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“You don’t have to do that.”
“Tit for tat. As a professional, you are honor bound to fix my fire hazard, and therefore I am honor bound to help you with the house. We’re stuck with each other.” He points me to the recliner and pulls out a lounge chair for himself. “Grab something from the fridge.”
I open it to see rows of soda.
He glances over my shoulder. “Er, by drink, I probably implied at least beer, didn’t I? I’ll grab one from the store. Do you prefer Bud or Bud?”
I smile and take out an orange soda. “This is perfect.”
“I don’t have a problem with alcohol,” he says. “In case you were wondering.”
“I wasn’t.”
I suspect he does have a problem with booze, the sort that comes from growing up with a mean drunk for a dad. I don’t drink often myself, for an adjacent reason.
My parents both drank too much, but it never made them mean, much less abusive. When Dad drank, he regressed to an irresponsible teen, which wasn’t much different than his usual self. When he’d been drinking, he’d wake me at one in the morning to come and listen to coyotes with him, and then spend the night telling me stories, forgetting that I had school the next morning. As for Mom, drunk was the only time she told me she loved me, hugged me, giggled with me. I liked my parents drunk. So I grew up drinking a little more than I should, and while I never reached problem status, I saw it on my horizon and set hard limits. I suspect—given Tom’s experience—his own limit is zero.
From the trunk, he pulls out the promised cheese puffs, along with pretzels and peanuts. “Party in a box. I don’t do much entertaining out here, but I like to come up myself most nights. Watch the stars instead of the TV. Maybe listen to a podcast.”
“Which ones do you like?” I ask.
I’ve never listened to one in my life, but it’s a way to get him talking, and I am interested. I figure podcasts are like books—which ones a person likes tells you more about them than their tastes in music or sports. As we settle into our chairs, he talks about his favorites. History is his thing, apparently. Not true crime—I hear those are popular—but real history, long and detailed retellings. When he raves about a ten-hour history of the Mongol invasions, I listen, my eyes closed, more relaxed than I have been in months. The smell of the swamp wafts over on a breeze so humid I could drink it. A truck roars by, country music blasting, gravel spitting. Somewhere in the distance, a woman laughs, and a man joins in.
I am home. Sitting on a rooftop in the evening heat, listening to Tom, sipping my orange soda and licking cheese dust off my fingers.
He peppers his conversation with questions. Nothing intrusive. Just “getting to know you” stuff that I can honestly answer. How did I get into carpentry? What do I like best about it? What kinds of projects do I prefer?
I turn the questions back his way and only get to “How did you get into auto mechanics?” before he pauses. I quickly add, “I know you said you studied aviation mechanics,” to show I’d been listening, but he still hesitates.
I glance over, wondering what I’ve said wrong. Then I have the answer to my question as my gaze drops to his arm. To a prison tattoo.
I’m about to change the subject when he sees where I’m looking and gives a wry chuckle. “That’s not as inconspicuous as I like to pretend, is it?”
“Hmm?” I say, taking a handful of pretzels.
“You can tell I didn’t get it in a tattoo parlor.”
I shrug. “I work in construction. I’ve seen a few. I’m sure most people don’t know what it is.”
“So I tell myself. The truth is...” He shrugs. “Most people save their pennies for a new car or a European vacation. I’m saving mine for tattoo removal.”
I smile. “Regretting that decision, are you?”
“I regret a whole lotta decisions. That one, though? There wasn’t any choice involved.”
I go still, soda bottle halfway to my lips. Then I glance over. “I’m sorry. That was flippant and thoughtless.”
“No, it was the reasonable assumption. I usually go along with it. Better than admitting I couldn’t stop someone from doing it to me.”
“I’m still sorry. For the comment and for...” I nod at his arm.
“Thank you. There was a time when I didn’t give a shit. I committed the crime and did the time, and it made me a better man. Smarter one, at least. I already had this one.” He points at a gorgeous small design that turns the state of Florida into a stylized tomahawk. “I added a couple others later so the prison one would just blend in, you know? But it doesn’t blend. It’ll come off in a few months.”
We sit and look up at the sky filling with stars.
“You’re not going to ask, are you?” he says finally.
“Ask what?”
