The Wall Crawlers, Part Two

Just as with the first part of the story, all true, a part of my life. Yes, the picture is actually my own crappy tattoo, today.

      Picture us- two young girls with their hair dyed flame red, beneath a tree shading out the light from the one streetlamp, anger on our faces, facing one another down. Then, picture me, who had never been in a fight before, and who at the moment had no liquor in me to give me false bravado. I started to explain, of course, why we didn't have to fight. There were two young men behind her, whom I knew casually from one party or another. I stood alone, there on that corner beside my house.

 

      My father had seen the boys, and stepped out the front door onto our porch, whose columns were about to burst from years of disrepair. Each of us turned to look as the screen door slammed shut. In dad's hand was a huge oaken club, painted gold, which he had carved himself. It was a rather medieval looking weapon. He told the boys they had better stay out of the fight, or they'd wake up hours later with knots on their heads. The stepped back toward their car, slowly. For me, my father charged the air for me, and then Amy insulted him, saying, "get back in the house, you naggy old man, you're as dumb as your daughter." That... well that did it. My dad wasn't perfect, but the hell if I would let anyone insult him.

 

      Without really thinking, I put my arms into that stance used by football players about to tackle, and I charged at Amy, full of fury. I was hoping to knock her to the ground, but the effort was futile. She was just as big as me. As she pushed me away, I put my hands into her thick red hair, twisted my fists so that my grip was firm, and pulled as hard as I could, headbutting her as I did so. I began to bang the sides of her head with my elbows. She recoiled, but I still had a firm grip on her hair, and wasn't about to let go. I kicked at her legs with my feet, but kept missing as she darted around. We spun, there in the middle of the street. As we spun, Amy struck with her elbows, blindly, landing one, accidentally but unfortunately, on my left eye. It didn't hurt right away, so I didn't loose my grip then. She continued to flail around wildly to escape me, and I held on... until she pulled away with a good portion of her hair still gripped in my fists. She saw her hair in my hands, reached to the sides of her head and growled, then suddenly turned and ran to her car, screaming. I stood there with a black eye forming, and laughed as they sped away.

 

     My father was ready for the aftermath, and quickly supplied me with a frozen chicken thigh in a plastic bag as I entered the house. I lay on the couch with that chilly fowl on my eye, and fell asleep.

 

     Come Monday, the black eye was still visible. I went to school anyway, sort of proud of it, in an odd way. It was now very tender to the touch, but the chicken leg had thankfully kept it from becoming too swollen. By Thursday, you couldn't tell it had ever been there. Of course, by then, everyone in school had heard the entire story of our fight. Surprisingly, I was touted as a hero- Amy had apparently picked on and beaten up several girls, and they all thanked me for pulling out her hair, as though I did it for them.

 

    Those proudest of my fight were the Wall Crawlers. I had a reputation to match them, now, and the initial reason for the fight had been because she had insulted my fellow Crawlers. I was the center of attention at the next few parties. It was then that my friend and fellow crawler, Joe Vitale, told me he could give me a tattoo for free, if I would just supply the ink.

 

    I designed it myself, went over to Joe's house, where I had never been before, with it drawn on my ankle in sharpie. As Joe opened his door, several different strong and rank odors greeted me. The predominant odors were rotten food and roach feces. (Yes, when there are enough roaches, you can smell them, though only "lucky" people like me come to know this odor well.) In fact, as I walked in, roaches scurried to get out from under my feet. I had walked into hell, it seemed.

 

   Dirty clothes, pizza boxes, plates of rotting food, and open bags of dog food littered the living room. As I sat down on the stained, reeking sofa,  I heard a scurrying within one of the dogfood bags, and recoiled, sure it was a rat. Out popped a tiny chihuahua, the smallest I had ever seen. It yipped politely, then leapt four feet into my arms. Lil Bit, they told me his name was. He licked my face all over, slobbering on me, letting me savor his fetid breath. I liked him, anyway.

 

    I met Joe's mother then, who had heard me fussing over Lil Bit. She was a huge, tall woman in a sweat-stained tye-dyed t-shirt that had a decal of the Tasmanian Devil in the center of it. I wondered for a moment why Taz was such a favorite amongst white trash. I wanted to chuckle, but held my tongue. He just looked so funny there on the shirt of this hideous woman. She was so ugly it was hard to look at her. Joe was a good looking kid, and it was hard to imagine his mother and home looking like this. He had a younger brother and sister, and an older brother. All were there and crowded around to see what tattoo I was getting. We all impatiently flicked roaches away with a finger when they came close- a habit I'd learned as well, having lived in poverty most of my life. "Momma Vitale", as she asked to be called, brought me a beer, and Joe went to get his little home-made tattoo gun.

 

    Getting a tattoo doesn't really hurt as much as some seem to think, or say. I think the worst part, that day, was the roach who kept trying to get at the blood that dripped as Joe worked, whom I flicked away again and again, only to have him return.

 

    "Flaming peace", that is what I named my tattoo. It is supposed to be the sun surrounding a peace sign. Being home made, I'm not quite sure it looks like it's supposed to. At the time, I didn't care. I had a tattoo! Yea me. I was now officially cool.

     The tat is ugly. Every once in a while I have an inkling to go get a better tat to cover it, or have it removed with a laser. Then I think about it and realize that it's a memory. An ugly memory of a me I wasn't proud of being, but that I want to remember just the same.

 

 

     All the nights I went to bed naked after stripping off the vomit and beer soaked clothes I had on, all the mornings I woke up hungover and lying in bed with a guy I just met the night before and didn't even like, all the hours I spent listening to my wasted friends complaining about how no one cared about them and they didn't even care about themselves-- that's all right here on my ankle. Am I crazy to want to keep those memories? Perhaps I am, but the reason is obvious. The person I am did not replace the person I was. She grew out of the person I was, and the person I was is still an integral part of her. The ugly part? Yes. A useless part? Assuredly not.

 

 

Our scars and our tattoos are memories of our former selves. Sometimes we may wish to hide them, but they are always going to be a part of us, even as they fade. My tattoo is a symbol of my days as a Wall Crawler, and even if that person isn't me any more... well, she certainly was me...

 

 

(To Be Continued...)

  

Reviews

[Tony]

As Samuel below says, most cannot rise above that kind of life, and are swallowed by it. It must be a superb feeling to be able to grasp the essence of a life gone stagnant while maintaining the control of your sphere of influence. I suppose this is a great vehicle for great stories, full of colorful and interesting drama.
I always remember when I read stuff like this that real life is so much more powerful on paper than fiction.
I was directly drawn into this story fully visualizing the two red haired chicks, spinning in the street.
This a cool book you have going here.................

[Samuel Dickens]

I don't have a single tattoo--unbelieveable, huh? No, but I do have a couple of scars with tales to tell. Your story is amazing, Constance, and it shows what you're made of. Most cannot rise above that kind of life, and are swallowed up by it. My hat goes off to you. Sam