Chester O’Connor
made the announcement at the annual
Thanksgiving family dinner. The main
reaction to his declaration was a lot of
hearty laughter. However, one person at
the table was not amused. “You most
certainly will not!” was the reply that
came from the lips of Irene, Chester’s
only daughter. “No tattoos, no
earrings, no nose rings, no lip rings or
studs or whatever nonsense is the
current fashion! You are not a
juvenile delinquent!” “You’re a senior
delinquent!” chimed in Patrick, the
eldest of the O’Connor boys, creating
another wave of beer-induced
laughter. The irony of this attempt
at humor was that no one was a more honest
and law-abiding citizen than Chester Liam
O’Connor. A
second-generation Irish American, he was
somber, not big on conversation and kept
pretty much to himself. He had
worked hard as a plumber in Trenton, New
Jersey, to support his family; his now
deceased wife Maureen, daughter Irene, and
his five sons, Patrick, Michael, Timothy,
Sean and Liam. Now, as a widowed
retiree, he kept himself busy by making
improvements on his 1920’s bungalow and by
volunteering at the local food bank. His
only form of relaxation was reading
mysteries and watching soccer on the TV. He
had been a Democrat for years but had
eventually turned to the Liberal Party
when he noticed that the donkey party was
acting more like an ass and wasn’t getting
anything done. And, unlike the rest
of the family, he was a lapsed
Catholic. This was due to his
learning of the rampant pederasty being
practiced by priests all around the world
but, most of all, by the untimely death of
his beloved baby sister, Alice. “What
kind of loving God takes the life of an
innocent, sweet kindergarten teacher and
then allows his priests to take the
innocence of hundreds of children?
And don’t give me that malarky about ‘how
mysterious are his ways’ and ‘we are not
meant to understand.’” (These
observations were being shared solely with
Max, his faithful Labrador, as they sat on
the back porch steps watching the sun go
down behind the garage.) Chester
very rarely opened up to anyone except his
dog. He believed talking in public
about your feelings to be a form of
effeminate whining, very unmanly. This
was why the repeat of his pronouncement,
“I’m going to get a tattoo,” became less
of a joke and more of a shock.
Grandpa Chester never joked about serious
things. In fact he rarely joked
about anything. “So,
why do you want to get a tattoo, pops?”
asked Michael, as he served himself a
second piece of pumpkin pie. “That’s
my business.” “What
is it going to be?” inquired Patrick, “A
mermaid? A heart?” “It’s
going to be nothing,” interrupted Irene,
“and that’s the end of this
conversation. The man is obviously
losing it.” “Ah,
chill out, sis,” suggested Sean, the
youngest of the O’Connor boys. “ I’ve got
a tattoo, right here on my bicep,” he said
proudly as he pushed up his shirt sleeve. “I
know,” she replied, “and it’s the ugliest
Bluebird, if that’s what it’s supposed to
be, that I have ever seen. And tell
me if I’m wrong but didn’t you break up
with Debbie two years ago and yet there’s
her name on your bicep for the rest of
your life! Brilliant! You can
make a fool out of yourself, if you want
to, but Dad is not getting a tattoo,
period!” Irene
had taken over the role of Chester’s
caretaker when Maureen, his bride of
forty-six years had died of congestive
heart failure. She loved her dad
very much and worried about him to the
extreme. While there were times when
Chester wished Irene would back off a bit,
he appreciated the little things she did
for him like scheduling his doctor’s
appointments and picking up his
medications. But, as he once
explained, when she was ready to step in
and help him shop for new work boots, “I’m
not eight, Maureen, I’m seventy-eight.”
It
was around ten in the evening when most of
the family had packed up their portion of
the Thanksgiving leftovers and had
sleepily headed off to home. Irene
was cleaning-up in Chester’s kitchen and
putting his leftovers in plastic
containers, labeling them with a magic
marker and stowing them away in the
freezer. Sean and his 17-year-old
son, Arlin, were storing folding chairs in
the hall closet and removing the wooden
leaves used to expand Chester’s dining
room table. “If
your cousin Sheila has twins,” grunted
Sean,” there’ll be no more room at the
table. How many of us were there
here today, by the way?” “I
think nineteen,” Arlin replied, “but there
would have been twenty-one if the twins
had been here.” The twins were the sons of
Irene and her husband Carl who were off
serving in the military, Beau in the Navy
and Dean in the Marines. “I
don’t want to have to sit at the little
kids table anymore, dad,” Arlin declared,
as he folded up the card table, “I mean
none of us are kids anymore.” “I
know. It’s just temporary.
