.

“What’s this called?” He hears through the wall.

“By your side.”  He raises his tumbler, half filled with bourbon, swirling three ice cubes so they ding the round glass walls.

“I like it.”  From afar.

“I love it.”  He stops swirling and raises the tumbler to the light, fixing on a crack on the other side of the glass.

“It’s all cracked…”

“What?”

He looks toward the kitchen and sees her head slanting out into the living room.

“I said, I love this song.”

“Oh.  The macaroni’s all hard and the cheese is burnt solid…”

“We can’t eat that shit.”  He downs the bourbon, catching the ice cubes in his teeth.

“You said—”

“I’ll cook.”  He chews the ice into melted fragments.

Chloe hears a snore and wakes up.  It sounded like a tiger choking on a bone fluffed over with peanut butter.  She searches the bed and finds only her palm-down hand next to her.  She groans.

“I never snore!”  She yells at the door.

“You’re keeping me up!  This stress is making me snore!”  She yells louder.

The door opens to a figure smiling in the shadow.  Without her contacts, it could be anyone walking in on Chloe.

“If you can’t sleep, then you should get your silky ass out of bed!”

“Argh.”

“Come on!”

“Ten more minutes…”  She rolls back onto her stomach.

Nick sits back down with a nectarine, holding it in his hand with the paintbrush still in his fingers.  He bites down then pulls away, licking his lips like sore wounds.

“Damn that’s sour!”

“What did you say?  Don’t get full off of that thing!”

“I said you’re really sour!”  He yells towards the kitchen.

“Blame White America!”  He hears her laugh.

Henry walks out of the bedroom with a clean white t-shirt.  He spilled whiskey on his other shirt when he chugged from the cracked tumbler.  He slips into it as he walks down the stairs and throws the stained shirt into the garbage bin in the kitchen.

“That’s fucking wasteful!”

“It came in a pack.  It costs nothing.”  He frowns at the burnt smell coming from the microwave.

“So, what’s the plan?”

He bows into the refrigerator and pulls away with a carton of eggs and a carton of milk.

“Grab me a bowl, the wisk in the bottom drawer next to the stove, and the salt and pepper shakers in the far right cabinet above the counter.”

“Is there any bacon?”  She opens the freezer.

“Nope.”  In the living room, the needle falls off the record.

Nick turns the lamplight off in the corner where the easel stands.  He walks away, leaving the unfinished painting in the dark.

“This isn’t what I wanted.”  He mutters to himself between the living room and the kitchen.

“I made it just as you said…”  Audrey looks at him confused and a little sad.  She holds up a plate half covered by an omelet with bits of pepper wading in the melted white cheese.

“Oh, I was talking about something else.”  He looks at the plate.  “Wow, that smells great!” 

She smiles.  “The bacon’s almost done.  Bring everything to the table.”

Audrey stands, one leg bent, over the frying bacon.  Her hand over the pan, turning tongs repeatedly all over.  Nick busies himself with the table, setting places, placing forks and knives on napkins, and dropping plates around the plates of eggs and bowl of Easy-Mac in the center.

“Hey, Nick?  You know my lease is up next month.”  She begins removing the red strips to a napkin-ed plate.  “I don’t know if I’m gonna stay where I am.  But if I move, can you help me?”  Nick stands in the open walkway of the kitchen.

“You don’t have to ask.”

“I know.  I think we can fit most in your truck and whatever’s left can go in Sally.”

“Absolutely.”  He crosses his arms and watches her work the tongs.

“I don’t know, though.  I still have a month.”

“…”

“But if I do move, I’m thinking about this four storey in the Pearl.  I just have to rob a bank first.  We’ll need your truck.  You’re my driver!”  She laughs.

“As long as I can move in with you!”  He walks up behind her and reaches around her waist, resting his forehead on her hair.

“…”

“I was just kidding…”  He turns her around and she looks away at a scuff mark on one of the kitchen’s walls.  “I’m sorry, Audrey, I shouldn’t—”

“I left Henry.  Before I came over tonight.”

They kiss.

“Candy?”  Henry looks up from his plate, across the table at Candy dissecting her omelet with a fork.

“How did you make them so fluffy?”  She holds up a skewered piece of fluffy yellow.

“Milk.  Audrey taught me.  I was saying something.”  He leans his fork down on the plate.

“Sorry, yes?”

“Stop wearing that perfume.”  He takes a sip from his broken tumbler.

“But I love it…”

“I don’t want that smell in my apartment.  Or anything else that’s mine.”

“Fine.  You’re the king.”

“Stop saying that.”

They go back to eating.  Silent on opposite ends of Henry’s table.  Henry walks over to his bar to refill his tumbler.  From outside, a little morning light sees through the living room window.  Henry holds the cup to it.  He wonders at the cracking light reflecting through his cracked glass.

Chloe rolls over on her side and finds the silver watch.

“4:57…”  She whispers to the open door.

Standing up, she looks around for underwear and finds a man’s boxer-briefs.  She slides her legs through it and stops it around her hips.  From the bed she grabs a white t-shirt and almost puts it on before realizing she’s still wearing her slip.

She pulls it from the lacy bottom, reaching her hands up to the ceiling with the fabric pinched in her fingers.  From between her breasts a little red ribbon crawls up her neck, tickling her face before it floats over her hair.

Inside the t-shirt, she starts for the shadowed hallway beyond the bedroom door.

They sit down on opposite ends of Nick’s table.  Between them, plates of eggs, and tender crisps of bacon, the bowl of Easy-Mac, and a jug of Arizona Sweet Tea.  Fractured light through the window beside the tan table.

“So, us?”

“Us.”

“I’m anxious.  But happy.”  Nick smiles crooked.

“I need you to know that I’m not sure of anything.”

“I understand.”

“But I’m happy too.”  She reaches for his hands across the table.

“This’ll be good.”  He looks down at the food.  His eyes watering.

“I’m pretty good at cooking.”

