Someday

A

Day 6076

I am woken one Saturday morning by a text:

On my way. You better be up.

I imagine that even when you sleep in the same bed night after night, in familiar sheets surrounded by familiar walls, there is still a profound dislocation at the moment of waking. You grasp first to figure out where you are, then reach for who you are. With me, this becomes confused. Where I am and who I am are essentially the same thing.

This morning I am Marco. I use his muscle memory to unlock his phone even as I’m figuring out his name. I am typing Just getting up. How long til you’re here? before I can figure out who Manny, the person I’m texting, is.

10 min. Didn’t you set your alarm? I told you to set your alarm!

Marco did not set his alarm. I never sleep through alarms.

Stop texting, I reply. Drive.

Shut up. At a light. Be ready in 9.

I try to wash away the mental fog in the shower, but I only get a partial clearing. Manny is Marco’s best friend. I can access memories of him from when he was tiny, so they must be lifelong friends. Today’s a big day for them—somehow I know it’s important to get up and get ready. But I’m not entirely sure why.

It’s 9:04—not that early. I can’t tell whether there are other people in the house, still asleep, or whether I’m the only one around. I don’t have time to check—I can see Manny’s car pulling up to the curb. He doesn’t honk. He just waits.

I wave through the window, find my wallet, and head out of my room, out the front door.

Manny laughs when I get in the car.

“What?” I ask.

“I swear to God, if you didn’t have me as your alarm, you’d miss your entire life. You got the money?”

Even though Marco’s wallet is in my pocket, I have a feeling the answer’s no. The mind is weird this way: Without knowing how much money is actually in the wallet, I know it’s not the amount Manny’s talking about.

“Shit,” I say.

Manny shakes his head. “I’m gonna start charging your parents for babysitting, you dumbass. Let’s try this again.”

“One sec,” I promise. Then I’m out of the car and back through the front door, which I forgot to lock behind me. When I get to Marco’s room, I’m momentarily stymied.

Where’s the money? I ask him.

And just like that, I know to look for the shoebox under the bed, where there’s a wad of cash waiting for me.

What’s this for? I ask again.

But this time, nada. Some personal facts are closer to the surface than others.

When I get back to the car, Manny pretends he’s been napping.

“I haven’t been gone that long,” I tell him.

“You, my friend, are lucky I worked an extra fifteen minutes of fuck-up time into the schedule. We’ve been waiting for months for this, man. Leave your dumbassery in the backyard, okay?”

Somehow Manny makes dumbassery a term of affection; he’s amused by my delays, not angered.

“So what have you been up to since the last time I saw you?” I ask. This is one of the many Careful Questions I have in my arsenal.

“Well, it’s been a fucking lonely ten hours, but somehow I made it through,” Manny replies. “I’m so excited for you to meet Heller after all the hype. The guy’s shit is for real, you know? I still can’t believe he’s doing us.”

“Unreal,” I say. “Completely unreal.”

“Ric’s gonna be floored. I mean, his cobra is the bomb, but what Heller’s gonna do to us is going to make that cobra look like a worm, amiright?”

“So right.”

I really need to get in the game here. Best friends are like family members when they talk—the shared-history shorthand is a beast for me to decode. I latch on where I can—in this case, I know Ric is Manny’s brother. And it isn’t much of a jump from there to recall the cobra tattoo on his arm, to know that’s what Manny is talking about. Which means, as I clue in, that Heller must be a tattoo artist. And Marco and Manny must be going for tattoos. Their first tattoos.

Now I understand why Manny is so excited. This is a big day for them.

I can see the narcotic effect the expectation is having on Manny; he’s smiling at what’s going to happen a short while from now, buzzing on the trajectory that leads from now to then.

“Have you decided which one yet?” he asks. Then he doesn’t give Marco any time to answer, saying, “No—wait ’til we get there. Surprise me.”

“That’s easy enough to do,” I tell him.

“Just DON’T WUSS OUT!” He punches me on the arm playfully. “I swear, the pain is going to be worth it. And I’ll be there the whole time. Whatever you do, stay in the chair, right?”

Is he saying this because he senses my own hesitation, or because of a history of hesitation on Marco’s part? I suspect it’s because of Marco, but I worry it’s because of me.

