July 30, 2017
It’s time. Gather up, children, around the tree, come on! Hurry and rest around the bark, I want to tell you a story. It’s a very upsetting tragedy in a small town that deals with a man, a woman, and their unrecognized love that is on its worldly end. Listen children, carefully. To every whisper and detail, because this story has an end, but hinted throughout from the irony of life and shown through a pattern of worldly chaos, through a life of constant defeat and a single victory.
It began with the rain, slowly, willingly falling from the dark clouds above, making the scorched dirt into a soupy heap of muck, while the cacti stood like monuments to the sky. Thunder rumbled with rage, building up, then slowly subsiding, while the cold-blooded creatures of the Sonora Desert were resting and avoiding (but at the same time cherishing) the chilling winds from this steady storm. The mountains blackened the horizon, only periodically lit from the neon-blue streaks of lightning coming from the gray sky, incubated perfectly with friction, pressure, and most of all, heat. This is nature’s natural rage, rage toward pollution, rage toward global warming, rage toward humanity. Besides the thunder, there was no sound but the tapping of the rain onto the concrete roads in a well-timed pace, while it drizzled down with an absolute sense of detest toward itself. Everything was colorless without the rage: the animals, the buildings, and the desert filled with its low, prickly cacti, all casting even darker silhouettes than night can offer. Except for one pair of police headlights, with an engine noise growling steadily, in a way harmonizing with the rain from the car’s idleness and vibrations.
The dark outline behind the driver’s seat window stared lazily at the rhythm of the raindrops tapping on the front windows, tap…tap…tap. In his free time, he lifted weights, never breaking his record, never growing stronger than he already was, as every day he lifted the same light weights. Old age slows down the growth of muscle, but Mark Wegman never thought he was old. He had brown hair and five o’clock shadow flooded with individual grays, a forehead with deeply imprinted wrinkles, as well as well-defined hands and a body full of many forgotten scars, but he still saw himself as twenty-three—as the heroic, muscular magician, marine, lover, father, and motivator for all. Those bright green eyes were the same, this was true; those young, passionate eyes had always been the same.
However, there was one major difference between then and now that separated him from being the man he was before. A difference that he had been struggling with every day for the past twenty years and, in one way or another, would struggle with for the rest of his life. It was every individual struggle, every disaster that had taken hold of him and his own family. Each one, carrying its own level of strength, its own weight of guilt toward his inability to control, weighing on one side of a scale, with the other side being sanity, tolerance, acceptance. These were his demons: they were a legion, roaming freely in Mark with contentment, satisfaction, and comfort. Each one, very glad to be there as much as the other, as if Mark’s mind were a private, gated community with notoriety in its higher status. But there was one demon that was significantly larger, more ruthless and active, making the others seem petty, almost meaningless. This demon was the reason why Mark was so unstable, why he stared at the rain the way he did.
This demon was the memory of her in their youth. Her rosy cheeks, lovely brown hair, and chocolate-colored eyes.
She’s like an angel from heaven, he’d always thought. Now Mark looked at a chipped pine-green door and longed to see Mary standing in health, smiling with intent to hug, paint, cook, and cry tears he never could. But behind the door lay a sick woman, who could only cry, couldn’t cook or draw, but (as he knew with certainty) needed his love.
Her immune system made visitations risky, though. Only a lone nurse could enter and only to adjust the singular air-conditioning unit on the windowsill and to change her IV medications hanging on that solid white pole. Mark could hear her whistles on the other side of the door (but could never distinguish the difference between her and the air-conditioning unit, as they both exhaled with such effort). He then decided that he had a choice: to see her one last time and both die from this degenerating airborne illness, or to wait for the single nurse to strike eureka and give them the freedom to spend whatever their youth had left to offer. For now, though, he could only visit her through frantic panic as the memories flushed through his eyes, while he moaned and cried on the floor as the dwelling thoughts continued to torment him, as the scale of sanity began to lean more toward chaos.