“This, Audrey,” he squeezes her hands, “the two of us.  I mean—”

Audrey laughs.

Chloe walks into the living room and sees Nick and Audrey holding hands, laughing.

“I’m stressed.  I’m sleepless.  And now I’m pissed!”  She scowls at the diners making sad faces from the table.

“Sit down!  Eggs, bacon, and we know you love Easy-Mac!”  Audrey makes an offering of the bowl of melty orange.  Chloe gasps.

“You’re fucking beautiful, Audrey!”  She sits down at her place between the two, and leans over to kiss Nick.  “I love you.”

“I love you too, bed-head.  You look gorgeous in my underwear.”  They poke at each other teasing playful.  Audrey clears her throat.

“I haven’t forgotten you…”  Chloe leans towards her and kisses her sweeter.  Nick fixes his face into fake envy.  He clears his throat loud.

“Ok!  Enough!  I’m sleepy and I’m hungry, let’s eat!”  Chloe grabs the bowl before anyone else can.  Audrey begins pouring the sweet tea.

“There are only the pursued, the pursuing, the sleepy, and the hungry…”

“Wow, Nick, that was hopelessly profound…”  Everyone laughs at Audrey’s sarcasm.

“It’s from The Great Gatsby.  I changed the last part to fit our little group.”

“What made you think of it?”  Chloe asks with cheesy lips.

“I don’t know.”  He says.  “Henry,” he thinks to himself. 

Audrey and Chloe stop eating and look at Nick.

“We’re waiting.”

Nick sighs.  “Everyone’s the same in that one way.  That we want the same thing.  So we’re either pursuing or we’re being pursued.  The only time we’re neither is when we’re sleeping or eating.  Right now we’re eating—so stop looking at me.”  He picks up his fork and makes for the bacon.

“Agreed.”  Chloe follows with her fork.

“Sorry I laughed.”  Audrey gives him a guilty grin.

Now the room is lit up from the morning outside.  Miles away, Henry closes his front door behind him.  He walks over to his record player, Sade still on it, and sets the needle to a groove on the black round.  Soon she’ll be singing “By my side” again.  Henry will have another drink.  He’ll find his bed after it’s over.  Alone, he’ll sleep away the rest of his Sunday.

“We should have a picnic at Laurelhurst Park!”  Audrey searches their faces for reactions.

“We just ate…”  Nick rubs his belly, pushing it out bloated.

“Come on!  It’ll be our first official date.”  She begs.

“I’m feeling uninformed.”  Chloe says in between sips of sweet tea.

“I left Henry.  We can finally be together.”  She strokes her cheek dramatically.  Chloe giggles.  She looks at Nick with a helpless look.

“It’ll be our first official date!”  She mimics Audrey’s pleading.

“Fine, but we need to sleep a little first.  I’m a little woozy from huffing paint all night.”

“How is it?  Is it done?”  Chloe pets his hair.

Nick looks across the living room, lit up morning.  The easel still in shadow, the painting veiled in the dark corner.  He looks back at the two women.  The feeling of happiness.  The anxious feeling.  The unfinished painting.  Audrey unsure.  Chloe naturally comfortable.  He thinks of Henry alone.

“It’s not done yet…  It’s not really turning out the way I planned.”

photo1:http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2188/2225393091_db32ecf9d7.jpg

photo2:http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2591/4005869626_ae6167df79.jpg

photo3:http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2024/2176551037_3457e2b866.jpg

photo4:http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3050/2496064973_f34ecaa988.jpg

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twenty-three- Father's day

For my Dad, Stepdad, and most importantly my Grandfather.  Happy Father's Day!  To quote my Grandfather, "Every day is Father's Day." 

I woke up to the sound of a dog barking.  Loud annoying barking that wouldn’t quit.  Actually it was a car horn.  Frank’s car horn.  Loud annoying honking that he wouldn’t quit.  But I must have woken up psychic this morning because when I looked out my window, I saw Frank sitting in Sally with the top down.

 

“What the hell is he doing in my car?!”  That was the first thing that came to mind.  It was also the first thing out of my mouth, this lovely morning.  Sarcasm.

But then I remembered that he borrowed it for a few days.  It was early.  Though, seeing Sally again, “usurped” is the word I’d rather use.  To his credit, Sally looked like she just took a bath in a fountain of youth.  Armor All-ed and sparkling blue.  But the stereo was blaring jazz music.  Blaring horns that Frank was honking along to.  There was also something hanging from my mirror.  I prayed that it wasn’t a rosary.  He mentioned finding god in his letter.  Please god, do not bless this car!

Then there was the round yellow-topped canister in my cup holder.  Lemon air freshener.  The man is dead to me.

Then the psychic thing hit me.  In the back seat was this hairy thing that I thought was a coat at first.  Frank’s new fashion overhaul infecting my car.  But then I saw that he was wearing jeans.  And the same flippy floppies on his feet, shielding my clutch and brake pedals from his oily can-tan residue, that he wore the last time we went out to dinner.  And a t-shirt with writing across the chest.

Now, I don’t have anything against old people trying to look young.  By all means.  And Frank isn’t that old.  Just old enough for a half-life upheaval.  I just think there’s a way to do it appropriately.  Lloyd Center Frank?  He was a disaster.  His leathery hide Saran wrapped in oversea fabric that, honestly?, looks skeevy on guys my age.  But this Frank?  While he still looks ridiculous, he does look more organic.  I like this Frank.  I can tell people this Frank is my dad.

Anyway, the thing in my back seat?  It started moving around.  Not a coat.  It was a dog!  Lean and white and spotted all over.  I loved him at first sight.  Well I didn’t know it was a him, but he looked like a him.  He just looked like a man.  Because he was rolling around the back of Sally like there was a fire in his ass.  Like I said.  He looked like a man.

