—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain
THE YIN AND YANG OF A TATTOOED MAN
We all called him Chick, the nickname his parents
gave him.
When I knew Chick he was sixty-two to my
forty-one.
We worked together for a textbook publisher.
The oldest proofreader in the pool, he seemed oddly
out of place.
For forty years he had been in the U. S. Navy.
He was tan, muscular, and had many tattoos.
His voice was gruff and coarse.
Only a fluff of curly white hair softened his presence.
So proud was Chick of his tattoos, that he kept the
sleeves of his T-shirts rolled up to his shoulders.
Tattoos covered both of his arms.
The ones I could see were of the common variety—
a ship, an anchor with U. S. Navy printed under it,
a mermaid, and a red heart with the word "Mom"
inside.
He said, with a sly smile, that the best ones were
out of sight.
I must admit I had negative feelings about him
when I first started working there.
As his kindness and patience were revealed, that
changed.
He sensed that I didn't care for his tattoos.
I have never been one to hide such feelings.
Chick lived in the San Gabriel mountains.
He had a wife, children, and grandchildren.
I asked how his wife felt about the tattoos,
most of which he already had when they met.
He said she understood that he was comfortable
with having them and nothing else mattered.
He explained that when a man lives at sea
for months at a time with only other men,
he needs to establish a macho image.
Macho Chick took on another name as a sailor.
His shipmates called him Chaz. Charles, Chaz,
or Chick,
he was, in essence, adorably avuncular.
Although I abhorred his adorned skin, I learned
to appreciate the man inside.
We all called him Chick, the nickname his parents
gave him.
When I knew Chick he was sixty-two to my
forty-one.
We worked together for a textbook publisher.
The oldest proofreader in the pool, he seemed oddly
out of place.
For forty years he had been in the U. S. Navy.
He was tan, muscular, and had many tattoos.
His voice was gruff and coarse.
Only a fluff of curly white hair softened his presence.
So proud was Chick of his tattoos, that he kept the
sleeves of his T-shirts rolled up to his shoulders.
Tattoos covered both of his arms.
The ones I could see were of the common variety—
a ship, an anchor with U. S. Navy printed under it,
a mermaid, and a red heart with the word "Mom"
inside.
He said, with a sly smile, that the best ones were
out of sight.
I must admit I had negative feelings about him
when I first started working there.
As his kindness and patience were revealed, that
changed.
He sensed that I didn't care for his tattoos.
I have never been one to hide such feelings.
Chick lived in the San Gabriel mountains.
He had a wife, children, and grandchildren.
I asked how his wife felt about the tattoos,
most of which he already had when they met.
He said she understood that he was comfortable
with having them and nothing else mattered.
He explained that when a man lives at sea
for months at a time with only other men,
he needs to establish a macho image.
Macho Chick took on another name as a sailor.
His shipmates called him Chaz. Charles, Chaz,
or Chick,
he was, in essence, adorably avuncular.
Although I abhorred his adorned skin, I learned
to appreciate the man inside.
PHONE CALLS
The sound jars my brain.
It rings in my ears, brings me fear and pain.
What's on the other end, I don't want to hear.
Now I just let the telephone ring. Rr-ii-nn-gg.
After four rings, I hear my own recorded voice,
mush-mouthed and aggrieved, giving the caller
a choice:
"You may leave me a message, or simply leave."
Rr-ii-nn-gg! There's a clever young man from
Uganda who uses the name, Henry Fonda.
His soft-spoken tone is like a kiss on the phone.
He has heard of my plight and will help me to
fight the IRS lawsuit that's pending, guaranteeing
a happy ending.
He won't let them harass or harm me,
and he doesn't want to alarm me.
Rr-ii-nn-gg! A cheery woman calls with
wonderful news.
I am a winner and get to choose,
a vacation for two in Cancun, or
be a passenger on the first voyage to the moon.
While my mind is spinning with the prospect
of winning,
she shouts and giggles at once,
"Stop tickling me Eddie, you dunce."
Rr-ii-nn-gg! It's a call from a man offering me
cremation.