Maybe we’ll all go out to a restaurant
next year.” “Over
my dead body!” announced Irene as she flew
out of the kitchen and headed into the
living room, to get her coat. She
was toting a large shopping bag with her
share of the leftover feast. “Mom
and dad have had Thanksgiving here, every
year, with all of us, since we were little
kids. It was mom’s favorite holiday
so we’re keeping up the tradition.” At
that moment Chester came in from the front
porch, brushing himself off. “You
better hurry up, Irene. It’s
snowing. Carl is waiting for you in
the car.” “Okay,
okay. Just let me get my coat on,”
she snapped as she wrestled with both it
and the shopping bag. “Sean,
help your sister,” admonished Chester and
he stepped aside to let the siblings argue
their way out the front door. “Stop
holding it that way, dummy, you’ll spill
the Cranberry relish!” “It’ll
be fine, sis. Don’t go and get your
knickers in a knot! Geesh!”
After
the door closed and it was quiet, Arlin
slid the folded card table into the back
of the closet and turned around to face
his grandfather. “Do
you ever wonder about those two,
grandpa? Aunt Irene and my dad are
at it all the time.” “I
gave up, long ago, trying to figure out
anyone, even myself. Waste of time,”
Chester responded, as he slipped into his
welcoming recliner and reached for the
remote. Max lay down at his feet, glad
that the crowd had left. “Well,
I better get going,” Arlin said, putting
on his jacket, “But before I leave I
have an early Christmas gift for you.” “What?” “You
said you were getting a tattoo.” “Yes----?” “Were
you serious?” “I
guess so…Yeah, a tattoo.” “Do
you know where to go to get one? “Not
yet…no.” “Well,
I do.”
The Secret Plan
Most
of the snow had melted by the time Arlin
picked up Chester and they began driving
southeast on route 206. It was the
Monday after Thanksgiving and he had
skipped school to accomplish what he
called ‘Mission Body Art.’ He had
told his dad that his class was going on a
field trip to the Pine Barrens ‘to study
the wildlife in New Jersey.’ “Well,
that’s a whopper and a half,” grandpa
Chester replied, “and I don’t know if I
approve of you lying like that to your
father.” “Oh,
it’s okay. He’s used to it.
And he’ll be happy when he knows what we
really did.” “And
what is it, exactly, that we’re doing?” “Oh,
come on, you know! We’re getting you
your tattoo.” “No---I
thought we were just doing a little
reconnaissance---checking out the
possibilities.” “Whatever!
We’re heading to Big T’s Tattoos on the
boardwalk.” “Atlantic
City? I thought we we’re going into
Philly.” “Oh,
come on, grandpa. Why would we be
driving south on 206? I know you
have a better sense of direction than
that. We’ll connect up with the
Atlantic Expressway in 45 minutes or so
and then it’s a straight shot to the
shore.” Several
miles passed in silence before Chester
finally spoke up. “I
haven’t been to Atlantic City in
years. Gambling was never my
thing. Waste of time and money,” he
grumbled. “I do remember liking the salt
water taffy, though.”
Arrival
It
was around noon when Arlin pulled into the
Caesar’s hotel parking facility. He
and Chester got out of the car, stretched
their legs to get the blood flowing again,
and then headed down the block or so to
the ocean and the boardwalk. The
water and the sky were sharing the same
gray color so it was hard to tell where
the horizon was. Chester was
surprised to see that there were a few
people, all bundled up, strolling along
the boardwalk on this cold November
day. While many of the store fronts
were boarded up for the season, a few
shops were still open hawking souvenirs,
hot dogs and, of course, salt water taffy. “When
I was a kid,” reminisced Chester, “I
thought they made the taffy out of salt
water. Later, my dad explained to me that
it was called that because it was made at
the sea shore. I was very
disappointed.”