I put on a pair of holey jeans.  Holey not holy.  Though they weren’t unholy either.  Can you smell a little lack of faith in my perfume?  Actually it’s not that I don’t believe.  I just need more proof.  And I have faith.  I had a lot when I was younger.  One less abortion younger.  But faith isn’t bottomless.  You have to conserve.  Ration.  I’m around half-tank now.  And with a boyfriend who’s openly cheating on me, my job, which I’m trying not to hate, my ex-prodigal father back in my vida “je ne sais quoi”, and then there’s Nick.  And… Chloe. 

I just need to ration my faith carefully until I have more proof that the big guy up there is—well, actually is.  Do you believe in god?  That’s not a fair question.  Let me get back to getting dressed.

I slipped on a shirt with writing across the chest.  This red ropey (RED) bracelet from years ago.  And flippy floppies!  It’s Father’s Day.  Good enough excuse to match.  I looked out the window to see what kind of sunglasses he was wearing.  Aviators.  The psychic thing hit me again.  Last night before I went to bed, I put my aviators on top of my sketchbook so I wouldn’t forget them today.  Spooky, huh?  I put them on, grabbed my sketchbook then headed out.

When I got out to the car, Frank was out on the sidewalk with the beast.  Actually, he was really gentle and well trained.  The dog.  I guess he just had to pee.  Fortunately, Frank let him out of Sally before he was rolling around the back seat in his piss.  On Sally’s leather interior.

“Who’s?”

“Mine!  Well, ours really.  A present for myself and my daughter on my day!”

“This isn’t just your day, dad.”

“Oh, well I forgot to invite any other dads to our party so—it’s my day.”  Frank gave me a look over his Aviators.  It said, ‘let me win this one, or I’ll spank you over my knee, old school.”  I dropped it.

“Who?”  He may have been gone a long time.  But we can still understand each other’s languages.  Family.  You can’t forget them.

“No name yet.  You’re gonna have to help me.”

“Dalmatian.”

“Yes mam!  I had a Dalmatian growing up.  Gorgeous.  We fed him too much though.  He got fat.”  Frank made a sour face.  He never told me he had a dog growing up.

“You never told me you had a dog growing up.”

“I know.  That’s the point of today.  I’m gonna tell you everything.  We have just under 16 hours so...”

“Please.”

“I’m just kidding you, princess.  We have years and years and years for that.  So starting today I’m gonna read to you from my childhood diary, a day for each day.  Did I tell you I used to write?  Novels!”

“Frank!”

“Ok, Ok.  Easy there!”  He laughed.  Naturally.  This was not Lloyd Center Frank.  Thank god.  Or thank the gods.

“So where to, dad?”  I said all excited.  I really was excited too.

“Coffee.  Then everywhere!”

“Coffee then everywhere!”  Aside from the jazz and the car horn, this was a great way to wake up.

We piled into Sally, I took the wheel, and were in fifth gear in no time.

I started doodling that morning, between the Thursday Tattoo and lunch in Chinatown.  I haven’t drawn anything since the abortion.  Writer’s block doesn’t happen when you have nothing.  Really, you have too much and it all gets crammed.  Bottlenecked.  You have to just pick something and pull it out to get things flowing again.  You have to pull your finger out of the dam.

That morning, things were brimming.  Heavy.  Bloated.  So I pulled my finger out and wrapped it around a pencil.  I doodled a bit.  Roses in the margins of my planner.  Roses all around Nick’s planner.  Just to get the feeling back.

Then the sketchbook.  I didn’t know where to start, so I started where I left off.  I tore a page out a long time ago.  I still remember what was on it.  That’s where I started.

Actually, I tried some still-life first.  Apples in a bowl variety.  It was awful.  The drawings came out Ok, but it was so passionless.  I tore out a lot of pages.

Then I went back to that day.  What was on the page I tore out.  I drew that moment.  Me ripping out the page.  It was a little weird.  I haven’t drawn anybody in a long time and I kept having to look in the mirror and subtracting a few years.  But in the end, it got me started again.

We went into this coffee shop downtown and it had a little too much character for my taste.  So we walked over to the Seattle’s Best Coffee inside the Borders on Yamhill instead.  Seattle’s Best Coffee beats Starbucks any day.  Plus, Frank wanted to buy a couple books about Dalmatians.

We piled up a stack of books and sat down with our coffees.

“What’s that?”  I noticed one of the books didn’t have a dog on the cover.

“Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet.  Recommended to me.”  He lifted up the book to me.  It looked like a love story.  It sounded like one.  It was.  There were two people standing by the water.  You couldn’t see them because they had umbrellas over their shoulders covering their top halves.  But you can tell one was a man and the other was a woman by the designs on the umbrellas.  Plus, the font screamed love story.

“What’s that?”  I was about to ask Frank about the book—the recommender, but he’s a quick one.  He was looking at my sketchbook.  He knew what it was.

“I started again.”  I opened it and went through the pages.  Everything after the first one—the one of that day.  Frank looked happier and happier after each page.

“I’m glad.”  He said after the last drawing.  I closed the book immediately.

I’m glad?!  Well that’s a fucking relief!  PHEW!  The man—one of the men—responsible for me putting the pencil away in the first place, is GLAD that I’ve picked it up again!  Years later!

I wanted to whack him on the side of the head with the sketchbook, but… it is his day.  Besides, if I knocked him out, he wouldn’t have been able to answer my question.

“Dad?”

“Yes, hunny bunny?”

“Ugh.  Dad?”  Almost whacked him that time.

“Yes, Audrey?”  He was giggling.  Oh my dad…

“Are you pregnant, dad?”  Now he was laughing.  Naturally.  But too loud.

“Three pee-sticks say I am!  You’re finally gonna get that baby brother or sister you always wanted!”  Really, too loud.

“Shh!”