Then, while he continued to gaze through the rain in his idling police car, almost out of nowhere, Mark Wegman began to smirk. It was a devilish smirk that sparkled through the muscles from his aged face, which soon morphed into a wild grin, then a hysterical fit of laughter, uncontrollable and frightening. He thought of stopping—in fact, Mark wanted to stop—but like a cat who has been drawn by curiosity, he had no power. Tears rolled down as his deep laugh continued, as he pounded his hand on the driver’s window and stomped his foot like a mad dog. Then, as swiftly as it began, it ended, all the insanity. The unwavering urge to laugh off his present madness ended. He then continued to stare nowhere in particular, just at the raindrops, streaks of wet residue left on his face—he didn’t bother to acknowledge it. The scale, once so balanced, now stood crooked as his sanity slipped from sight, and madness now powered his ATP, exiting the mitochondria of his cells, powered by every breath he took, then released through every step taken. His hatred seeped through his pores; his despair leaked through his eyes. Mark was no longer a ticking time bomb but more like a mine in the jungle of Vietnam—a little weight on his shoulders and everything would fall apart. The world would know his name.
The silence was interrupted when his phone began to vibrate violently. Mark reached deep and picked it out, always hoping it was Mary, her wonderful voice shining like it did once before. His phone was an old Motorola Microtac 9800X from 1989, nicked and tattered in so many places, as a twenty-five-year-old phone should be. He found comfort in its consistent dark gray color, the single antenna, and the simplicity. Mark saw who it was and quickly opened it, like a child reaching for a twenty-five-cent gumball.
“Hey Mark, I was wondering if you and your wife would enjoy some Mama’s Pizza! I brought a family size into the station and a medium for you and Mary! The pizza is fantastic, and she might eat a little once she smells the delectable pepperoni! The healing powers of pizza are always surprising!” Mark smiled again and responded.
“Mary and I would love that.”
“Well look out your window, I’m right here. Thought I’d drop by so your night isn’t such a drag.”
Mark quickly turned his head and saw Tom knocking on his window. His dark skin, jet-black hair trimmed short, and skinny composition were a warm sight to Mark, like the unrecognizable scent of childhood or a reunion back to your hometown after decades of absence. The police officer remembered continuous nights of them together at the marine station, drinking soda and eating spaghetti with Mary. Mark loved Tom like a son.
“It’s a slow night,” Mark later stated while glancing at the raindrops, Tom sitting by his side with a feather-light smile.
“That’s great! This means no crime!”
“No, there’s always someone lurking. Someone we can’t trust—I can feel it tonight. I can feel the need for justice and authority.” Mark’s voice became dark like the air.
“Mark,” said Tom. “Tonight’s a good night, with good intentions. Even when times are rough, you can trust that God is with you.” Tom turned on the radio, and a country song about the western frontier was on.
“You’re right Tom,” Mark happily stated, although he was slightly bitter toward God’s name.
The police radio rang and Mark picked it up. Tom was already gone. In fact, Tom disappeared long before. Mark imagined Tom setting up the medium pizza with pepperoni at his house, maybe giving the nurse two slices, one for her and one for Mary. The nurse might shake her head and demand that it simply does not fit in Mary’s liquid-based diet, but Mark trusted that Tom could get it past the nurse. There was still a long night ahead for Mark.
“Mark,” the old, portable Bearcat BC200XLT blurted out through its ancient speakers. “We have a call on a suspicious character driving around in a yellow Toyota Camry at the neighborhood on Sixth Avenue and Elm Street.”
Mark swiped up his radio with quickness and responded, “I’m on North Sixth Avenue and Speedway, I can check it out.” He set the Bearcat down, revved the police car in cocky, explosive joy, and sped down the road with exhilaration.
The town was silent; water gathered in multiple corners of the cracked street, and rain poured from the sky. No one was out because of the harsh storm, so this poorly cared-for town was eerie, an incubator for unlawful acts, or so Mark desired. Action, adrenaline, a chase against time, chancing his cards with death. A drunk homeless man like in Grand Theft Auto would have been like a flakey almond and butter-coated bear claw to Mark. Or even better, if there were also a child in the back seat, hysterically crying, wetting their trousers, and gasping for air. Mark would then get shot, and in his final breath of consciousness, he would shoot the bastard right in the creases of his forehead for everything that stood for justice. This was what he dreamed about. Yes, he had a gun. He had snuck it into his car without anyone’s prior knowledge that morning, since he was only a community resource officer. This yellow Toyota Camry, what do you have to promise? Mark thought. A raffle, with promise for something more than teenagers past curfew, neighbors bothered by loud music, and sometimes even periodic prank calls. Yet as Mark dreamed on his way toward every case, he deeply and darkly craved.
