Chapter 4
892 Miles Gone
“Happy Birthday, Michelle,” says one of the other waitresses.
“Thanks,” I reply.
“Are you sure you don’t want to go out tonight?” she asks.
“Thanks so much, but I have an extra shift at my other job. I’ll eat a cupcake for you guys, though. Thanks again.”
It’s always hard lying to a group of people you work with, especially when you care for them. This group of gals I wait tables with is amazing. They are more like a team of moms to me. Never any pressure to go out and party like a college-aged person should be doing. It’s almost like they adore my hard working nature. They always supply me with lots of excellent smut books and homemade casseroles.
Buying a microwave at a secondhand store has been my best purchase ever. I’ve come to love hot food like no other on this journey. After fleeing Junior and his mess, I thought for sure I’d be picked up any day for being a part of their drug ring. Some nights, I wonder what the weird flash was, and the only thing I can think of is a camera and my face being captured with that black bag. My only saving grace is I’m basically untraceable to society.
Over the five months here, I’ve ventured on new routes, which cause severe panic and anxiety attacks, but I force my way through it every day. I now have three routes which I follow, and in a very pathetic way it’s one of my biggest accomplishments.
Today is, in fact, my nineteenth birthday. That is one thing I promised to never forget or lie about. It was the one day I always looked forward to growing up. Depending on the year and mom’s mental state, I’d have parties. Looking back, I now realize all the drunk adults smoking weed and partying in the background wasn’t normal, but the cake and presents took all that away in my eyes.
Some years I had the cake and presents, and other years she was so blown out of her mind, I was lucky to get fed. On those years, Jazzy and Old Man always took me out for pizza, and then he’d give us cash and dump us off at a local mall for hours. My birthdays have always been special to me. No matter how the day was spent, it has always been the one day of the year about me.
Last year, I gave myself the best gift of all, my freedom. There hasn’t been one moment I regret leaving. Not one struggle do I complain about, not one moment do I feel sorry for myself, and not one time do I look in the mirror and see my mom. I broke free from her and the prison she held me in for eighteen years.
Time still haunts me. I’ve learned I have to work about two and half jobs to keep my mind off my scars. I still pick at the massive one on my hand when I’m bored, and cringe when I see the cut that covers the length of my neck. Last night, while trying to fall asleep, I decided what I want for my birthday this year. A cupcake and a tattoo, that’s what I want.
On route one to my waitressing job there is a cute little bakery, and on route three there is a tattoo and piercing shop. Admittedly, the bakery is super cute and bright, and on the other hand, the tattoo and piercing shop scares the shit out of me, but I’ve decided I need something other than scars to mark my body. My tattoo will be the one souvenir I take from this town.
Following the route to the bakery, I can’t decide what flavor of cupcake I want. I do know for sure I’m splurging on the biggest motherfucking cupcake there, with all the sprinkles and frosting one can pile on a cupcake.
The bell above the door dings loudly as I open it and enter.
The shop is tiny, but completely filled to the brim with sweets. Cupcakes, desserts, and candy litter all the shelves and tables. Okay, I’m probably going to be buying two cupcakes.
“Can I help you, miss?”
“Um, I want to buy a cupcake, please,” I stammer.
“Any ideas what you want?” the little old baker asks.
“Chocolate, please. It’s my birthday, and I want a little treat,” I reply.
All of a sudden I feel like a complete fool and very childish.
“Well, my granny can hook you up, honey,” comes a deep voice from behind me.
The voice scares the shit out of me, causing me to lunge forward. My foot catches on the edge of a display case, and I Superman it onto the hard tile floor.
“Good heavens, Jeremiah. You didn’t need to startle the poor thing,” she scolds the voice.
Motherfucker, my wrist. I think I just broke my wrist on my birthday.
“I’m okay,” I declare, and try to bounce up from the floor.
When I put weight on my left arm, I nearly pass out from the pain.
“You don’t look fine. Here, sit down, sweetheart.” The little lady pulls out a white vintage chair for me to sit in.
“Now, let me see that wrist. I’m a grandma of twenty-two, and you can’t fool me with anything. I know you’re hurt. As for you Jeremiah, apologize now, before I beat your ass.”
Her words make me giggle. Jeremiah steps in closer, takes my hand, and starts examining it.
“I told you to apologize, not examine her, you little shit,” she says, popping him in the back of the head.
She takes a light towel and wraps it around my wrist, places a bag of ice on it, and then sits next to me.
“So, it’s your birthday, and my jackass grandson just broke your wrist. I think the cupcakes will be on the house today.”
“Oh no, please, I’ve been saving up for this.”