“Oh, princess.  No, I’m not pregnant.  I know this is your way of asking me if I dating again and yes, I’m seeing someone.  She’s not pregnant either.  I don’t think so.  Not yet.”  He brought his volume back down to Seattle’s Best Coffee inside a Border’s appropriate.  But, wow!  My dad just told me he’d been having sex.  And that he’s going to continue to have sex!  This day just took a turn on Plot-twist Boulevard, straight down Too much information about your dad’s sex life Alley.  Actually it’s a T-junction.  Because any info about that is too much.  Turn right or left.  Drive fast and far away!

“You want babies with her?”  I was breaking my own volume rule.

“I don’t know.  It was a joke.  But I do like her a lot.”

“Who?”

“No one you know.”  He crossed his arms.  Why do guys always do that when they get defensive?  It’s not tactically intelligent.  Their arms are tangled in each other.  Defenseless.  It makes it that much easier.

“How long?”

“A few months.”  And we were right back on Plot-twist Boulevard!

“Oh, so that’s why you came back to Portland!  She lives here and you thought you could kill two birds in the same bush!”

“I don’t think you used that right—”

“I don’t think I heard you right, just now.”

“Ok, sorry.  But you’re wrong.  With the expression and with the first thing.”

“You need to prove me wrong then.”  The Aviators were off.  I gripped my sketchbook, ready to whack.

“She’s my lawyer.  Was my lawyer.  I fired her a few months ago.  Anyway, when I moved back here, I brought her with me.  So you’re wrong.  This isn’t about killing two birds with one stone.  Just you.  Just the one stone in here.”  He rubbed his chest.

It was sweet.  Not the killing me with one stone.  But the fact that there was only me.  And only one stone.  I let go of the book.  He escaped another whacking.

“Do you love her?”

“If that’s you’re way of apologizing then yes, I forgive you.  But you gotta have more faith in me, princess.”  Break out the rations.

“I do—now I do.  And I am.  Just no more talk about your sex life.”

“Ok.  Yes.”

“Yes?”

“I love her.”  Right then I wondered about the stone.  How big it is.  Is there room for both of us to stand on?  That’s also when Frank took my psychic power away.

“I love you more, princess.  You got the whole thing.  But I’m old and lonely.  Do you mind sharing?”  Oh my dad…

“Only if you say it again.”

“I love you more.”

“Sharing is caring...”

“You used that one right!”  A natural laugh.

We got back to Sally, back to the dog, and sat on her hood wondering what to do next.

“Spots!”  I was kidding.

“You’re kidding.”  I was.  He didn’t laugh.

“Lucky?”

“Too common.”

“Rocky?”

“Too punchy.”  He laughed at his own bad joke.  I laughed a little too.  A little.

“Stripes?”

“Too funny.  How about Principessa Esmerelda?”  He remembered!  Almost.

“Dad, he’s a boy!”

“Really?  Oh that’s why you said Rocky…”  He was kidding.  I didn’t laugh.

“How do you know, dad?”

“Well you gotta look at the undercarriage.  See if there’s anything hanging.”  I gave him a look over my Aviators.

“No, I mean your lawyer.”

“Oh.  You gotta be more direct, princess.  My Audrey-ish is still pretty rusty.”

“Sorry.  But how do you know?”

“Honestly,” he sighed with his breath, “I don’t think I can give you a useful answer.  You just feel it one day.  Or maybe over a couple of days.  Like a cold.  You feel it coming on and getting stronger.  Then one day you’ve had it for a while and you don’t remember what it’s like not to have a cold.  You sound different.  Smell things different.  Breathe different.  Even your body isn’t the same anymore.  It’s like that, except it’s much nicer than a cold.”  He leaned over and kissed the top of my head.  Oh Dad…

“That was pretty useful, Dad.  You should have more faith in yourself.”

“Thanks, Audrey.”

“Doesn’t he have a name?”

“He’s had a bunch of names.  He’s bounced around a lot, I think.  He deserves a permanent home with a permanent moniker.  Don’t you, buddy?”  I think the dog understood us because it rested it’s head on Dad’s knees and waited to be pet.

“How about Frankie?”  As soon as I said it, Dad’s lips flattened out and his face looked like it folded into itself.

“That’s my name!  You’d get confused.”

“No.  He’s Frankie.  You’re Dad.”  I think I saw the stone melt.  Because his face melted back to its original form and his shoulders relaxed into spaghetti.  He smiled.  Not a Lloyd Center smile.  A dad smile.

“Frankie it is!”

We ended up at Waterfront Park.  Me and my two Frankies.  We found a spot under a tree and sat down while Frankie ran around fetching sticks Dad threw out across the grass.  I opened up my book and sketched while we talked.

“What’s her name?”  I realized it was overdue.  I’m a quick study.

“Eliza.  Liza.”  He said it with a half-smile.  Mushy.

“Pretty?”

“Pretty pretty.  Beautiful.  And only a few years younger than me.”  He seemed proud of that.

“So you’re not completely mid-life crisis.”

“Nope.  But I have been eyeing this yellow Camaro at the Chevy dealer near the house in Beaverton.”  He moved back in?

“You moved back in?”

“Yeah.  It’s my house.  Your house.  And the apartment wasn’t big enough for both our wardrobes.  Liza has a million bags.  Literally.”

“I like her.  Maybe I can come over and borrow?”

“Hah.  Doubt that!  Nah, she’s pretty down to earth.”

“And you love her.”  He didn’t reply.  Just a half-smiley nod.

“So, yellow?”  Why do old guys like such bright colored cars?  And yellow seems to be the craze.

“Yellow.”

“Convertible?”

“Nope.”

“So you’re not completely mid-life crisis.”  Relief.  Really, if he were he’d be driving a sports car right out of the showroom with the top down so he could show off his model skinny model pretty girlfriend who’s about my age and probably went to the same college.

“No, princess.  I think I’ve actually grown up a bit.  How about you?  How’s quarter-life?”  Here we go.  I put down the sketchbook.

“My boyfriend is cheating on me with his two secretaries, one of them is married.  My best friend is in love with me even though he has a girlfriend who happens to be Portland’s morning Weatherbabe.  And also, I’m cheating on my boyfriend with said Weatherbabe.”