There was another goal, though. Another craving, another haunting desire on his way to any call. Aaron, Mark thought, I’m going to prove you wrong.
The car spun down toward the intersection of North Sixth Avenue and Speedway, with an unnecessary siren echoing through the city. The drive wasn’t long, and when he reached his destination, he swerved onto the slightly elevated road. There was clear water running down the street. Mark passed the sign reading East Elm Street, only visible with those shimmering headlights. “Toyota Camry, yellow,” Mark whispered under his breath. “Toyota Camry, yellow…Toyota Camry, yellow…Toyota Camry, yellow…” Then he found the suspicious car.
Mark slowed abruptly.
Why prove Aaron wrong? Aaron controlled Mark’s calls; he controlled his contribution; that’s why they always called him directly through the Bearcat, called him by name. Mark wasn’t dumb. He knew Aaron was the one who enforced it. Aaron knew how much stress was on Mark’s shoulders, but Wegman had cravings—he desired something more.
Mark’s lights warned the other driver, but the siren helped him understand. The Camry was being signaled, and the driver finally caught on. The yellow Toyota Camry pulled off to the side of the residential road.
Mark then waited as he recorded the license plate through the Bearcat back to the station, but this didn’t take more than fifteen seconds at most; he also waited for something more. Maybe a chase would begin, maybe the driver would take his chances on the road instead of the law. Mark dreamed, but nothing. Then soon he began to feel uneasy, a little frightened himself, but Mark didn’t understand why. After about five minutes, nothing. He smirked and decided it was time to end the charade. The officer reached for the door and an old-school ticket book, then stepped out into the damp atmosphere. He was killing time like the car ride, creeping his way over through a stroll between the gap from his window and the Toyota trying to build tension. A slow, prideful, and empowering walk many police officers practice, but his was especially slow, one soft step after the next, knowing that after the arrest, there’d be nothing to do for the rest of the night. That’s how Aaron worked; Mark hated Aaron. He studied the car, the old yellow Toyota Camry with the paint chipped off every corner. Mark took note of everything.
“Probably bought at a yard sale,” he grunted while chuckling as light as a feather and feeling his well-aged hand over the Camry. Chipping off the paint, expanding the Malaria-colored chipped corners, a color between faint yellow and camo green, until he finally made it to the driver’s window. Mark then knocked on the Camry, and ever so slowly, the driver of the vehicle manually cranked the creaky window down.
“License and regist–“
“Here you go, officer,” the young boy squeaked and passed over the car’s information. He then turned back to the Camry’s ancient squealing vents and attempted to stay warm.
Mark glared at the boy and smiled. I’ll have fun reading your rights while I push your face in the mud, he thought. The police officer then began to look at the paperwork given to him, getting drenched in the rain. Mark couldn’t care less. He first studied the registration, then the license, searching for what he usually found in his runs: children past curfew. On it was a picture of the same boy with short, thin brown hair, more color and weight than he presently wore, as well as his same glowing blue eyes, much fainter in his current appearance. The boy also smiled brightly in the photo; you could see the excitement on his face. Mark found it to be tacky.
“Mr. Tyler…Castillo.” Mark paused for a few seconds to glare at the boy. “You’re sixteen. Is this correct?”
“That is correct.”
“And you are driving this late at night, is that right?”
“Yes,” Tyler Castillo said with guiltless acceptance. Mark raised his eyebrows, but with more anger than shock.
“And why is that?”
“Because I was born sixteen years ago.”
“That’s not what I asked. Why are you out this late at night? You do realize that curfew is at ten.”
“Well, if I understand correctly, it’s nine forty-five. I haven’t broken curfew, officer. May I please go? I have an emergency.” Tyler added his usual know-it-all stresses, emphasizing and extending the two L’s in “well.”
“Oh? I didn’t know I was talking to a wise mouth. Please go on, please tell me about this…emergency,” Mark said with a dangerous spark in his voice and a sly smile. The boy at first didn’t know what to say, blown away by this immediate change in emotion but not as afraid of Mark as a sixteen-year-old should be, not even close. Tyler was afraid, though, but not of the police officer before him—he was afraid of something else. Mark saw this and felt incompetent, a little uneasy.
“I-I believe you’re stepping out of your boundaries, officer. I don’t have to give you that information.” The boy shivered.
“Is that so?” Mark said with his smile, unchanged.
