Imperial Ink
In the world of lost fathers, I am the King or maybe just the guy left holding the keys for my son, Trevor. He’s busy now, mid-thirties, divorced, a son of his own. Am I a little jealous of his youth, all the good times ahead, the chance to see his twelve-year old son, Trevor Jr, grow into a man? Sure, a little, so when he says, Let’s get matching tattoos, Dad. I say, Hell yeah, let’s go.
He drives my decades-old, baby blue Honda because he crashed his Tesla into Lake Brandt, showing off for his new girlfriend, Brianna, which he didn’t tell me about, but I saw on his Facebook, and we head downtown to Imperial Ink.
The artist’s name is Zeke, and I don’t see a single tattoo on his exposed wrists or hands and wonder what sort of tattoo artist doesn’t have tattoos of his own, though I suppose he could have a dozen hidden by his black jeans and long-sleeved black Green Day T-shirt.
Trevor and I settle on a capital C, the first letter of our last name, Cooper, on our right shoulders. He asks if I’ll go first, and I agree to, and while it hurts a little, it’s not as bad as I imagined. Think dental work on your flesh. I keep my eyes closed and count from one to a hundred and back again, something my therapist said helps in most stressful situations.
When I open them, Trevor is nowhere in sight, but I see my Civic speed by the front window. I’m going to kill that little shit. After calming down, I realize the tattoo gun isn’t hurting as much, and that Zeke smells like some combination of bananas and marijuana. Tell me about your father, I say.
Zeke smiles and says, He was something, really something.
Do you think of him often? I ask.
Zeke pauses, the tattoo gun an inch from my already-puckering flesh and says, No, not enough.
Departures
If you had one wish, Claire said, what would it be?
More time with you, I said.
She zipped up her suitcase. Well, Roger, I’d wish for you to have a great life, full of adventures and whatever you wanted.
But this is a great life, I tried.
Really? This was enough for you? she asked as she walked past me, refusing to let me help with the two suitcases.
I didn’t see Claire again until six months later at a Motley Crue concert in Charlotte with some muscled-up bald guy. I sidled over to the them—it was standing room only, general admission—and lifted my arms in the air, like the 20,000 other people in the room and sang, He’s the one they call Dr. Feelgood, as loud as I could. The bald dude nodded at my enthusiasm. He said something to Claire, who looked at me wide-eyed, then smiled as if she were proud of me; she even reached for my arm, but I stepped away, disappearing into the crowd, onto my new and better life, or so I told myself.
Steve Cushman: “I do tend to write a lot of domestic fiction and poetry and these fall in that category. They’re also all about loss, whether a parent or a relationship or the way things fall apart. I’m always excited about writing flash because, like poetry, it allows me to really compress and try to get to the heart of things. Or, at least, how I see them.”