David Levithan - Someday

So I don’t say the words I should probably say. I ignore the escape route.

“I can go first if you want more time,” Manny offers.

“No,” I say. “I’ve got it.”

Phoenix, kraken, or tree?

Fire, water, or earth?

Who are you, Marco?

Which are you?

I don’t know.

Then I realize I don’t have to be the one to decide. I don’t know Marco well, but there’s someone else in the room who does.

“You choose,” I tell Manny. “You know me best.”

Manny is not expecting this at all. “Are you sure? Really?”

“Really.”

“You like all of them?”

“I do. But which is the most like me?”

For all of his surprise, Manny doesn’t hesitate. He points right at the tree.

“No question,” he says.

If he’d picked either the phoenix or the kraken, I might have worried he was only doing it to match his dragon. But because he picks the tree, I know it must be true.

“There’s your answer,” I tell Heller.

“Alrighty, then. Take a seat and we’ll get things started.”

I get into the dentist’s chair as Heller calls out to Megan, his girlfriend/assistant. They run a tight ship, and explain everything to me as they go—how they’re sterilizing the instruments in the autoclave, how they’re going to need to shave and clean my arm before sketching onto it.

“He’s really afraid of needles,” Manny volunteers. “So be careful—he’ll probably flinch.”

Usually I’d try to act true to Marco’s personality. But I decide Marco’s going to be braver than usual today, and not so afraid of needles.

After everything is clean and ready, Heller draws the tree on me, outlining all the paths the needle and ink will take. It’s a weird sensation, to have him sketching on my skin—but it’s even weirder when the needle leaves the first drop of color underneath. The pain is like a sharp burn. I expected it to be a more liquid feeling, but instead it stings.

“How are you doing?” Heller asks.

“Fine!” I say, trying to sound cheery.

But Manny sees my body tense. He sees me squeezing my eyes shut and opening them.

“It’s going to be so cool,” he tells me. “You’re going to love it.”

I think it will get easier, but the pain is consistent, the skin having something to say each time it’s interrupted. I of all people should be able to step away from the body, to vacate myself in thought. But the presence of the pain means I can’t be anywhere but present. I wonder whether this pain is now mine, or whether it’s actually Marco’s. Does the body remember pain, or is it only the mind? I am doing something human beings want to do all the time for the people they love—experience the pain on their behalf. But I am doing it for a stranger, someone who will never know it, and thus will never be able to recognize and appreciate it.

I do not watch what Heller is doing. I watch Manny stealing glances, see his reaction to the ink and the blood and the tree taking shape. It’s so clear he cares about how it goes, because he cares so much about Marco. I imagine Rhiannon here with me. Holding my hand. Trying to divert some of the pain.

Then I try to stop myself from thinking that. It doesn’t help.

The needle persists. Heller hums snatches of the song falling from the speakers. Even though the pain is the same no matter what the color, no matter where the shading, I imagine I can feel the picture taking shape. It’s hard not to think of the tree sinking in, taking root. It’s also hard not to think that no matter how deep the roots go, they’ll never reach me. Only Marco.

It takes hours, and even then, Heller isn’t done. He needs the colors to set before he can bless the tattoo with some of its finer details. He asks me if I want to look, but when I do, all I see is a bloody, carved mess.

“Don’t worry,” Heller assures me. “Blood passes. Ink stays.”

Megan bandages me up, and then it’s Manny’s turn in the chair.

“Dragon, come to me!” he incants.

“You are such a dork,” I say, since I think that’s what Marco would say.

Manny laughs. “Takes one to know one, dumbass.”

It feels so comfortable, right then. I almost forget it’s not really me he’s talking to. I almost think he sees me inside, and knows I’m the one along for this ride.

But of course it’s Marco who stays by his side. It’s Marco who doesn’t give him a hard time when he ends up being the one who flinches and screams despite his attempts at self-control. It’s Marco who stands like a tree while he writhes like a dragon.

When we’re through, it takes the whole wad of cash to pay Heller. He tells us when we can come back for the finishing touches—and reminds us to let the healing happen before we start showing off to the world.

The pain has already passed. For Marco, it may never have been there. I have absorbed it. And because I’ve absorbed it, I know what it’s like, in a way he never will.

But he will be left with a tree. As Manny and I get pizza, drive around, and see a movie, I keep touching the bandage on my arm, as if I can feel the lines underneath. It occurs to me that unlike most people I inhabit for a day, Marco will have a lasting mark of my presence, even if he never knows it. I am grateful that the mark is his, not mine—the tree, not the phoenix. The tree hides me better. The only person who’d ever see me in its branches would be me, if I were ever to see Marco again. But that almost never happens. Marco will see it every day. I will have to remember it—which I know I will not. Just as the pain dissipates, so, too, will the lines of the memory unravel. I may recall the fact of the tree, but not its shape.

I hide my melancholy as Manny drops me off, just as I hide the bandage from my parents when I get inside. As far as Manny is concerned, he’s just had one of the very best days ever, with his very best friend.

That night, alone in Marco’s room, I unfold Heller’s drawing of the tree and try to memorize it. I try to turn my thoughts into a tattoo, but the thoughts resist the ink. I don’t want this to make me feel less real, but it does. I cannot help but feel impermanent. I cannot help but feel I am destined to fade.

X

It helps if the person is weak.

If I want less of a challenge, I stay with someone who is already on his way to giving up. Living is a fight, and I can pick out the ones who’ve stopped fighting, who are stuck in their own loneliness and/or confusion and/or pain. The fewer connections, the better. The more despair, the better. Some people guard their selves like a fortress. But others leave the doors unlocked and the windows open. They welcome the burglary.

I have not done well this time. My vanity thought it would be good to be young, to be the object of attention. But after a day, I can feel his self wanting, can feel it trying to reject me in the same way a body will reject an organ that brings the wrong blood to its system. His family attachments are strong. There is a home he misses. There are things he wants to do. I can feel him pushing against me. Resisting. I could separate him from this body, tamp him down, but it would take time and energy. Better to roll the dice and see what I get next.

In the meantime, there’s fun to be had in our remaining hours together.

The young, handsome white guys are always fun. They’re the ones who are naturally given things, who find that gates swing open before they touch them. These guys take advantage. Sometimes they don’t know they’re doing it. Most of the time they do. They are harder to erase because they like their lives. But I stay in there anyway, because I like their lives, too.

This guy’s six feet tall, maybe six one. Swimmer’s build. Eighteen years old. College freshman. Already knows which frat he’s going to pledge. Attractive enough that I could get sex if I wanted to get sex, and strong enough that I could cause other people harm if I wanted to cause other people harm.