Another very brief silence occurred while Mark glared, hoping to frighten him, to make him believe that Mark was contemplating something, and a good ol’ stare at Tyler would be the deciding factor for this unknown choice he would make. Mark was making no decisions, but he was staring at Tyler for another reason. Mark was searching for an accusation, something illegal.
Mark Wegman did notice features he hadn’t seen before, like the hoodie over his head, the car heater whistling faster than needed—ignore the similarities, ignore the whistles—his yellow teeth and a small red spot on the back of Tyler’s hand from a needle prick. Mark guessed they were all drug related. Tyler had to weigh less than a hundred pounds, his clothes baggy and worn but not too large. Tyler shrank. He was pale and sick. His lips had no hint of red. They were as pale as his old Nokia. How could he be driving in his condition? He even talked with a little flare in his voice. Was he on drugs? He must have been. There is no way a boy like this could even function right now. Then Mark saw it. It was a prescribed bottle of morphine, and it seemed empty. He’s a junkie, Mark thought. Popping these pills and waiting for the next high. Shivering and shaking like a junkie would, slowly losing control as he drifts farther away from his last hookup. Oh yes, he’s a junkie, and he’s all mine. Mark’s scheming grin widened beyond belief, and he could barely keep in squeals of excitement.
“Wait here,” Mark told Tyler as he almost sprinted between the gap from one car to the next, the blue-and-red lights occupying the black, damp atmosphere.
“Please officer, I have to go,” Tyler yelped.
“If you can’t tell me, then it must not be that important, and if you drive off I’ll take you in for resisting arrest,” Mark yelled over his shoulder, not even attempting to hide his joy—thrill that Tyler mistook for insanity. He thought of driving away out of desperation but didn’t.
“You can’t do this, you don’t have a reason for pulling me over,” Tyler yelled out the window in one final attempt.
“Oh but I do, my own personal junkie,” Mark uttered to himself while opening his car door and speaking into his old Bearcat . “This is Officer Wegman one-four-five-one, and I’m at the crossroads of—” he shined a flashlight at the street sign. “North Sixth Avenue and Elm Street. I have a sixteen-year-old boy, his name is Tyler Castillo, and Tyler has an empty bottle of morphine. He has rotten teeth and is severely skinny, I’m guessing around ninety pounds. He also has numerous needle pricks around his arms and body, which I assume were from other drugs besides Morphine.” Mark wouldn’t know until the next day that he was correct, Tyler did have more than one needle prick, although at the time he was gambling with this claim, lying for the sake of the chase. “The kid is oblivious that I know and seems to me was on his way to refill the morphine bottle, possibly other drugs. The way he acts and moves, he’s a junkie for sure. With your permission I would like to let him go, then proceed to follow the boy, to see if he would lead me to his prescriber, and possibly the dealer. I would not interfere if he does lead me, and if he does I’ll give you my location and will not interfere. ” There was a short stutter of silence as Mark waited to see if they would believe his second lie, because Mark would get involved, he would interfere the second a grain of sand was out of place. He would not call the office for backup, he would handle the entire situation solo, and later he would tell them that he was caught at gunpoint and had to act fast before they blew his brains out from temple to temple.
“Mark, this is Aaron Hudson down at the station, are you sure your assumptions are correct? And you will not act at all if the situation escalates, you swear on your life.”
“With all due respect, Aaron, I wouldn’t have brought it up if I didn’t think so,” Mark said grinning. There was a very long silence and arguing in the background. Mark could hear a few mumbles. “It’s been a local case for years… He’s not authorized… The danger… This might be our only choice… I’ll control it… Don’t talk back to me.” Then there were only whispers and the steady raindrops on the window as Mark waited, his stretched-out foot getting drenched from the rain while the rest of his body rested in the car. He was shaking with excitement, anticipation, wanting to have one foot out once he received his approval. Then Aaron spoke with a harsh tone, yet quiet voice.
“You have my permission, Mark, but if you’re in danger, if anything happens, call us and get out of dodge. Do not get involved at all. I don’t want you to leave your vehicle. If this child doesn’t lead you anywhere, stop following. If he does, and there’s even slight suspicion, call us and stop following.” Mark’s eyes lit up more than they ever had, his skin glowed with so much color, and his mind was racing with possibilities. Aaron sighed through the Bearcat, his voice full of grief, full of regret, and continued. “You can’t do this alone, Mark. You are loved too much and you know it.” A bright light lit up Mark and Tyler’s cars, along with the houses and the street for a split second. The rain stopped. Thunder followed and crackled in the background. Silence, then the rain began again. Mark flinched, but Tyler didn’t; he didn’t notice the flash of light, and neither did Aaron at the station about six miles back.