They
passed the exterior of the Caesar’s casino
with its towering columns topped with five
heroic Roman statues and with the chariot
fountain in front with four marble horses
splashing in the water. Further
on, the yawning maw of the Bally Resorts
giant façade came into view and threatened
to suck them inside in order to help them
empty their pockets. Behind the
hungry mouth of the casino rose the
twenty-four floors of the 700 room Bally
hotel. “All
this fancy nonsense,” muttered Chester,
“just to give gamblers a choice of where
they want to lose their money.” “Yeah,
but it’s changed a lot with the advent of
legalized online gambling,” replied Arlin,
“That has really cut into the casino
business. And all those Casinos popping up
all over the country. A lot of the hotels
here have closed. All of Atlantic
city has been struggling. And then,
when Covid 19 hit, it just about wiped out
the whole place. The tattoo parlors
were shut down, needles and blood being a
big no-no, and they only reopened last
year. And, speaking of tattoo
parlors, look up ahead.” About
a block away, there was a giant marquee
jutting out over the boardwalk. It
floated, like a crown, over the facade of
what appeared to be a theatre. The marquee
was all lit up and spelled out BIG T’S
TATTOO PALACE. What was
once the theatre’s original grand entrance
had been converted into display windows
with BIG T sweatshirts, baseball caps and
large posters of incredibly complex
tattoos, all of them fighting for
attention. “I
was told that this was once one of those
huge movie palaces,” explained Arlin. “Very
impressive. But where’s the real
entrance?” “It’s
over there around the corner on the left
side. Ready to go in?” asked Arlin. “I
guess so. How come you know about
this place?” Chester inquired, as he
followed Arlin to a pair of double doors
situated beneath a bright blue awning. “Well,
I could uphold my reputation as a liar and
say that this is where dad got his
bluebird tattoo but that wouldn’t be
true.” “Where
did he get it?” “Somewhere
in Edison,” Arlin replied, as he opened
one of the doors to let his grandfather
enter, “Some freaky establishment rated
the number one tattoo parlor in New
Jersey. Nothing but the best for my
dad.” “So
how did know about this place?” Chester
asked again, as he stopped and stood
staring at the giant photographs of
dragons and skulls and naked ladies
hanging on the sky-blue walls of the
space. “Cuz
I got a tattoo here.” “Jesus,
Mary and Joseph!” Chester exclaimed,
shocked but a little impressed, “You’re a
regular gangster! When did this
happen?” “I
got it on my sixteenth birthday,” Arlin
answered, in a low voice, as a very
attractive young woman approached them,
“Used a fake ID,” he whispered. “You
did, did you?! Well, we’ll talk more
about that later,” Chester whispered back. “Good
afternoon, gentlemen. My name is
Audrey. How may I help you?” Her
dark hair was pulled back in a long pony
tail exposing a neck circled in yellow
butterflies. She wore a blue
sleeveless tee shirt, with a Big T logo on
the front, that allowed her arms the
freedom to display their ‘sleeves’ of red
tattooed roses, intertwined with black
spiders and maroon scorpions. “Let
me guess,” smiled Chester, “You’re a
Scorpio?” “Very
good, pops,” she replied, “and you are a
Capricorn, right?” Chester
felt a little jolt of electricity. “How
did you know that?” “You
have no nonsense written all over you,”
Audrey continued, “You’re practical, super
organized, you count all your pennies and
you’re here to see that your son doesn’t
get rooked by some wicked old tattoo
artist.” “Oh
no, Miss Audrey,” Arlin started to
explain, “this is my granddad and he’s the
one getting the tattoo.” “I’m
not getting a tattoo, yet,” corrected
Chester, “Contrary to my grandson’s
enthusiasm, I’m just sort of window
shopping.” “Well,
you’re welcome to look around and I’m here
to answer any of your questions.” “Thank
you. Actually I do have one to
start.” “Okay,”
Audrey replied, as she stepped behind a
counter filled with silver rings, chains
and other appliances used to fill recent
body piercings, “What do you want to
know?” “In
keeping with your analysis of me being a
penny pincher---” “Oh,
I’m sorry if you felt that I---” “No,
no. You were right. I am very
careful with my money, so what I need to
know is how much does a small tattoo
cost?” “Well,
depending on how elaborate the design is,
it can run you between fifty and a hundred
bucks.” “So
the big ones you see covering a large
area, like your sleeves, must cost
somewhere in the neighborhood of a
thousand dollars?” “Yeah,
but these,” Audrey said, pointing to the
rose gardens growing up her arms, “were
done, at a large discount, by Brian---” “It
gave me,” interrupted a large middle-aged
man coming down the stairs from the second
floor, “a chance to practice my floral
talent.” His voice was as big as his torso
and it filled the room. He had a
mullet of bleached-blond hair and was
dressed in jeans and a hooded sweat shirt
with the, now familiar, Big T emblazoned
on the back. A tattoo of some kind
of snake climbed up the side of his neck
and rested its head on his cheek.