“Crisis!”  He laughed.

“Crisis.”

“You want a Camaro?”

“No thanks, Dad.”

“Just tell me if you do.”  This was nice.  This was natural.  My dad was my dad.  Finally.

“So, any comments?  Any parental concern?”  Anything you want to say about the Weatherbabe?

“Oh, I’m always worried about you, princess.”

“I know.  But, I just thought that maybe you’d say something about—”

“The girl?”

“The girl.”

“What is there to say?  You either are or you’re experimenting.  Or you’re in-between like Liza’s younger brother.  He gets a lot of action!  I mean anyone would when their market is the whole market.”

“Dad.”

“What I’m trying to say is.  You could be a hippie and I’d still love you.”  Wow.

“Because I’m your daughter?”

“Oh, that’s just a coincidence.  I fell in love with you the first time I saw you.  And that was such a crazy time and people were running around.  Your mother was screaming and calling me every foul name under the sun.  Seeing you, it was like we were in a bubble.  Just me and this tiny girl that I loved so much.  Instantly.  It took a minute to realize I just became a father.”  Again.  Wow…

I wanted to ask him all those things that people ask in movies.  Where were you all this time?  Why didn’t you say theses things to me when I was younger?  Where was my dad when I needed him?  And that day…

But this was still his day.  And we have years and years for all that.

“How do you do it dad?  How do you make your relationships work?”

He gave me a confused look then laughed like he just heard a bad joke.

“Really!  I mean mom died when I was born but from what you’ve told me you guys had a wonderful marriage.  And I can only assume that you and Liza are going great too.  Me on the other hand.  Crisis!”

“You’re young, princess.  Don’t worry.”  Does every parent say this?  Is it in their handbook?  Their Child Manual?

“You were young with mom too!”

“Yeah, but it was hard.  It’s always hard.  We loved each other.  But she was a little off.”  What?

“What?”

“She was pretty broken up when I met her.  She never really healed.  All the way up to her death.  But we loved each other.  It’s just, there’s more to it than that.”  I felt a song coming on.  I was right.

“Sometimes love just ain’t enough.”  He recited proudly.

“That’s a song.”

“Yes mam.”

“A sappy love song from a sappy love movie.”

“I think you’re right.”

“You only listen to jazz.  The loud horny jazz.”

“Um, there are horns, yes.  But I’m a sucker for all those 80’s and 90’s ballads.”  What?

“What?”

“Yeah.  And that song is one of my favorites.  Patty Smyth and Don Henley!  C’mon!”

“How is this song an answer though?  This isn’t a movie.”  This isn’t.

“Oh, princess.  Where do you think these stories come from?  These songs?”

“Clichés.”

“Clichés, yes, but there’s a reason why clichés are undying.  Why they outlast everything.  Think about it.”  Hmm.

“Listen, princess.”  And then he sang to me.

“There’s a danger in loving somebody too much.  And it’s sad when you know it’s your heart you can’t trust.  There’s a reason why people don’t stay who they are.  Because sometimes love just ain’t enough…”  He was pretty good too.  I clapped.  Really.

“Do you love him?”  Henry.

“Yes.  But he’s cheating.  And I’m cheating.  And I love Nick too.”

“Right.  But if you just heard me.  Love ain’t enough.  There’s more.  Trust, Faith, Loyalty, Caring.”

“But that’s all part of love, isn’t it?”  Isn’t it?

“Absolutely not.  Love is love.  It’s on that list.”

“But then what is it?”

“Where?”

“What?”

“Where is it?  That’s the real question.  Everyone knows what it is.  You know.  The cold, remember?  People get confused and that’s when they lose it.  They can’t find it.  The question, princess, is where?”  He was sounding cocky, like a professor.  I was walking into a trap; a dad lecture.

“Where is it?”  Here we go.

“Look down.”  I looked down.

“If your jeans are north and your chin is south and your belly button is where we stand.  It’s South by SouthWest.”  Where my heart is.  Oh my dad…

“It’s in my heart?  Thanks, Dad!  I understand now!”  Sarcasm.  But he laughed anyway.

“It’s a mnemonic, Audrey.  A memory trick.  S.  S.  W.”  Thanks, Professor Carlisle.

“And they stand for?”

“How to find love.  How to keep it.”

“This sounds interesting.”  Really.

“Work.  It takes a lot of work.  That list?  That’s all work.  It doesn’t come automatic with it.  You gotta work on those.  You gotta develop them and grow them like plants.  Just because you love someone, doesn’t mean you trust them.  And you don’t trust them because you love them.  They have to earn it and you likewise.  Same goes for the rest of the list.”  Who knew dads could be dads?

“This is making sense.  It’s scary.  What’s next?”

“Schedule.”

“Schedule.”  And he lost me.

“When you’re with someone, you end up trading a lot of things for them.”

“Time.”

“Yeah.  The life you had before them, friends, school, work, hobbies, they all become what you do when you’re not with them.  And all you want to do is be with them.  So?”

“You don’t do them anymore.”

“Or they don’t make you happy like they used to.  Before you fell in love.  The problem is that you miss those things after a while.  When things settle down and you can start thinking clearly again.  When you get used to having that cold.”

“I see.”  Really.

“You gotta schedule those things in at the start.  Before you can miss them.  Keep them in your life so they don’t fall out of it.  Because some things don’t come back.  And you don’t wanna have nothing to turn to when you find out that you need more than just the one person.”

“Hard work.”

“Exactly.”  Exactly.

“I never knew.”

“You did.  Everyone does.  They just forget.  The cold gives them headaches, makes them woozy.”

“I mean I never knew this was all inside you.”  I pointed to the stone.

“We have years and years for all that, princess.”

“We do.”

“What’s the last S for?”  He smiled.
”This is the easiest one.  And the one people forget first.”  He waited for me to answer.

“Survival?”

“Go on.”  It was my turn to be the professor.