Mark’s hands were now clammy, and the color that was present seconds before disappeared. His mood shifted so drastically, as quick as the lightning striking the absent desert. Mark was now utterly frightened, a whole new person. “I know, I will… Thank you,” Mark whispered as if he were disclosing a secret, and with the same whisper he spoke again to himself, not knowing that he was shaking, and shaking only from the power of the word “love.”
“I promise, My Hand Mitten, you’ll be okay. I’ll be damned if you are not. I’ll push forward for the both of us.” Silence, the rain in the background, slightly more aggressive, but like the shaking of his own hand, he did not take notice. Silence; then a broad smile appeared, each individual off-white tooth sprouting behind his lips. This is my chance to prove everyone wrong. No more smiles, no more pity, no more downcast looks at my strength to handle the shit of this world. While holding Tyler’s license and registration, he left his car and walked the distance again, this time with height and confidence back to the rusty Toyota and the weak, tired Tyler Castillo, the color of pale moss lightly painted on his skin.
“Here you go, Mr. Castillo. Thank you for your patience and cooperation,” said Mark, while handing him his papers.
“Thank you, now please excuse me but I have to—“
“Yes, yes I know, your…emergency,” he chuckled, grinning wildly. “Have a good evening.” Mark began to walk back to his car. I’m ready to get this bastard, this brat that thinks he owns the world. No, not a brat, a snarky little Mexican immigrant, that has no parental guidance. Get him deported back to the country he came from. A dirty, poor—
“Why are you upset?” Tyler yelled out of the window while shaking, cutting off Mark’s thoughts.
“What?”
“Exactly what I said.”
“I’m not upset,” Mark snarled. “Don’t accuse me of random—“
“Then why do you cry?”
“I NEVER CRIED!” Mark shouted while thunder struck behind in the nearby hills. He thought about earlier that night and lightly grazed his cheek in wonder, again not knowing he was shaking, but it was even worse than before.
“You didn’t have to,” Tyler muttered, bile rising in his throat.
The time it took to march between their car windows was enough for Mark’s pride to spring him back into a devious grin, fighting and overpowering these thoughts that were also rising like bile in his throat. Mary was going to be okay, and he was about to get a promotion because of this arrest, he knew for certain. Maybe he’d even be on the news. Mark’s actions bringing to justice these rough edges of town. He’d heard Aaron speak to another police officer behind those glass doors. Drug crimes were on the rise. If he was able to catch the entire gang, no doubt Mark would also have his own glass office with white shades, and the more he thought about this idea, the more excited he became. Respect, he thought. Respect.
“You speak lies, you don’t know my past, and you don’t know me!” Mark yelled at Tyler without a glimpse back as he opened his door. “And trust me, you wouldn’t want to know me or my demons. They’re too much for someone like you to handle.” He stepped into his car and closed the door, with Legion laughing and howling in his body. The rain continued to drip at an even pace, and Tyler started his engine.
“Pray to God. He will listen.” Tyler drove off and lightly sprayed the air with a mist of rain. Mark didn’t respond, didn’t move, and the wind began to calm down. Silent, steady tears began to roll down his face a second time. He thought of Mary. His mind was spiraling out of control. Another word, another word that stung him, maybe even stronger than “Love” was “God.”
“God? What has God done for you?” Mark revved up his engine. “Besides give you grief and throw you into this miserable, broken world!” The rain continued to increase in speed, the air current picked up once more, and Mark drove off. He began to follow Tyler with insanity, with eyes like the devil. In a way, Tyler was running from the devil.