Manny talks some more about when Ric his tattoo, and how he kept taking the bandage off to show it to everyone, and how it came so damn close to getting infected. In trying to get Marco to remember this, I see all kinds of other memories instead. Ric and Manny bringing me to the beach, Manny’s bathing suit a junior version of Ric’s. Me and Manny sitting on his front porch, waiting for his mom to get home, setting our Pokémon cards out, swapping the doubles. More recently: Manny kissing a girl at a party while another girl talked to me and tried to get my attention. Manny throwing chicken nuggets at me and me throwing them back, the same birthday lunch we’ve had for as long as Marco can remember. Whichever of us is the birthday boy always gets a Happy Meal.

I get caught up in the times they’ve had together, and Manny lets me get caught. I’m not sure how long we drive before we pull up to a house and Manny says, “This is it.”

I’ve never gotten a tattoo before. I was expecting the tattoo place to be a storefront in a strip mall, neon letters spelling out T-A-T-T-O-O. But this looks like a house where a family of five could live, complete with a side door, like one belonging to a dentist or a doctor with a home office. That’s where we’re headed.

“If anyone asks, you’re eighteen,” Manny tells me. “But no one’s going to ask.”

This only makes me more nervous. Manny knocks on the office door, and it’s opened by a guy who’s probably thirty and is covered by more than thirty tattoos—all these different people in weird poses being devoured by the landscape. He sees me staring at them and says, “Garden of Earthly Delights.”

“Heller, man, thanks for fitting us in,” Manny says, shaking his hand. “The wait list is, what, three months now?”

“Megan would know, not me,” Heller says.

He leads us from the waiting room into what was clearly once a dentist’s office. There are still a few advertisements for invisible braces and teeth whiteners up on the counters. But the rest of the office is covered by photographs of tattoos, each one so detailed that it looks like an illuminated manuscript has been taken from its spine and splayed across the walls. It’s a transcription of creatures we’ve never seen but still imagine or fear, kaleidoscopic castles and canyons brought to the size of a human heart. All on the same landscape of skin, though each body has its own tint, its own surface and shape.

I have always thought of the body as something that is written from the inside. I don’t need Rhiannon’s name on my skin, because it is already indelible in my thoughts. But looking at Heller’s conjurings, I suddenly understand the desire for such visible permanence, such open reminding. I, who have no body, can be sure that I take my life with me wherever I go, because it’s all I have. But I see that if you only have one body, there is an intimation to memorialize your life upon that body, to take something that could be decoration and turn it into commemoration, to choose something that’s beneath and let it rise to the top so it can become part of the way you are first seen.

The scary part, I think, is not the pain but the permanence. Heller operates beyond erasers, beyond delete keys. His art will only last as long as a life . . . but it will last as long as a life.

I want to fake sickness. I want to plead faintness. I want to back off, far away. I should not be inside a body when something irreversible is done to it.

But I can tell that Manny isn’t going to let me off the hook. Heller is handing him a piece of paper and Manny’s showing it to me—a dragon with wings unfurled, the serpentine grace of Ric’s tattoo with the added element of flight. It is not meant to be an icon or a symbol—no, it is meant to live and breathe on Manny’s skin, to be his own dragon spirit manifest, to captivate and compel in ways that a simple human form cannot.

“Now you,” Heller says. Instead of giving me a single piece of paper, he gives me three.

The first is a phoenix transcending the flames underneath it, clear-eyed and calm as it transforms.

The second is a kraken, its arms clovered into a web, its eyes darker and more distant than those of the phoenix, as if it knows its own majesty and doesn’t want the spell to break.

The third is a tree, its trunk as solid as time and its leaves as fleeting as time. It would not stand out in a forest of its peers, but on its own it possesses a simple magnificence, the consciousness of a creature that feeds on light.

So . . . phoenix, kraken, tree. Fire, water, earth. Each demonstrating its own artistry, each as real in its own logic as a vision is to an eye.

“So the moment of truth has arrived,” Manny says. “At long last, after all these years of us talking about it—what’s it going to be?”

This is an important decision. Marco should have some memory stored away of which choice he was planning to make. It should be something I’m able to find.

I focus. Even though I know it means a noticeable lapse inward, I look. I ask. But there isn’t any answer. Maybe when Marco went to sleep last night, he still hadn’t made up his mind.

But now’s the time for the answer. Whether he’s here or not.