His week-old beard made the reptile look
like it was lurking in a patch of grass. “Hey
kid,” the big guy barked, turning toward
Arlin, “How’s your tat holding up?” “Ah,
hi Brian,” Arlin replied, looking like he
was caught cheating in class, “Brian did
my tattoo last year. Ah, Brian this
is my granddad.” “It’s
a pair of lips, you know, like a lipstick
kiss, on the left cheek---" Brian
explained as he shook Chester’s hand,
“---of his ass.” When he saw
Chester’s reaction, he began to stammer, “Oh,
shit! I’m---I’m---damn---me and my
big mouth---I’m sorry---I thought the kid
might've told---I thought you knew.” “Believe
it or not, Brian knows the rules,” stated
Audrey, “We are not allowed to publicly
reveal the design of a tattoo chosen by a
client. It’s all about privacy but
in his enthusiasm, he sometimes forgets.” “Sorry,
kid. So you come by for another
tat? Maybe something for---you know,
like they say, ‘turn the other cheek?’ “Brian!
For god’s sake!” admonished Audrey.
Arlin hurriedly explained, “No—no, it’s
not for me. My grandpa is getting
one this time.” “Hold
on, Arlin,” Chester protested, “I’m still
doing my research. And I’m getting
hungry. We haven’t had any
lunch. You must be starving.
Can you folks recommend a place where we
can grab a bite?” “Well,
many of the fast-food joints are closed
for the winter,” Audrey explained. “But
I’m sure the Philly Steak place is still
open and it’s close by,” Brian added,
taking the time to give them directions.
“But we’ll see ya later, okay?”
The Discussion
There
weren’t many
other people
in the
restaurant
enjoying the
hero sandwich,
known as a
Philly Steak,
but Arlin and
Chester were
really into
it. “I’d
forgotten how
good this is,”
mumbled
Chester, his
mouth stuffed
with shredded
beef, green
peppers,
onions and
cheese, “when
it’s made
correctly!” Arlin
simply nodded. When
the meal was
done and they
were left
sucking the
last of their
Diet Cokes
through paper
straws that
were getting
soggy, Chester
spoke up. “Okay,
Arlin.
We need to get
a few things
straight.” “Uh
oh.
Sounds
serious.
I don’t like
it when the
conversation
gets serious.” “I’m
sure you don’t
but, as your
grandfather, I
have a
responsibility
to see that
you are not
getting into
trouble.
When I agreed
to your offer
to help me I
was pleased
that you
wanted to
spend time
with me.
It’s been
years since
you’ve been
able to
squeeze in a
visit with
your old
granddad.
And I realize
how busy you
are with
school and
friends---” “Pretty
busy but,
you’re
right.
It’s been too
long.” “And
you’ve
changed.
Of course,
you’ve
changed.
You’re growing
up and I
realize you’ve
got to do your
teenage
rebellion
thing but this
deal with a
fake ID and
being underage
and getting a
tattoo on
your---posterior,
this troubles
me.” “It’s
no big
deal---” “It
is to
me. Now,
I know it’s
over and it’s
done deal
but—” “Are
you going to
tell dad?” “No,
of course
not.
That’s in the
past and what
good would it
do to bring it
up now but I
am concerned
about the
future.
Are there any
other things I
don’t know
about my
favorite
grandson?
Any surprises
down the
road?
Alcohol?” “Nope.
I don’t drink
‘cause I don’t
like the
taste, and the
hangovers are
no fun.” “Drugs?” “Oh,
come on,
grandpa!
Do I look like
a junkie?” “Okay,
alright.
I’m
sorry.
It’s just that
it’s such a
crazy world
these days. I
mean pot is
legal
now---not for
you,
yet.
You’re still
underage
but---"
Chester took a
couple of
dollars out of
his wallet and
put them on
the table as a
tip, “you
never know.” “Thanks
for lunch,
gramps.
It was really
good,” Arlin
said, hoping
to change the
subject. “You
ready to go
back?” he
asked as he
rose from his
seat. “Yeah.