Now, children, Mark wasn’t always like this. Please don’t mistake his anger for hatred. He was a very nice and gentle man, and a romantic. Mark played his emotions close to the vest. If you walked into the downtown police station during the years he was in his prime and asked anyone what Mark was like, they’d tell you he was gentle or kindhearted. But he could also be very aggressive, secretive, and sometimes unresponsive and distracted. They’d say Aaron was hard on him, always busting him and keeping him in line. Mark had a great gift when it came to forcing people to justice, but Aaron always disapproved of his methods. Some thought he was bitter from their childhood, because Mark’s was normal, with a group of friends and parents who loved him. The type of parents that Aaron never had, parents that even fortunate children with allowances, bicycles for Christmas, and understandable punishments sometimes felt cheated by when stealing a glance at Mark’s perfect family. His father, Henry Wegman, was not highly educated and was always searching for work, but after long workdays, he never went with his construction friends to the bar for a quick beer. He went home without a second to spare, to kiss his wife and play with his child. Play, it seemed that he always played with Mark, tossing a tattered and torn baseball around, which was so old that the baseball seemed to be a family member all on its own. Therefore, when Mark saw that ball resting in his father’s hands, an old excitement would rise up in him, and he would know exactly what was going to happen next. They would also play Cowboys and Indians. His father would take out a large hawk feather he’d found after the monsoon season and a straw cowboy hat from a thrift shop for fifteen cents. Then they would run around like dogs with their tails on fire, and Mark would scream with laughter when Henry picked him up and hung him upside down from his legs. “I gotchu!” Henry would say with the hawk feather tucked behind his ear. “Is time for da boiler!” He would then place Mark in a huge, rusty pot that his father also scavenged and stirred him with a large stick while Mark uncontrollably laughed.
Henry was in good shape because of his young body but was worked ragged day and night in a struggle to support his family. He was as tall as Mark, six foot seven and broad, a freak in the world but a prophet in construction. The town of Tucson was steadily growing in the death of the seventies and the dawn of the eighties, expanding closer and closer to hundred-year-old ranches outside of the town, but no fantastic, new industry swept the desolate Sonoran Desert and called for such projects. There was only a rise in national population and rich, retired individuals who could afford to escape the northern winters. Suburbs were slowly being built into towns of recent formation like Oro Valley and new additions to more dated, dissolved parts of ranches like Vail. But management always found a sort of fondness for Henry, not only because of how much he could lift, drag, pull, and tear down. Henry also worked in construction for so long that he picked up a good understanding of Spanish, since many of the workers he spoke to were from Mexico. Henry was also a man of huge faith and understanding, like a cool breeze through their long-sleeve yellow vests. Henry was a comfort for everyone. Therefore, management always recognized him as the official translator, recruiting officer, and the voice of his working community. When the employed had an issue with management, they heard the complaint from Henry, with his poor articulation yet sharp mind and controlled thoughts. Henry was not good-looking, with crooked teeth, extended ears, and a bit of a lazy eye, but his certainty and understanding made everyone seem to understand why he was in charge. Henry was a leader, although underpaid and overworked.
Mark’s mother was also a workaholic who worked a full-time job during the night at an old waffle house but also took care of their house in the mornings and evenings. She still didn’t work as much as Henry, but it was close. Her hours were usually from eleven to five in the morning, which was when Mark and Henry normally woke up to cook breakfast, expecting her home. They would make two plates of oatmeal, and on the weekends an egg or two (sometimes even bacon), along with a single dinner plate for Isabell. She was kind, shrewd, and calculated, witnessing the world in a very different way than Henry, who could find beauty in Genghis Khan if he tried. Isabell lived in the world with a hint of bitterness hanging on her lip like a ring but still cherished her family with great appreciation. For about thirty minutes, Mark would watch his parents laugh and eat merrily, his mother tired and worn, his father energized and rested. Then Henry would leave from six in the morning to six at night. Isabell and Mark would spend about an hour cleaning the house before Isabell gave him a list of chores to do while she slept. Mark would rush through those tasks so too much of the daytime was never wasted, and then he would leave with a smile on his round cheeks, knowing that what he accomplished would better his family and please his parents.
During a school day he would normally have a single task to do in the morning and another when he got home, his father still working and his mother still fast asleep. However, it was the weekend, so he was free from the chains of responsibility for the rest of the day.
Whenever Mark’s father was off, he spent all his time showing Mark how to hunt, fish, sand, and build dressers and nightstands, an entire day of bonding time, sometimes driving away for the evening to embark on an adventure. When his mother had the night off, they would watch television together, shows like M*A*S*H or The Six Million Dollar Man, in which his mother loved to point out the flaws between the plot and reality. She would roll her eyes with a little smile under her nose, and Mark would cuddle under her arm, hypnotized by the bionic human and his own creativity. Mark loved his parents more than the world, believing, as every child did, that they were perfect. He was sure of it and wanted to be nothing less than perfect like them, until his father told him otherwise.
