Inked

The man rolls over in his bed to escape the piercing sound of his alarm clock. He slams his cold palm onto its head with a loud crack, emphasizing their relationship. It’s complicated.

Sighing he sits up and slides his feet into the worn-in slippers his ex-mother-in-law gave him two Christmas’ ago.

“Black. I like black slippers,” he said, not thinking twice.

How hard is it to mess up black slippers? They’re black. He looked down at his feet, a visible big toe sticking out the top of a brown slipper. Bitch.

He moaned and the dog rolled his eyes in his direction. This morning routine was starting to bore not only man, but also man’s best friend.

He started to un-change in front of the mirror, perusing over his skinny legs and uncomfortable gut. No, its not even a gut. I can’t call it a gut. It’s a...pouch. Yes, the man had a pouch. He scanned over the round lump on his stomach, hoping it either disappear or grow larger –anything to make it less feminine. He moved up his body, landing on his chest. His eyes traced over the familiar lines and permanent ink that tainted his skin. Slowly, he crept into a daze, tracing and re-tracing the image inked on him forever.



* * *



“Dude, we’ve got to get tattoos! That would be awesome!”

“Sure,” the man said, so nonchalant that his friends thought he was insane. He remembered there was a tattoo shop over on High St. What was the name? He and his misfit friends had spent their high schools days, out back behind the store, chain-smoking cigarettes. Good and Evil. That’s it.

He started walking in that direction, leading his pack behind him.

“So, what are you gonna get?” his friend asked.

“Dunno,” he replied, playing it off cool.

They arrived at the shop and looked through designs. Right then, his phone rang.

“Where are you?” his father screamed through the receiver.

“No where,” he replied. Shit. I’m busted.

“The neighbors saw you go into a tattoo shop. What are you thinking?!?” he screamed.

The boy hung up. That’s it. I’m done. He turned to the nearest person, the kid that suggested they all get the tattoos.

“Hey man, promise me something,” the boy said. “Promise me will never be like our parents. We’ll never work jobs we hate and we’ll never ruin our kids’ lives.”

“Chill, it’s just a tattoo,” his friend said.

“Alright, so what do you boys want?” the shop owner said.

The boy thought for a minute.

“I’ll never worry my life away in a straight line, across the left side of my chest.”



* * *



Coming back from his dream, he looked down at his watch. Quarter-after. He was going to be late. The man threw on the rest of his clothes, grabbed his briefcase, and headed out the door.

He called the office and told them he would be late. Third time this week, they would think. Frazzled, he ran 2 blocks up to the city. A taxi would take forever in rush hour, so he ran to the bus stop.

He checked his watch again. Half after. I’m screwed, I’m screwed, I’m scre---

His briefcase slid out of his hand into the intersection. Running to get it, he bent down to grab it, and stood up. He heard someone scream from the sidewalk. The man turned back to look, seeing a finger pointing at him and then to his right. He turned and looked.



* * *



As they ripped open his shirt, an EMT placed two pads on his body to shock him back to life–one over his stomach, and the other over his ink.