* Author : Dave Thompson

* Narrator : Jason K. Jones

* Host : Rachael K. Jones

* Audio Producer : Peter Wood

*

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First appeared in Apex Magazine. Read it here!

All Things to All People

by D. K. Thompson

I wake up in someone else’s house every morning, and lay my head somewhere else every night. The tattoos are my only constant company, covering almost all my skin. I’d stretch the free space of my flesh out if I could, but I don’t make or choose the pictures – and I can’t control the size. I’m running out of skin, and I know what that means. When it’s all inked I’ll be out of time.

The angel here, on the inside of my wrist, that was the first one. A cartoon character – the tips of his wings sharp as knives. That’s as far back as I can remember: waking up on the side of the road with the taste of dirt in my mouth and the smell of gasoline on my hands. The asphalt and the sun had burned my face from opposing sides, like I’d been twice-grilled. Gravel bounced around me as semi-trucks roared by. I flexed my hands – my knuckles were bloody and cracked. I’d been in a fight, but despite the pain I grinned because I was pretty sure I’d won.

Then I saw the dead man in the ditch.

His fat, shirtless body was covered with illustrations.  Flies crawled over him, gave the illusion the tattoos themselves wriggled. But when I slid down beside him, I waved them away, and the ink remained on his skin, still and lifeless. There was bruising on his face and ribs, around his neck. That wasn’t what killed him, though. I didn’t kill him.

His tattoos did.

I pray a lot these days, as the ink clothes my skin. Beg God to remove this burden from me, take this thorn from my flesh. But I don’t get any answers. Or maybe I do, and the problem is they’re just not the answer I want?

I don’t know if I’m drawn to the people, or if they’re drawn to me, but the important thing is we find each other, and we do our best to take care of each other. That means different things to different people.

Sometimes, it means sex.

Back in June, there was a man evangelizing on a Vegas street corner. He gave me a tract with a picture of a man praying at the cross, asked if I knew where my soul would go if I died tomorrow. Right away I knew he needed grace more than anyone he’d solicited. I told him I loved Jesus, said that Jesus wanted me to minister to him, and bought him a coffee. His name was Harold.

We sat on the curb and he told me about his six-year-old daughter’s obsession with the drums. He’d play a song on his iPod and she’d listen for several seconds, then pound along in time with it. His smile faltered when he spoke of his wife whom he loved, but hadn’t touched since winter. I nodded and squeezed his hand. Harold looked away embarrassed, but didn’t pull back. A little while later, he led me to his station wagon, and we took a drive.

He wept after he came inside me, so I twisted around and held him. There’s no sin in this, I told him. Guilt isn’t of God. It’ll be okay.

I believe that. I really do.

We held each other as airplanes flew through the warm summer, guided by invisible voices in the night.

That night, I dreamed of Harold talking to his wife. She screamed and cried. He cried too. Eventually, they held each other. Then I woke up.

I was on a park bench, and I had a new tattoo on my calf: a station wagon.