Okay, but why
don’t we check
out the
beach?
We could walk
back to the
tattoo parlor
that way.” “It’s
kinda cold,
grandpa, don’t
ya think?” “Are
we wimps?!” “Well,
no---” “So
let’s go.”
The Walk
There
was a cold wind blowing off the ocean but
both of the O’Conner men were too proud to
give in to it. They marched on, over
the uneven sand, rocking side to side like
boats on a stormy sea. It was hard
going and finally Chester had had enough. “Let’s
go over there,” he wheezed, pointing to a
set of wooden stairs leading up to the
boardwalk. “I got to catch my breath.” As
they reached the wide stair unit, Chester
promptly sat down on the second step as if
it were a bench. “Don’t
you want to go on up, “Arlin asked, “and
get out of this shitty weather?” “I
just want to rest here for a minute.” Arlin
began to get concerned. “Are you
okay, gramps?” “Yeah,
sure. Just a little winded, that’s
all.” Arlin
joined Chester on the step and put his arm
around the shoulder of what earlier had
been his usually robust grandfather.
Now, Chester seemed diminished, as if the
wind had blown some part of him away. “What’s
going on, granddad?” Arlin asked softly,
“You really need to get out of this cold.” “I
know.” “Then
let’s go,” Arlin said, as he started to
help Chester get up. “Wait—wait!
Just let me sit here a little longer.” “Now,
you are really scaring me. What’s
wrong grandpa? Tell me.” pleaded Arlin,
getting ready to call 911. “Nothing’s
wrong. I just don’t want to rush---” “Wait
a minute!” Arlin exclaimed, as he began to
understand. “I get it. You’re backing out.
Am I right? You’re
not going to get the tattoo!” “No.
I---I just need to think about it for a
minute. It’s a big step and---” “Grandpa,
what’s bothering you? You scared of
the pain of the needles?” “No,
of course not. When you get to be my age
you have to have a high tolerance for
pain.” “Then
what’s the problem?” After
a short pause Chester let out a deep
sigh. He sat up straight and rubbed
his hands together to warm them up.
When he finally spoke there was a sad edge
to his voice. “I’ve
wanted to get this tattoo for years but
you have to understand that I grew up at a
time when the only men who got tattooed
were sailors, gypsies, ex-cons or Hell’s
Angels. The only woman I knew that
had a tat was the Tattooed Lady in the
circus. Of course, in reality, a lot
of ordinary people had tattoos but, as a
kid, if someone sported a tattoo it meant,
to me, that they were a bad person.” “But
that’s crazy!” Arlin interrupted, “It’s
not like that now.” “I
know. I look around and everybody has a
tattoo; movie stars, ministers,
politicians, fashion models,
doctors---even a certain teenager I
know. It seems like these days
you’re a nobody if you don’t have a
tattoo.” “Right.
So, come on. Join the parade!” “That’s
not my intention. This tattoo, that
I’ve been planning for so long, is not
about showing off. I don’t care if no one
ever sees it. It’s just---" “Kinda
like the one on my butt,” commented Arlin,
“I get it. It’s private. Is it
something to do with grandma
Maureen? Like a heart or a cupid
with a bow and arrow?” “No.
Wherever she is she knows how much I loved
her. She doesn’t need a tattoo to
remind her.” “Then
what is this mysterious tattoo going to
be?” “Well,
I guess it’s going to be nothing if I
don’t get off my ass,” Chester declared,
standing up and turning around to climb
the steps. “Are
we finally off to Big T’s?
Hallelujah! I was turning into a
popsicle!” “But
we have to make one quick stop first.” “Wait
a minute! Is this another delaying
technique?” Arlin asked, as they reached
the top of the stairs and stepped out onto
the boardwalk. “We
didn’t have any dessert with our lunch.” “Yeah,
so what?” “Salt
Water Taffy.”
The Tattoo
Because
the design was very simple and used no
color, just black ink, the procedure took
about an hour. The beauteous Audrey,
working in one of the private rooms,
shaved the area Chester had chosen,
applied some lotion to this patch of
exposed skin and, using her trusty
Cheyenne Hawk electric pen, permanently
etched into his flesh that which he had
requested. She had offered to show
him her portfolio of original designs but
he said it wasn’t necessary as he knew
what he wanted. Arlin
wanted to stay with him during the process
as moral support (more likely because he
wanted to be the first to see the
mysterious design.) However, before
they got started, Chester sent him out
into the main lobby with a book of
Audrey’s design samples and the box of
salt water taffy, to keep him occupied
until the job was done.