All of the finest folks do it.
He will take my lifeless corpse and reduce it to suet,
spread my ashes on the surface of the sea.
In other words, he wants to make fish food of me,
or release me to the wind from a hilltop high
to become dust flurries floating in the sky.
Should I prefer, I could remain on a mantle in
an urn
as my permanent resting place after the burn.
Rr-ii-nn-gg! The most frightening of all the calls
came at night.
"Police!" he said, when I answered the phone from
my bed.
"We're right outside. Buzz us in. We're following
a code red."
I put down the phone and walked to the window.
There was nothing in sight.
I picked up the receiver to hear a horrible laugh,
and knew I was awakened to be the butt of an
The sound jars my brain.
It rings in my ears, brings me fear and pain.
What's on the other end, I don't want to hear.
Now I just let the telephone ring. Rr-ii-nn-gg.
After four rings, I hear my own recorded voice,
mush-mouthed and aggrieved, giving the caller
a choice:
"You may leave me a message, or simply leave."
Rr-ii-nn-gg! There's a clever young man from
Uganda who uses the name, Henry Fonda.
His soft-spoken tone is like a kiss on the phone.
He has heard of my plight and will help me to
fight the IRS lawsuit that's pending, guaranteeing
a happy ending.
He won't let them harass or harm me,
and he doesn't want to alarm me.
Rr-ii-nn-gg! A cheery woman calls with
wonderful news.
I am a winner and get to choose,
a vacation for two in Cancun, or
be a passenger on the first voyage to the moon.
While my mind is spinning with the prospect
of winning,
she shouts and giggles at once,
"Stop tickling me Eddie, you dunce."
Rr-ii-nn-gg! It's a call from a man offering me
cremation.
All of the finest folks do it.
He will take my lifeless corpse and reduce it to suet,
spread my ashes on the surface of the sea.
In other words, he wants to make fish food of me,
or release me to the wind from a hilltop high
to become dust flurries floating in the sky.
Should I prefer, I could remain on a mantle in
an urn
as my permanent resting place after the burn.
Rr-ii-nn-gg! The most frightening of all the calls
came at night.
"Police!" he said, when I answered the phone from
my bed.
"We're right outside. Buzz us in. We're following
a code red."
I put down the phone and walked to the window.
There was nothing in sight.
I picked up the receiver to hear a horrible laugh,
and knew I was awakened to be the butt of an
idiot's gaffe.
SOUNDS OF FEAR
I was twelve years old with not much athletic
ability,
I ran with the speed of a confused spider,
with desperation, as fast as I could
to the staccato beat of my heart's rhythm.
He followed close, his intake and release of breath
an accompaniment to the drumming of my heart,
chatter of my teeth, the clicking in my cranium.
We each had a goal, a focus, his to catch me, mine
escape.
The stronger goal would win, I had to believe it
was mine.
We were a foot apart, our young legs spiraling
like bicycle wheels, as we rounded the corner of
Cooksey and Helm.
It was then I felt a sharp, sticking pain in my side,
I tried to muffle my "Augh!"
I could hear Jerry puffing, laughing, and jeering as
I slowed.
I clutched the side of my body and fell to the
ground.
Jerry grabbed my arm as though ready to take
what was his,
right there on the sidewalk in the middle of a
June afternoon.
I heard him pant with excitement and began to cry.
I was shaken,
but soon relieved by another sound, an angry voice,
and Jerry was being pulled off me. Jerry's father
then helped me up.
He was blushing and apologetic, concerned and
kind.
The father slapped his son stingingly across
the face,
leaving a rose-colored mark on Jerry's chubby left
cheek.
We walked to my building. The man had one hand
on my shoulder,
while he clutched Jerry's hand like a vise with the
other. He told me,
he'd see to it that Jerry never came near me again.
__________________
Today’s LittleNip:
I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.
―Sarah Williams
__________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Linda Klein for today’s fine poetry!
I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.
―Sarah Williams
__________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Linda Klein for today’s fine poetry!
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(A cookie from the Kitchen for today):
first snow?
just leaves
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