“You ain’t goin’ through life wit’ no callus on your hands,” his father once said with his soft voice. “And I ain’t raising no jelly bean. I’m raising a man. So far I see yo’ are. Yo’ start no fights, yo’ keep from them, and stay nice until they in yo’ face, tooth peck close to yo’ nose, and yo’ smell they butt breath.” Mark laughed as Henry got very close and wiggled his nose at Mark. “I erm proud, son, and you’ll do better than your ol’ man.”
Mark heard and obeyed every word: do better than his old man. He knew he must be better than perfect, the noblest man in the world. Therefore, no kid on the block ever pushed him around, as Mark couldn’t be baited into fighting. The class bullies laid off once Mark laughed and stretched out his hand to shake when they tried to pick a fight. Soon, everyone seemed to adore Mark. He was such a trustworthy, honest boy.
Mark’s charm worked for him, although Aaron had trouble making friends, had trouble talking to others. “Hey, you’re funny. My name’s Mark, do you want to play Cowboys and Indians?” Mark enthusiastically asked one warm spring Saturday on the road of Mark’s cul-de-sac. Aaron lived two miles away. He walked the sidewalks and streets to find someone to fight with, like his father did to him. Aaron’s parents were never home and never seemed to care where he was or what he was doing, and even at the age of seven he carried the feeling that they would rather have him dead. In fact, you could say the family situations of Mark and Aaron were completely opposite. Aaron and the bruises he hid with long sleeves in the summer, the belt that always swung from left to right on his door when it slammed. Just like the traditional baseball with Mark’s father, there was the traditional belt for Aaron. When his dad held it, his hairy knuckles wrapped around the leather and sometimes a beer in the other, he knew what would happen next; he knew what was going to happen to both him and his emotionless mother. Then there was Mark with his packed lunches from his loving mother after she came home from work and a note of encouragement that was always in there. Usually a small phrase like “God loves you” or “You’re our guardian angel,” but no matter what it said, Mark always blushed and hid his face from childhood shyness. There was also his father, who would give up the world for his family, who carried with him such a confident and loving aroma that others seemed to trust almost instantaneously. Aaron looked at Mark with a little amazement. Mark was in the other second-grade class but popular beyond belief. Aaron knew who he was, although he never spoke to him until now.
“What makes you so sure I want to play with someone as gross as you? You ugly turd!” Angry Aaron bellowed with a single stride backward, afraid of Mark and this random kindness.
“Because we’re going to be best friends!” Mark quickly responded while his red cheeks puffed out. Aaron stopped, out of his comfort zone and stupefied—no one ever dared to communicate with “Angry Aaron.” Especially like this. He attempted to be open and played with the others, but at pickup time, Aaron watched children leave, watched their mothers kiss them on their cheeks, and their children disrespectfully wiping it off while complaining to not embarrass them, affection he longed for. Aaron accepted and embraced the name “Angry Aaron.” It made him more than the boy to be pitied for walking home alone.
“Well…as long as I’m the cowboy!” Aaron commanded gladly while reaching out for a handshake.
“Sounds like a plan!” Mark merrily announced while shaking his hand. Aaron saw something in Mark that day, and from then on he never walked home alone again.
They began to accompany each other in make-believe adventures. Mark and Aaron would sometimes walk into the desert and find their way back in the morning. They would play golf in the streets, shoot cans with a poor and beaten BB gun, steal pomegranates from a neighbor’s yard. It was the life of the latchkey kid, nearing the end of disco music, Vietnam, Ronald Reagan, and the beginning of MTV. They grew callouses on their hands, like Mark’s dad wanted, and on their feet from climbing trees and old sheds. There was dirt in their socks and hair after every adventure. Mark taught Aaron about his father’s rules for fighting and how to play baseball, while Aaron taught Mark how to duck from punches and his thoughts on how to throw one. They would laugh so much from each other’s jokes, impressions of Donald Duck and Clint Eastwood with their candy cigarettes pinched to aim toward the sky from their closed lips, puffing like sailors and arguing who would be the good, the bad, or the ugly.