“Love is about surviving.  The fights are normal.  That’s how you know you still care.  You know you stand a chance with them when they’re still not going to put up with your shit.”  It’s true!

“And?”

“And you have to remember that you survive these fights.  You both do.  Together.  And in the end, with some faith, you’ll survive everything.”  Mushy.  But I was still proud of myself.

“That’s bullshit.”  And then I wasn’t so proud of myself.

 “Ok then.  What does the S stand for?”

“Sweetness.”  Sweetness.  How could I forget?

“Sweetness?!  Are you kidding me?!”

“Nope.  Honest.  Sweetness.  It’s gasoline.  It’s diesel.  It’ll keep you cruising all the way to the coast.  And when you’re running on empty?  Sweetness is the backup generator.  It’ll keep the AC on at night.  The fridge running.  Sweetness.  Simple.  Easy to forget.”

“…”

“You know I’m right.”

“…”

“A little peck on your cheek.  Three little words.  A nice compliment.  How was your day?”

“Yeah.”

“It keeps you cruising.”

“It keeps you cruising.”  Oh, Dad, you are right…

“Just remember that, when you think you’ve lost something you’re scared you won’t find again.”  He kissed the top of my head again.

“South by SouthWest.”

“Exactly.”  Exactly.

“So what were you drawing before we got all philosophical?”  He pointed to the closed sketchbook on the grass beside me.  I opened it up and showed him.  Grass, trees, the river, a cherry tree.

“That’s here!”

“Pioneer Square.”

“Huh?”

“Yeah, it’s here.  Waterfront Park.”

“Is that you?  That little girl with the apple?”

“It’s a little girl with an apple.”  Me.

“That’s a giant chicken!”  The man from Pioneer Square that day.

“Yep.”

“You’re really good, princess.  Always were.”

“Aw, Thanks Dad.”  Really.

“How about we take Frankie to the Market?”

“Only if it can be our thing.  Me, you and Frankie.  We don’t have to do it weekly, but I just—”

“Of course.  Our thing.  Me, Frankie, and Princess Audrey.”  A natural Dad Frank smile.  From my father.  On my father’s day.

“Sounds like a wonderful day!”

“It was.  Hey, I need to go.  I’m in front of Henry’s now.”

“Ok.  I’ll see you tomorrow night?”

“Yes, mam.  Tomorrow night.”

“Nick will be over too.  Is that Ok?”

“That’s Ok.”

”Think you’re ready?”

“I think so.”

“Ok.  Goodnight, Audrey.”

“Goodnight, Chloe.” 

Audrey hits the red button and pockets her phone.  With her key, she opens Henry’s door.  Henry gets up from the sofa in the living room and meets her in the hallway.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”  A half-hug.  A short kiss.

“I missed you.”

“I missed you too.  I think I’m going straight to bed.  Long day with Dad.”

“Ok.”

She drops her bag next to the stairs and kicks her flip-flops to the side of them so she can find them easy the next morning.  Then she remembers.

“Well, are you coming, handsome?”  South by SouthWest.

Henry’s grin could easily be mistaken for a warm smile.  He grabs his girlfriend by her waist.

“Why don’t you take a nice long shower, while I lay down some fresh sheets.”  He holds her full.  A longer kiss.

“Ok.  Fresh sheets sound great.”  Sweetness.

Halfway up the stairs, Henry calls to her.  She turns around.

“Did you have a good day?”  He asks from the bottom step.

“I did.  But it was Frank’s.”

 

In the shower, the water falls like hot summer rain.  Audrey stands directly under the showerhead.  The round wash all around her.

She thinks about the drawing.  Pioneer Square.  Mr. Chicken.  The unknown man inside the suit.  The face she couldn’t see.  The one that saw hers wet with hot summer rain.

She wonders how she got here from there.  To this shower.  Her own suit.  She wonders who he is, what he looks like. 

How lucky he was to have his face hidden, when hers was public in that crowded square.  As lucky as she feels now, her face private in Henry’s shower.  The water raining on her face, mixing with her tears.  No one can see that she’s crying.

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twenty-two- Scars will remember

Some people get numbers.  Numbers on their backs.  On their calves.  On their arms.  Dates.  Anniversaries.  Death dates.  The day their cancers went into remission.  Jersey numbers.  One or two digits they can wear throughout life, remembering their best play.  Touchdown.  Home runs.  The benches they kept warm in their most formative of teen years.  Bones they broke.  Muscles pulled to sprains.  Scars from ancient cuts through polyester uniforms. 

But it’s the scars they get here that they remember.  They touch them and they smell the grass.  Run their fingers across the slight raised skin and they feel the dotted texture of pigskin.  The stitches running the round of a baseball.  They don’t need mirrors.  Just touch it.  Feel the tattoo.  Remember the pain of a thousand stabs in each stroke of ink.  These are the scars they will remember.  These scars tell the story that they’re too sad to admit they’re already forgetting.  Already forgotten.  The happy moments.

Nick keeps himself busy cleaning the stations.  The itchy feeling of waiting for an appointment to show up, he cleans the ink-guns, sorts the containers of colors.  The iPod is plugged in and the surround doles out random songs.  Britney before The Proclaimers.  Kings of Leon begets Smokey Robinson.  He sweeps the floors.  They don’t really get dirty or dusty.  All to keep himself busy.  To stop him from watching his wristwatch.  Springsteen follows The Killers.  Ok Go opens for Carole King.

The phone rings.  Nick drops the broom and counts his steps and the rings.  Three.  Three is enough.

“Hello?”  He grabs the planner next to the desk.  The pages flip open, most of the dates and names scrawled in Audrey’s handwriting.

“I got you down for half an hour from now.”  There are doodles on the sides of the most recent pages.  He smiles.  ‘She’s doodling again.’ 

The surround gets more random.  Al Green then Dream Theater.  Poison takes the mic from Howie Day.