After
wiping the finished tattoo with alcohol
and then gently massaging the area with a
soothing lotion, Audrey covered it with a
sheet of Saran Wrap held on with surgical
tape. She gave Chester a small tote
bag containing a tube of salve and a list
of printed instructions. “It
should heal up in a couple of weeks.
Until then, be kind to your new friend.”
The
Reveal
Chester
was zipping up his coat when he exited the
private chamber where Audrey had done her
magic. Arlin leapt up and was about
to hug his grandad when he stopped, for
fear he’d do damage to the new artwork and
maybe cause him pain. “How’d
it go? You okay? Where is it? Can I see?” “I’m
fine. I just need a drink,” Chester
replied, heading for the double doors
leading outside. “Wait!
Wait for me!” Arlin squealed, “Aren’t you
going to show me the freaking tattoo?” “Let’s
go find a bar at the Caesars,” Chester
suggested, “I can get a quick drink and
you can get a coffee. We need to
hurry. We’ve got an hour and a half
drive back to Trenton. I’ve got to
get you back home so you don’t get in
trouble.”
When
they entered
Caesars,
Chester
finally saw
where all the
people were
during the
time he and
Arlin had been
on the
boardwalk.
The hall of
slot machines
was packed
with patrons
pushing
buttons and
lights
flashing and
bells
dinging.
Chester asked
one of the
employees,
dressed as a
centurion,
where the bar
was and he
pointed to a
sign. It
spelled out
‘Toga
Bar.’
Chester
grabbed Arlin
and started
dragging him
toward the
sign, hoping
no one would
notice that
the boy was
underage.
Nobody stopped
them. It
was as if no
one noticed or
cared.
In the dark
blue and green
lights of the
lushly
appointed
saloon they
found a small
table, sat
down and,
seemingly from
out of
nowhere, a
lovely young
maiden,
dressed in a
short
toga-like
costume, stood
at attention
by their side.
“How may I
serve you?” Arlin
had a rude
suggestion
flash by in
his head but
he kept it to
himself. “I’ll
have a
Jamesons on
the rocks,”
Chester
ordered,
“He’ll have a
coffee.” After
the vestral
virgin had
gone, Arlin
took a breath
and started in
on his
grandfather. “What
the hell
grandpa!
Why are you
rushing around
like a
madman?
And why
wouldn’t you
show me your
stupid
tattoo?
I mean, after
all, I got you
here so, at
least, you
could be
decent enough
to share with
me whatever
you had Audrey
draw on you.”
Chester
remained
silent and
suddenly Arlin
understood. “It’s
obscene!
That’s it. You
got a dirty
tattoo!
Oh, you
rascal, you!” At
that moment
the hand
maiden
returned and
placed the
whiskey and
the coffee on
the
table.
Chester
checked the
bill,
reluctantly
paid it, and
took a sip of
his drink. “I’m
right, aren’t
I?” Arlin
continued,
“What is it, a
nude lady, all
boobs and
legs?” “Arlin,
I don’t like
you very much
right now,”
Chester
growled,
gulping down
his whole
drink.
“Come with
me.” He
grabbed the
boy by his
shoulder and
pushed him
toward what
appeared to be
the entrance
to the
restrooms.
Choosing the
door marked
Gladiators he
led him into
the
sea-foam-green
tiled bathroom
and stopped in
the middle of
the space. “I’m
sorry
grandpa.
What’s
happening
now? You
going to spank
me?” he said,
jokingly. Checking
that no one
else was in
the restroom,
Chester opened
his coat and
began
unbuttoning
his shirt. “I
didn’t put my
undershirt
back on.
Audrey said it
was too tight
so I stuck it
in my coat
pocket.”
By this time
his shirt was
fully
unbuttoned and
he was pulling
the shirttails
out of his
pants.
Arlin stared,
as the image,
protected by
plastic wrap,
began to
appear.
Centered, on
his
grandfather’s
chest, was a
tattoo
consisting of
two words:
Chester
was zipping up his coat when he exited the
private chamber where Audrey had done her
magic. Arlin leapt up and was about
to hug his grandad when he stopped, for
fear he’d do damage to the new artwork and
maybe cause him pain.