Manny sees me wavering and gets instantly distressed. “This is it, man,” he says. “Don’t skip out on me now. They’re all amazing choices. Which is it going to be?”

The phoenix calls to me. It looks me in the eye and knows who I am. It knows that we each can be more than just one thing. It knows that we live in a perpetual state of beginning and a perpetual state of ending. I would wear that on my skin, were I ever given skin of my own. I would let it send its wordless message to everyone I meet, as a way for them to get to know me a little more, to understand my flight path a little better.

That is my choice.

But it’s my choice, not Marco’s.

“I’m right here with you,” Manny says. “Believe me, I wouldn’t let your dumbass self do anything you’d regret.”

There is an out here. There are words I can say that would lead to me leaving, would lead to us both getting away from Heller without any ink being led to the needle.

But there’s another factor. I see it in Manny’s eyes. I hear it in his voice. I sense it in all the history that Marco is sharing with me. If I leave now, Manny will never forget it. There will always be this moment and all that was leading up to it . . . then the disappointment when it fell apart. Will Manny forgive Marco if I make us leave? For sure. But will it be worse instead of better between them, and is Manny the most important person in Marco’s life? Yes. And yes.

So I don’t say the words I should probably say. I ignore the escape route.

“I can go first if you want more time,” Manny offers.

“No,” I say. “I’ve got it.”

Phoenix, kraken, or tree?

Fire, water, or earth?

Who are you, Marco?

Which are you?

I don’t know.

Then I realize I don’t have to be the one to decide. I don’t know Marco well, but there’s someone else in the room who does.

“You choose,” I tell Manny. “You know me best.”

Manny is not expecting this at all. “Are you sure? Really?”

“Really.”

“You like all of them?”

“I do. But which is the most like me?”

For all of his surprise, Manny doesn’t hesitate. He points right at the tree.

“No question,” he says.

If he’d picked either the phoenix or the kraken, I might have worried he was only doing it to match his dragon. But because he picks the tree, I know it must be true.

“There’s your answer,” I tell Heller.

“Alrighty, then. Take a seat and we’ll get things started.”

I get into the dentist’s chair as Heller calls out to Megan, his girlfriend/assistant. They run a tight ship, and explain everything to me as they go—how they’re sterilizing the instruments in the autoclave, how they’re going to need to shave and clean my arm before sketching onto it.

“He’s really afraid of needles,” Manny volunteers. “So be careful—he’ll probably flinch.”

Usually I’d try to act true to Marco’s personality. But I decide Marco’s going to be braver than usual today, and not so afraid of needles.

After everything is clean and ready, Heller draws the tree on me, outlining all the paths the needle and ink will take. It’s a weird sensation, to have him sketching on my skin—but it’s even weirder when the needle leaves the first drop of color underneath. The pain is like a sharp burn. I expected it to be a more liquid feeling, but instead it stings.

“How are you doing?” Heller asks.

“Fine!” I say, trying to sound cheery.

But Manny sees my body tense. He sees me squeezing my eyes shut and opening them.

“It’s going to be so cool,” he tells me. “You’re going to love it.”

I think it will get easier, but the pain is consistent, the skin having something to say each time it’s interrupted. I of all people should be able to step away from the body, to vacate myself in thought. But the presence of the pain means I can’t be anywhere but present. I wonder whether this pain is now mine, or whether it’s actually Marco’s. Does the body remember pain, or is it only the mind? I am doing something human beings want to do all the time for the people they love—experience the pain on their behalf. But I am doing it for a stranger, someone who will never know it, and thus will never be able to recognize and appreciate it.

I do not watch what Heller is doing. I watch Manny stealing glances, see his reaction to the ink and the blood and the tree taking shape. It’s so clear he cares about how it goes, because he cares so much about Marco. I imagine Rhiannon here with me. Holding my hand. Trying to divert some of the pain.

Then I try to stop myself from thinking that. It doesn’t help.

The needle persists. Heller hums snatches of the song falling from the speakers. Even though the pain is the same no matter what the color, no matter where the shading, I imagine I can feel the picture taking shape. It’s hard not to think of the tree sinking in, taking root. It’s also hard not to think that no matter how deep the roots go, they’ll never reach me. Only Marco.

It takes hours, and even then, Heller isn’t done. He needs the colors to set before he can bless the tattoo with some of its finer details. He asks me if I want to look, but when I do, all I see is a bloody, carved mess.