“I can push you back another half hour, but that’s all.”  The front door swings open.  A man in a good suit.  Nick notices the shoes first.  Faraway leather, shiny as the sea it must have crossed to get to this guy’s feet.

“That’s fine.”  The man on the phone and the man standing in his shop have the same voice.  Nick puts the receiver down.

Looking up from the shoes, the gray suit pants pressed stiff, the suit jacket falling an appropriate length from the modest belt buckle.  The tie tip right above the buckle hiding the buttons running the length of the cotton polyester blend white dress shirt.  The cellphone coming away from his ear.  The sunglasses brought to his jacket pocket.  The nose that looks like it just healed from a break.

“Henry.”

“I lied about my name when I made the appointment.  Sorry.”

“You’re not the first.  It’s a new trend.”

Some people get names.  Their grandparents.  Their mothers.  They’re family people.  Their brothers etched on their shoulders.  Their sisters on their wrists.  You can never let go of your family.  So they etch their names on their bodies to carry with them forever.  Decomposing.  Decaying.  But never alone.

Their lovers.  All kinds of names.  All kinds of spellings.  Expecting parents should throw away the books and consult tattoo artists.  These names are loaded with history and emotions.  Marissa the blue-eyed siren of Pearl District.  Robert the wise submissive of Gresham.   Shandi the brick-toting jealous bitch of Old Town.

Tattoo artists see patterns.  Reincarnations.  They can tell you what your kid will become if you name her Wendy—she’ll seduce men with her chicken potpie, mother’s recipe, then cling like Elmer’s—or name him Luke—hopeless romantic, will write a love song with generic lyrics so he can insert a new name each time he gets dumped.  Janes have abandonment issues laced with repressed feelings for their fathers; modern day Elektras.  Zachs want what they can’t have then don’t want it when they finally get it. 

Tattoo artists.  Historians and seers.

“Is this a business meeting?  Or do you actually want something?”  Nick watches Henry slip off his suit jacket and lay it on the sofa.  The sofa where he was with Audrey just a week ago.

“I lied about my name, but I do want a new tattoo.”  Henry unknots his tie and drops it on the jacket.  He fingers the cufflinks open in his French cuff sleeves and plucks them out.  These he puts in his pants pockets.  The right in the right.  The left in the left.

“Relax, Nick.”  Henry taps on his watch.  “We have plenty of time now.”

Nick looks at his own watch.  He makes an hour for each appointment and with Henry’s pushed back half an hour, they have plenty of time for whatever reason Henry came here.  He looks back at Henry, his top half undressed to a white Jockey’s t-shirt.

“This is about Audrey.”

“Yes.  This is about all three of us.  You know Herbie?”  Henry walks towards Nick and stops when they can smell each other’s aftershave.

“Chloe’s assistant.  I inked him last week.”  Nick’s fists start to close.

“You did.  He’s a friend of mine, used to be my boss’ secretary a long time ago.  I introduced him to Chloe.” 

Before the period can close his last sentence, Henry slams a punch into Nick’s side, dropping Nick onto the desk.  Nick tries to push himself up but the ache running the length of his torso and Henry’s heavy palm on his back keep him face down on the desk.

“Herbie’s a decent guy.  He told me Audrey left this shop that morning.  Something about you wiping her lipstick from your mouth.”  Henry lifts Nick by his shirt a foot above the desk then slams him back down.

“This is good, Nick.  You deserve this.”

“I kissed her.  We didn’t do anything after that.”  Nick groans, propping himself up with his forearms.  Henry pulls him to his feet.  Toe to toe, the swelling soreness keeps Nick looking at Henry’s shoes, shiny as floor-tiles in a hospital lobby.  The surround plays on.  The soundtrack for his beating.  Ray Charles loses to The Yeah Yeah Yeahs.  Tom Petty triumphs over Lilly Allen.

“I believe you Nick.  But we still have a lot of time left.”  Henry digs into Nick’s gut, collapsing him at the waist.  

Holding him up by his shoulders, Henry plows a knee into the fresh bruise.  A cufflink falls out of his pocket.  He releases Nick onto the fresh swept floor.

“So Nick, why do you think people get tattoos?”  Henry bends down and retrieves the cufflink.  The two H’s flash in Nick’s eyes.  Henry Hurt.

“Hurt,” Nick groans from the floor.

“That’s right.  The cheerleaders used to chant, ‘Henry Bring The Hurt!’.”

“And I’m guessing you brought it.”  Nick pushes a choked laugh from his burning lungs.  His side burns.  His gut burns.  His nose burns from breathing to close to a dust pile he swept together before the phone rang.  ‘I should have picked it up before I answered,’ he thought in his dizzy head.

“I did.  I miss college…”  Henry helps Nick up to his feet and leans him against the desk.  Nick sits down on the edge holding himself up by his knees.  In front of him, Henry stands arms crossed and head slanted and bowed slightly.  His eyes watch Nick from under his great brow.

“It’s so hard to forget pain but it’s even harder to remember sweetness.”  Nick steadies his breathing.  He tries not to wince with each inhale.

“Concussion?”  Henry tilts Nick’s head back and scans his pupils.

“No.  I’m answering your question about the tattoos.”

“Hmm.  Very poetic.”

“It’s a quote from this book that Chloe’s reading.  It’s called Diary.  It’s by Chuck Pah—”  Henry interrupts him with another fist to his gut.  He catches him, stops him from falling forward, and steadies him back on the desk before letting go.

“Sorry.  I’ve been angry about the Chloe thing.  But now I think I can move on.”  Henry laughs loudly, reminding Nick that he remains healthy and upright.  Nick responds with a few heaving coughs.

“It’s so hard to forget pain but it’s even harder to remember sweetness.”  Nick looks at Henry, at his fists.

“I won’t hit you again.  Promise.  Go on.”

“People get tattoos because of the pain.  We remember pain and what caused it.  The sweetness?  The good times?  We forget those easy.  We remember that they were good and that we were happy.  But we forget the details.”  He coughs some more.

