Big Fish

Big Fish

(Originally published in the George Street Carnival 2013)

You’ve always wanted to swim with sharks—at least that’s what you tell yourself as you tuck the black nine millimeter into the back of your waistband, and step out into the heat.

You walk two blocks watching people, a large man with dark sunglass and a half open military style shirt nearly brushes against you on the narrow cobbled sidewalk. You decide it was unintentional and you keep moving.

You round the corner and duck inside a closet-sized bar. The ceiling fan limps along as you swing your leg over a stool. “Cerveza, por favor.” The worn woman behind the bar cocks an eyebrow. Her hair is a flat black color in the dim lighting and the circles under her eyes will never be gone.

“Will that be everything?”

“Si,” you respond, like you aren’t a fucking gringo.

The tired worker off his shift didn’t even look your way, didn’t even roll his eyes or twitch his mustache, but he was taken care of, and so was she.

In fact most of the people you deal with are taken care of in one way or another. She was supposed to shut up, take a check, and conduct business as usual. The worker is her husband, and he hates you and your kind, and there isn’t a fucking thing he can do about it because he needs the money, but then again doesn’t everybody?

 

You finish the beer and step back into the Miami sun or “Me-ami” depending on what side of the fence your parents hail from. You are one of the many whom sit on that fence with a white mother and a Mexican father.

 

You can’t even speak the language past enough to get you laid by the delicate and rich northern girls who come to Miami to drink freely and crisp in the sun. They tell you they’re jealous of your tan and they’re always surprised by your ability to speak English ‘cause they think you’re some sort of bus-boy or illegal. They can’t believe how nice your apartment is and they always ask you if you love living in Miami.

You tell them it has its perks—usually the sunset, and the beach, and the ocean. Sometimes they ask you what you do and you tell them you study sharks, their feeding habits specifically. They think that’s dangerous, and they think you’re a good time, and then they leave, and a new wave comes in every season.

You’ve walked two more blocks and you can feel the brewery churning in your stomach. You lean against a building and wipe the sweat from your forehead with the back of your hand. The pistol has heated up against you—your skin is starting to sweat.

You turn right around the corner and the studio you’re looking for stands just at the edge of the street. A cop car is parked out front. The amateur in you wants to turn around, but now that you’re on the street you know it’s too late. You stride at an even pace, feeling the hot metal scrape back and forth with each step.

You cross the street and begin walking up behind the police car. The engine is not on, though a uniformed officer is watching you in his mirrors. You divert your eyes away, realize your mistake and pull your phone from your pocket, pretending to press a button and hold it up to your ear. “Hola Joaquin, Que pasa?” If the officer is fluent in Spanish you’re done. You pause. “Si, Si, puedo comprar, no estoy trabajando.” The officer is still watching you, so you make one last move. You turn towards the officer and put on your best accent. “Escuse me officer, need to buy tools, where can I go?” The officer raises his eyebrows over his sunglasses and looks up at you.

“There’s a small place, on the corner of Lacienega and Charlotte.”

“Tank you.”

You know that the corner of Lacienega and Charlotte is about six blocks in the opposite direction. You had to buy a cro-bar from their once and the guy behind the counter hesitated to sell it to you, asked you what you needed it for. You said remodeling. He asked what, you said a porch. He asked what you were going to put in instead, and you said concrete. He looked you over, opened his mouth, and stopped.

He took your money and handed you the cro-bar. The officer calls out to you and you turn around.

“Lacienega and Charlotte is back that way.” He jerks his thumb out the window as he says it.

“Oh, gracias,” you reply and begin walking the other way, away from the studio.

“Hey, I’m just about off my shift, do you want a lift? It’s a long hike in this heat.”

Now you’ve fucking done it. You’ve made yourself appear so incompetent that the cop wants to help you out. You know the longer you wait the worse it will get.

You know that you don’t want to get into a cop car with a loaded handgun.

“No, no, my girlfriend say I need the exercise.” And you flash a big toothy immigrant smile and laugh just like your dad used to at the Three Stooges—from the stomach with all his might.

“Don’t we all? Take care.” Smiling, he starts the ignition and pulls away. You walk in the direction of the hardware store and listen as the cop’s engine becomes more distant.

You duck into a side entrance of the building—a complex that has a couple different shops and follow the signs that point you to the direction of Royal Ink Tattoo Parlor.

You decide to take the stairs to the third floor. The air-conditioning dries your skin and turns the gun to an ice-cube on your lower back. The building is being renovated and you notice big white squares painted over graffiti in the stairwell.

These city people can’t stand the sight of graffiti—these pretend city people, the ones who have never missed their rent payment or don’t know the alleyways at night. The city people who don’t take the bus and are more concerned with getting an even tan than finding a way out of the heat. The city people who don’t have to listen to the cockroaches fuck on their dinner plates as they lay in a hot restless sleep, on a bed that’s barely big enough, but nearly fills up the shitty one-bedroom apartment.

You and the rest of those like you just live with the graffiti because it’s one of the few things with any real color in the slums.

You enter the waiting area of the tattoo shop, Mike looks up at you from the desk and his eyes widen. He tells you that he doesn’t have the money.

You ask if that is what the patrol car was for and he doesn’t answer you. You tell him that it’s okay, that if he was anyone else, or you were anyone else things would be different. You tell him that you’ve worked something out, that he’s going to tattoo you as compensation for all the coke that found its way up his nose.

He doesn’t buy it at first, mainly because he knows how much he owes you. You start telling him what you want—a half sleeve with an old school theme. You tell him you want pure Americana in permanent ink: anchors, ships, stars, sharks and maybe even a pin-up girl.

Mike asks you what the difference is between a shark and a girl. You tell him that one of two has a one track mind, and he laughs, but doesn’t ask you which one. As he turns around to start his sketch you move the pistol from the back of your waistband to the front. You sit down and wait as he begins to draw.

When he’s done he shows you what he’s thinking, waiting for your approval. You nod, tell him you want it and tell him to get it ready. He tells you he’s got to print out the stencils, but you can take a seat in the chair.

You have your back to him when you take your shirt off, you pull the gun out and wrap it in the shirt and sit it on top of a shelf. You sit in the chair and Mike gets to work. He talks off and on about little things, mostly the tattoo, and coloring, and if you like it. You nod and smile.

There is no one else in the shop, the closed sign is already hung up and the empty chairs and the still tools make give your tattoo reverence.

You try to enjoy the pain, much like you try to enjoy the heat and the sweat that stings your eyes when you’re walking in the sun.

When he’s done you tell him the truth: that you love it, and you can’t believe what an amazing job he’s done. You tell him you’ll show it off to everyone you know and let them know where they can get the same quality of work done. He wraps it up for you and tells you to take care of it—avoid direct sunlight, let it heal.

You tell him about sharks, how the interesting thing about them is that they never blink. He starts cleaning his tools, listening to you. You stand up and walk over to your shirt, turn around, look Mike right in the face, and shoot him three times in the chest.

You always wanted to swim with sharks, you never thought you’d become one.