“Mark…Mark…Mark!” seven-year-old Aaron impatiently said as they walked out of a dusty and old 7-Eleven and cautiously paused at the road. Aaron continued to tap his shoulder out of the urge to speak. They were heading to a shady spot under a secluded bridge, as the first days of their summer were proving to be just as dry and scorched as planned. “Mark!” Aaron said again, this time even louder, “you’re sooooo ugly, Medusa…Medusa would turn to stone if you looked at her.”
“Really?” Mark questioned in partial amusement as he watched a few isolated cars pass by.
“Yeah! You’d be the Ugly Mark. I swear it! I swear it on my…Mark, wait up!”
Mark was already walking across the street, confident in his stride while opening the pack of Bazooka Bubble Gum he’d bought for fifteen cents. The cashier was friendly enough, mostly absorbed in the novel he was reading to care any more than he did, but he cared enough to realize how young they were. Mark was older than Aaron by nine months, eight years old and already taller than four and a half feet, but still young.
“They must live close by,” the middle-aged man said for his own comfort, while scratching his receding hairline and opening his book once again. But the fact was, they had traveled a few miles south to reach the corner store in town.
Aaron began to jog toward Mark in a hurry as his need for attention was still not fed. He continued to stare toward Mark as—in the middle of the street—he turned around and smiled back. Aaron later told the police that Mark stood in the road, smiling back for almost five seconds, but the moment was only about two.
“Would that make you the bad then?” The words came through more like a comment than a question, but as always there was no fire in his words, Mark seemed to be pleased. “Then who’s the—”
A finely polished 1968 Toyota Corolla came from the left and smashed into Mark’s ribs, crashing his face into the hood and creating a crunching sound of bones and teeth crumbling from the impact. He flew back about three yards, landing on his back without a sense of day in him. The 7-Eleven cashier dropped his book onto the ground with his mouth wide open, showing some recent silver fillings in his molars. The car halted with tremendous force, yet lagged and smashed into Mark with an impact of about thirty-five miles per hour. The cashier heard the high-pitched screech of the tires on the concrete and saw the body crash onto the ground. He ran to a payphone and was the first to call 911. Bubble gum and blood were scattered around the road, and Aaron acted as if he were just frozen by Medusa, mouth as wide as the cashiers and frozen in the middle of the street.
The driver jumped out of his vehicle with a cigarette in his hand, ran to a payphone, and called AAA, then 911. He was the second person and last person to call the police. The middle-aged man checked his car before he helped Mark, feeling the dented hood with care and gentleness. He was shaking from despair and anger. What the hell was that boy doing in the road? The man thought with burning rage, then ran to the boy with a phony face of distress, accompanied by the corner store clerk who turned Mark on his side as he began to cough, cry, and wheeze from the shock. The man was silent, though—Cleveland Jones, two-time DUI felon, had been trying to light a cigarette before hammering on the breaks.
“You got a light?” Cleveland asked the clerk.
“No, sorry man,” the clerk responded without a glance up, taking off his shirt to substitute as a pillow for Mark’s head. Aaron was frozen until a police officer asked him if the boy was his friend, and where they lived. All that came out of Aaron’s mouth was barf, all over Jones’s Corolla.
The doctor told Mark’s parents that because of his extra foot in height, he was not pulled under. They were all very grateful, even after three broken ribs, a shattered wrist, twenty-one stitches, and his broken baby teeth. Mark lived, and his mother told him that it was because of God. God had a purpose for him, and he was going to achieve great things. Mark listened to every word as if it were law.
Years later, Mark found out that his father and mother both picked up other jobs in order to pay for his expensive medical bills, since they were at fault for allowing their child to wander so far from their home. They felt awful, watching him try to peel a banana with his hand and teeth, having trouble standing from his crushed ribs, and waddling around in pain. Therefore, Mark’s parents bought him a birthday present that was far more impactful than any present he had ever been given. When he ripped the newspaper off that Ringling Bros. magic kit, his eyes and cheeks lit up with color, then he screamed with joy and laughter, wiggling his body, his sling, his titanic bandage over his ribs and on his forehead, like he were about to launch into the stratosphere. From card tricks to little plastic bunnies popping out of hats, Mark loved it. It became Aaron and Mark’s obsession, the compelling force that bonded their friendship, what made them unique to each other, different than the other classmates in school.
“If only I could poof away Amy,” Aaron said angrily while blushing.
“She must have done something horrible,” said Mark. “You can’t even talk to her without turning red!”
Aaron looked down very shamefully and spoke with a tiny voice.
“Ye–Yeah that’s why.”