“It makes sense.”

“Pain.  We remember the details.  The moment the bone breaks under your skin.  The skin stretching as the broken bone pushes against it like a tent.  The tearing as the bone digs out.  The scars stay.  But we don’t even need them.  We won’t forget.”

“So the pain helps.  We hide the sweet memories in the tattoo.  Remembering the pain of getting the tattoo reminds us why we got it.  Good answer!  You believe it?”

“I do.”

Henry nods at Nick as he rolls up his sleeves to the elbows.

“I told Audrey that she can cheat on me.  With you.”

“…”

“Audrey wasn’t over last night.  She wasn’t at her place either.”  Henry stands bladed, his shoulder facing Nick.

“I was alone last night.”  Nick struggles through a deep breath.

“So no Chloe to give you an alibi.”

“No, but believe—”

“It doesn’t matter.  I came here to give you my blessing.”

“I’m not—”

“You will.  I know.  She will too.  It’s alright.  I’ve got two on the side.  This’ll keep it fair.  Honest.”  Henry rubs his knuckles slow.  The way he’s standing, Nick can only see one of his eyes.  The other he has to imagine.

“I don’t understand.”

“You don’t have to.  Just take my blessing.  Shake my hand.  Then the tattoo.”  Henry’s one eye glares at him serious.  Waiting for a response.

“Alright.”  Nick sits up straight holding his hand out to Henry.  Henry swipes it away.

“The blessing first.”

With a half-cocked grin Henry drives his fist into Nick’s eye, shattering skin around it.  Blood on his knuckles.  Nick falls off the desk, dropping onto his hands and knees.

“Now shake my hand.”  Henry pulls him up and takes his limp hand.  He shakes it slow.

“Alright,” Nick whispers through the loudness of his pain. 

Henry helps him back to the desk.  His body loose and weak, he stares at the shoes, shining and sharp like knives in a drawer.  A red spot on one of them.  A dull ruby on black sands.

“I read that book.  I lent it to Chloe months ago.  She can keep it.”  Henry wipes his painted knuckles with a handkerchief.  Two letters flash before Nick’s eyes: a black H and a red H.  He wipes his wounded eye with the back of his hand.  The red H turns black.

“Why did you come here to kick my ass?  What the fuck did this solve?”  Nick watches Henry fold the stained handkerchief and return it to his pocket.

“We have no scar to show for happiness.  We learn so little from peace.”  A low single laugh.

“A line from the book.”  Nick tries on a crooked smile.  The pain chases it away.

“I think we’ve learned a lot this morning.”  Henry takes in a long clean breath.

“You should clean yourself up before we get started.  You’re bleeding.”

Nick stands up wobbly and searches for the bathroom.  The surround still going.  The ringing in his ears and the wash of painful numb all over him.  He can no longer hear the transitions.  The randomness.  Just one concert now.  One stinging symphony.  Bonnie Raitt’s deep song backed by The Polyphonic Spree.  John Legend and The Strokes waiting their turns to jam with Miles Davis.  Nick finds the bathroom and closes the door behind him.

With his shirt off, Henry closes his eyes and runs his fingers across his tattoos.  Evelyn.  His hometown.  He sees his house in the black distance of his eyelids.  The high school appears beyond it.  Goalposts and grass.  Poles of lights towering like metal trees.  The warmth beneath.  The field where he played.  Where he earned his football scholarship that brought him to Eugene.  The bruises and the cuts.  The bone he broke.  He can smell the green and white of the happy field.

He reaches over his shoulders and feels the tattoo south of his neck.  Sine Qua Non.

“What is it?”  Nick is standing outside the open bathroom door, watching Henry reach behind to his subconscious.

“What?”  Henry, a little embarrassed, lowers his arm and puts his hands in his pockets.

“Sine Qua Non.  Without which not.  What is it?  That which, without it, you are not?”

“Let’s get started.”

Nick points Henry to one of the stations.  He obliges and sits on a chair, his chest pressing against its back.  Gloved, Nick pulls up a stool and sits behind Henry.

“What and where.”  Nick opens packets of alcohol swabs.

“Right under.  The same font and color.  Audrey.”

Nick sweeps his skin with the swabs.  He readies a tiny cup of black and adjusts the gun, playing with the dial on the box it’s plugged into and testing the pedal at his feet. 

He pulls a remote from his pocket and mutes the surround.  No more randomness.  Just the hum of the needle.  White noise.  The one note lullaby.  He sets the needle to Henry’s skin and begins.

“So, Candy Moore?”  Henry chuckles above the buzzing.

“She told you.”  Nick paints strokes of black, a thousand stabs in each one.

“She’s a great lay.  She’s great in the office too.”

“You gave her a job.  That’s good.”

“Yeah, I got her working for my assistant manager.  Loves her.  She’s on top of everything.”

“Yeah.”

“We could be great friends, Nick.  We fuck the same girls.  Read the same books.”  Henry laughs through the pain sticking his spine.

“Yeah.”

“Too bad we can’t.”

“Too bad we can’t.” 

“Because of her.”

“Because of her.”  Nick’s foot massages the pedal, feeding power to the gun.  The tattoo artist.  Skin to write on.  Needle to write with.  Historian.  Seer. 

This is only the second time he’s recorded an Audrey.  And they’re the same person.  No pattern yet.  What she will become is still a mystery.

“You’re a funny guy, Nick.”

“So you’ve said.  What’s funny this time?”

“Candy.”

“…”

Henry bites down hard, the needle sending sharp painful vibrations the whole length of his spine.  Nick struggles breathing, his body aching tremendous.  The burning swell.  The stinging soreness.  His eye squinting through broken bloated skin.  These scars they will remember.

“Candy, she smells just like her.  Doesn’t she?”  Henry starts to laugh.  Nick digs the needle in deeper fuller strokes; filling in the outline.  Henry withdraws the laugh.  It hurts too much.

“She does.”

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