Page 14 of Loving the Legend
“How so?” His palms bracket the back of his head as he leans back for a stretch.
“Well, it’s full of life lessons. The main character is this young dude who has everything going for him—love, a promotion that would raise him and his dad out of poverty, favor with his employer—then he’s falsely imprisoned, and his life is turned upside down. It’s apparently inspired by Alexandre’s dad who was a prisoner of war at one point.”
“Word? I read it in high school too, but I didn’t know about his dad. Everyone in my class hated it, and thought it was too long, but I dug it. I recall how unsatisfactory vengeance felt in the end, despite wanting everyone responsible for ol’ boy’s imprisonment to pay.”
My face splits open into the widest grin.
“I remember thinking the key to happiness isn’t getting what you desire necessarily, but when your desires align with what will bring you peace,” he continues.
“Yes! Exactly!” I gleaned from interviews over the years that he's smart, but the media overlooks his wisdom. I guess that’s the shallow part of celebrity—it creates caricatures of its subjects. It’s a shame it’s virtually impossible to maintain anonymity and be a pro athlete. I’d pay anything for it.
“Something tells me if you’ve read it more than once, you’ve probably memorized a few lines.”
“Ha. You aren’t wrong. I almost got a quote from it tatted on me.”
“Would you mind sharing it?” He asks, eyes eager and bursting with sunlight.
I may hate cameras and prefer solitude over company, but I’m always down to recite my favorite lines from books. I read a paraphrased version:
Life is a storm, my young friend. You will bask in the sunlight one moment, be shattered on the rocks the next…You must look into that storm and shout, ‘Do your worst, for I will do mine!’ Then the fates will know you as we know you.”
“Man!” He shakes his head. “I remember that. I read it and felt invincible. I walked through the hood likeI dare someone to try me!”He sticks his chest out, making us both laugh. “I’d love to have that quote framed on my wall.” A beat later, “I mean, you could cop a lot worse tats. My teammate has a tat that spells ‘wanker’ or something in Mandarin. He told people it meant ‘highly gifted,’ but someone called bullshit online.” The crew’s laughter mixes in with ours. “This interview may inspire readers old and young to read more of Dumas. He sounds like a swaggy dude.”
My face hurts from grinning so much. I bite the inside of my cheek to try to reel it in. The internet is vicious—five minutes after the interview drops, someone will post a viral reel of me grinning like an idiot whenever he opens his mouth.
“What about you? Have any tats?” I ask. No visible ones, from what I can tell.
“Two. Copped ’em within months of each other a few years back.” He lifts his sweater and tank and shows me a cursive sentence, emanating from his left underarm down his taut obliques.
Fuck, his abs have abs.
Focus.
“Carpe diem quam minimum credula postero,” I read aloud.
“I recognize ‘seize the day.’ What does the rest mean?”
“Pluck the day, trusting as little as possible in the next one.”
“Pluck the day?”
“Yeah, pluck the day as it is ripe. Here’s the other one.”
He twists his torso so that I can get a better view. The second tattoo is in the same spot but on the opposite side of his torso. His tats are concealed unless he’s shirtless and raises his arm.
“Memento mori,” I read aloud.
“Remember death or remember that you will die,” he translates. “I wanted to burn into my consciousness that I only exist at this moment. Tomorrow is an illusion.”
I study him. I sense that it’s not just ink that’s left a permanent imprint on him. I’d recognize grief anywhere. Why else would he use his body to memorialize death? I wonder who he’s lost.
“What does existing in the moment mean for you?”I ask.
He adjusts his sweater back in place. “There’s freedom in accepting the ephemeral nature of life. We spend so much time fearing the end. I choose to appreciate the current moment for what it is.”
“I know what you mean.” When I’m in the throes of depression, death seems most inviting, like a sweet release and a shot at a family reunion. “I don’t remember whose turn it is to ask a question,” I admit, clearing my throat.
I flick a glance at the crew. A half dozen pairs of eyes stare back at us. A wave of heat creeps over my neck and face.