Chester
was zipping up his coat when he exited the
private chamber where Audrey had done her
magic. Arlin leapt up and was about
to hug his grandad when he stopped, for
fear he’d do damage to the new artwork and
maybe cause him pain.
Chester
was zipping up his coat when he exited the
private chamber where Audrey had done her
magic. Arlin leapt up and was about
to hug his grandad when he stopped, for
fear he’d do damage to the new artwork and
maybe cause him pain.
M I A
BOBBY
After
a moment of
stunned
silence
Arlin’s voice
echoed off the
tiled
walls.
“What the
fuck!
Who’s Mia and
Bobby?” “Arlin,”
Chester
admonished,
“your language
has really
deteriorated.”
He buttoned up
his shirt and
began tucking
it back in his
pants.
“Enough with
the
fucks.
Let’s find the
car and get on
the
road.
It’s getting
late.” “But
what’s with
this ‘Mia
Bobby’ shit?” “Language,
Arlin!
Come on. I’ll
fill you in in
the car.”
The
Story of Bobby
Legions
Robert
Legions the Third was from Glenwood
Georgia, one of the poorest towns in the
state. He himself, however, was not
poor, having been born into the renowned
Legions family, owners of the Legions
Estate (formerly known as the Camellia
Court Plantation) and proud members of the
Sons and Daughters of the
Confederacy. His father was CEO of
Nexatron Electronics, a company located in
Atlanta and specializing in helicopter
navigational systems. It was a very
successful firm and a thousand times more
profitable than raising cotton or rice,
which is what Robert Legions, the First,
struggled with during the dark years after
the Civil War. Bobby the Third was
expected to join his father in the
business but secretly wanted to become a
country singer. However, along came
the Vietnam war which brings us back to
Chester O’Conner and his coming into
contact with Robert (Bobby) Legions.
“Bobby
arrived as a
replacement
for one of our
squad who had
been severely
injured,”
Chester began,
as they passed
exit two on
the Atlantic
City
Expressway, “I
mean, Gary had
had both his
legs blown off
so he wouldn’t
be coming back
anytime
soon---” “Wait
a minute,
grandpa!”
interrupted
Arlin, “You
fought in
Iraq? No one
ever told me
anything about
that!” “No,
Arlin, you’ve
got the wrong
war. It
was a much
earlier
conflict known
as the Vietnam
War. You
probably don’t
know anything
about
it. Way
before your
time,” Chester
explained, as
he stared out
the window at
the bare trees
flying along
by the side of
the highway.
“I never told
anybody,
except your
grandmother,
and I made her
promise not to
tell anyone,
ever.” “But
why?” “Because
I wanted to
forget all of
it. I
didn’t want to
relive it
every time
someone would
ask me to tell
them about
it. It
was bad enough
to have lived
through it, to
have these
nightmares
night after
night---” “I’m
so sorry.”
“See, that’s
the reaction I
knew people
would
have. I
didn’t want to
be a figure of
pity,” Chester
continued,
“although, now
that I hear me
say that, I
realize that
it must have
been pretty
egotistical of
me to think
that anyone
would really
care.” “So
why are you
telling me
now? I
mean, I really
care and I
want to hear
about this, I
mean I really
do, but why
now and why
me?” Chester
didn’t reply
immediately.
It was as
though he was
deciding
whether to
continue on or
not.
After passing
a mile or so
down the
highway he
began. “I’ve
reached the
age when I may
not wake up
tomorrow.” “Aw
grandpa---” “Don’t
interrupt.
It’s just that
I’ve been
feeling lately
that I need to
share my war
experiences
with someone
before I kick
the bucket.
There were
things that
happened to
me, things
that I did---I
don’t want to
have to drag
this fucking
ton of pain
and horror and
guilt, that
has been
riding shotgun
with me all
these years,
into whatever
is waiting for
me in
the---what do
they call
it---'The
Great
Beyond.’
Anyway, when
you offered to
help me with
this tattoo
business it
was like a
sign saying
that the time
had arrived
and that you,
as the
messenger,
were to be the
chosen one,”
Chester began
to chuckle,
“Well, that
sounds like
some fucking
creepy new age
nonsense.”
“No, it
doesn’t,
grandpa.
I think---”