Page 10 of Guitars and Cages

One moment I was sitting on the couch; the next I was jolted back sixteen years, to the summer I’d turned ten and discovered that I was amazingly good at jumping things on my skateboard. I’d started by building little ramps, and then stacking them on the pallets that lay around the yard, wanting to fly higher. I’d line up trash cans or my brothers’ bikes, desperate for something to jump over.

Or maybe I was just desperate to stand out, to be great at something my older brothers couldn’t do. Whenever I’d line up a new stunt, they’d come to watch and their friends would watch, too, and the bigger kids would actually cheer for me, which was awesome.

I guess the crash was inevitable, but even I never expected anything as bad as it turned out to be. I certainly wasn’t thinking about crashing when I asked Michael to pull his car up in front of the ramp. He certainly wasn’t thinking about what might happen, and he was the oldest one there. All he said was that I better not break the windshield on his car or scratch the paint, like you’d have been able to pick out one scratch from another on that old Pinto.

I remembered the rush as I’d started down the driveway toward the car, the board picking up speed, whipping my hair back, images of Tony Hawk in my head as I got ready to fly. The takeoff was perfect, and I never touched that damned old car, though I didn’t exactly clear it the way I’d planned either. I’d gone off the ramp at an angle that sent me on a collision course with the sliding glass doors of the living room, crashing through and smashing the coffee table and the bottle of Johnny Walker Dad had left when he’d gone to the kitchen for food.

Some nights I still wake remembering the feel of his heavy, callused hand gripping my hair so hard strands had ripped as he yanked me out of the wreckage of glass and booze and wood, shaking me in fury for the mess I couldn’t even see through the mask of blood streaming down my face. I remember every name he called me as he yelled, too enraged to care that I was hurt; in his fury he branded them on my soul as surely as the glass etched the scars into my face.

I don’t remember what Michael said to make him let go, I just remember Michael carrying my battered body out to his Pinto and not even caring that I was getting blood all over the seats. When it was all said and done, I got to go home with a sprained wrist, a ton of stitches, and an appointment for a follow-up visit that no one ever took me to. Dissolvable stitches means no one’s gotta take ’em out, which was fine with me ’cause I hated hospitals and needles and the frowning looks of pointy-faced ladies who seemed convinced that what had happened was more than an accident.

Needless to say, people we didn’t need nosing around kept dropping in unexpectedly, asking questions none of us wanted ta answer, makin’ every little thing into something bigger than what it should be. It was my own stupid fault, as my dad had been quick to remind me. I didn’t jump anymore after that; in fact, I never rode that skateboard again. It’s funny, ’cause most people would say that hodgepodge Harley of mine was a bigger danger, but I guess I never did outgrow the love of the wind on my face.

I remember how for weeks after, I wouldn’t go near a mirror, refusing to look at the wreckage of me. Most days I still refused to look. The scars were more than a flaw, they were a reminder of the moment when I discovered my old man didn’t care; that I would never get a hug from him if I was hurt, or even the smallest measure of understanding. I shook my head, shaking off the memories, focused on the little boy in front of me, and shrugged. There was nothing of that moment that I wanted to share.

“I was a dumbass when I was young,” I told him. “Messing up stupid stunts ain’t fun.”

I saw his eyes widen, and there was that owl-like expression again.

“Did my dad ever do that?” he asked, and I bit my lip, remembering.

“Yeah,” I said, trying not to picture the night the ladder gave out, spilling Chase onto the barbed-wire fence. “But not near as often.”

“How come he didn’t have scars like you?” he asked.

“He was lucky,” I told him, and that was the truth, because somehow Chase had escaped his childhood with only a few scars to remind him. Maybe the difference was that our mother had been around then, or maybe it was just that he’d always been smarter. Either way, he’d been lucky as hell.

“Why don’t you get them fixed?” he asked, and I frowned, confused for a moment. “With plastics, like they talk about on TV.”

Plastic surgery, I figured he meant, and I chuckled, because maybe once or twice through the years I’d considered it, but it wasn’t like I could ever afford to.

“Chicks dig scars,” I said, short and sweet, unwilling to peel back the many layers of truth that would be needed to answer the question.

Rory frowned and wrinkled his nose. “Like Tina?” he asked.

“I guess,” I said with a shrug.

“She smelled like she smoked too much,” he said, nose still wrinkling until I had to laugh.

“She does smoke too much.”

“She wouldn’t let me watch cartoons,” he pouted.

“You watch too much TV.”

“She kept telling me to be quiet,” he complained, and I chuckled because I felt like telling him that every day.

“Maybe ’cause you were being loud.”

“She wouldn’t even get me a snack.”

“You know where your snacks are better than she would,” I reminded him, while he pouted and glared more.

“She wasn’t even any fun,” he said. “When Mom finds me a babysitter at least they’ll play games with me.”

“I seriously doubt Tina knows any games you’d know.” I chuckled, reminded of the games shedidknow.

“Yeah, well, I don’t like her,” Rory complained, cutting to the heart of the matter.

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