“Don’t worry,” Heller assures me. “Blood passes. Ink stays.”

Megan bandages me up, and then it’s Manny’s turn in the chair.

“Dragon, come to me!” he incants.

“You are such a dork,” I say, since I think that’s what Marco would say.

Manny laughs. “Takes one to know one, dumbass.”

It feels so comfortable, right then. I almost forget it’s not really me he’s talking to. I almost think he sees me inside, and knows I’m the one along for this ride.

But of course it’s Marco who stays by his side. It’s Marco who doesn’t give him a hard time when he ends up being the one who flinches and screams despite his attempts at self-control. It’s Marco who stands like a tree while he writhes like a dragon.

When we’re through, it takes the whole wad of cash to pay Heller. He tells us when we can come back for the finishing touches—and reminds us to let the healing happen before we start showing off to the world.

The pain has already passed. For Marco, it may never have been there. I have absorbed it. And because I’ve absorbed it, I know what it’s like, in a way he never will.

But he will be left with a tree. As Manny and I get pizza, drive around, and see a movie, I keep touching the bandage on my arm, as if I can feel the lines underneath. It occurs to me that unlike most people I inhabit for a day, Marco will have a lasting mark of my presence, even if he never knows it. I am grateful that the mark is his, not mine—the tree, not the phoenix. The tree hides me better. The only person who’d ever see me in its branches would be me, if I were ever to see Marco again. But that almost never happens. Marco will see it every day. I will have to remember it—which I know I will not. Just as the pain dissipates, so, too, will the lines of the memory unravel. I may recall the fact of the tree, but not its shape.

I hide my melancholy as Manny drops me off, just as I hide the bandage from my parents when I get inside. As far as Manny is concerned, he’s just had one of the very best days ever, with his very best friend.

That night, alone in Marco’s room, I unfold Heller’s drawing of the tree and try to memorize it. I try to turn my thoughts into a tattoo, but the thoughts resist the ink. I don’t want this to make me feel less real, but it does. I cannot help but feel impermanent. I cannot help but feel I am destined to fade.

X

It helps if the person is weak.

If I want less of a challenge, I stay with someone who is already on his way to giving up. Living is a fight, and I can pick out the ones who’ve stopped fighting, who are stuck in their own loneliness and/or confusion and/or pain. The fewer connections, the better. The more despair, the better. Some people guard their selves like a fortress. But others leave the doors unlocked and the windows open. They welcome the burglary.

I have not done well this time. My vanity thought it would be good to be young, to be the object of attention. But after a day, I can feel his self wanting, can feel it trying to reject me in the same way a body will reject an organ that brings the wrong blood to its system. His family attachments are strong. There is a home he misses. There are things he wants to do. I can feel him pushing against me. Resisting. I could separate him from this body, tamp him down, but it would take time and energy. Better to roll the dice and see what I get next.

In the meantime, there’s fun to be had in our remaining hours together.

The young, handsome white guys are always fun. They’re the ones who are naturally given things, who find that gates swing open before they touch them. These guys take advantage. Sometimes they don’t know they’re doing it. Most of the time they do. They are harder to erase because they like their lives. But I stay in there anyway, because I like their lives, too.

This guy’s six feet tall, maybe six one. Swimmer’s build. Eighteen years old. College freshman. Already knows which frat he’s going to pledge. Attractive enough that I could get sex if I wanted to get sex, and strong enough that I could cause other people harm if I wanted to cause other people harm.

But I’d much rather mess with his life and leave him to clean it up. Take away as much of that advantage as I can. If I can’t use it, there’s no reason for him to have it when I’m gone.

It’s easy enough to do. His girlfriend has been texting nonstop. Apparently, while I was getting a late breakfast, this guy was supposed to be walking her to class. At first she’s mad that he stood her up. She thinks he’s asleep. Then the day goes on and she’s starting to get concerned. The interesting part is that she’s more concerned about him being truthful with her than she is about whether he’s alright. She thinks her position is precarious.

I need a vehicle for their undoing, and with this guy’s body, it’s not hard to find one. Leigh is working behind the counter at one of those coffee shops that exist just so Starbucks can kick it in the teeth. The Better Maryland Bean. Whatever. Leigh’s there, and she’s bored. Until I walk in—then she’s not so bored anymore.