With that statement, I get very strange looks from the pair. Knowing more words would only cause more suspicion, I choose to hang my head and shut up.
“Oh, sweet thing, I understand a woman’s pride. I’ll sell you that damn cupcake and give you one,” she says with a wink.
She then kicks her grandson right in the shin, furrowing her eyebrows and launching a perfected death glare.
Bending down on his knees and placing one hand on my leg, Jeremiah says, “I’m sorry for startling you. Guess I got excited seeing a new face in town, and a pretty one at that.”
“Okay, okay, you little horn dog. ‘Sorry’ was enough,” she scolds, standing up.
“I’m really okay. Thanks,” I try to sound confident.
In all reality, I can feel the thumping pain in my wrist and know in my heart it’s broken.
Jeremiah’s grandma shakes her head. “You’re not okay. We are going to eat cupcakes and get you checked out if the swelling continues. By the way, I’m Alice, and you’re about to eat the best cupcake of your life.”
She’s the type of grandma you don’t dare argue with.
“Okay, Alice,” I meekly reply.
“Good girl, now pick your cupcake,” she says, sitting down a tray full of them, “And Jeremiah, sit your ass down, too.”
Jeremiah doesn’t question his grandma, he just sits, and I’m not sure if it’s her don’t-fuck-with-me attitude, or if he really just wants a cupcake.
“Birthday girl goes first,” Alice insists.
The tray is so heavenly, stacked with all sorts of cupcakes varying in color from neon to pale hues, making my choice extra difficult.
My mouth begins to water. “Which one do you suggest, Alice?”
“Oh, sweet baby, they are like my own personal kids. I could never pick a favorite.”
Jeremiah speaks up, “Well, I can definitely help you on that end. I’d pick that one with the orange and pink frosting all swirled up. It’s Gram’s signature red velvet cupcake with cream cheese frosting. Just saying, if you don’t take it, I will.”
Jeremiah is a big, stout man. Very muscular and clean-shaven, he seems to be the perfect cupcake expert, so I reach for the one he suggested. I also grab a purple tie-dyed one, hoping it’s chocolate.
Jeremiah’s chuckles fill the room, and I freeze with embarrassment, fear, and I don’t know what else. It’s an odd feeling.
“It’s okay,” he says, “That was just my second choice.”
“Sorry.” I hand the cupcake over to him.
“Oh, no, Gram would paddle my ass. You enjoy it. In all honesty, I haven’t tasted something of hers that I don’t like,” he says, patting his belly.
Gram bustles into the open area, sits down a pitcher of ice water, and then proceeds to turn the open sign off.
Sitting down, pouring herself a glass of water, she begins to talk. “Now, tell us about yourself. What’s your name again?”
Not where I wanted the conversation to go. But what can I expect them to ask, considering I’m a complete stranger sitting in their bakery? So I nervously play with the dainty tablecloth while thinking of my reply.
“You a felon?” asks Jeremiah.
“Don’t be a jerk,” Alice spits and slaps him on the arm.
“Oh geez,” I blurt, “It’s okay. My name is Michelle, and I’m just spending some time here to make enough money to move.”
“Do you have family here?” Alice asks.
“No.”
“What made you settle here?”
“You writing a book, Gram? You can tell she doesn’t want to talk about it.”
“It’s okay,” I chuckle.
The two are quite a funny combo. I’m not yet sure who could take whom in a wrestling match. I might put my money on Alice.
I fumble for an explanation to appease them without giving away my secrets. “I just didn’t have much to live for where I came from, so I’m finding a new place to live.”
“I think that’s fantastic,” Alice squeals, her face alight.
“So, what do you do for work?” Jeremiah asks around a mouthful of cupcake.
“Oh, I waitress at the restaurant down the road, clean rooms at Motel 6, and do a little yard work for a neighbor.”
Alice throws up her hands in disbelief. “Good grief, child. That’s too much for a young girl like you.”
“It keeps me busy,” I reply.
“Leaves no time for fun,” Jeremiah countered.
Having a feeling where this conversation is leading, I abruptly make a subject change to take the attention off me. I don’t need any awkward propositions by strangers.
“So, Jeremiah, what do you do?”
Instantly I know I’ve asked the wrong question, because all the oxygen is pulled from the room. Alice tears up, and he wraps his arms around her.
“I’m in the Army, and just home on leave. I’ll be heading over to Afghanistan here in a couple weeks.”
My hearts sinks at his words and the pain covering Alice’s face. Not knowing whether to say sorry or thank you for serving, I just slam another cupcake down.
“You’re my kind of girl, Michelle. I love to eat away my problems,” Alice says.
We all laugh and have another cupcake.
Four cupcakes later, Alice finally remembers my wrist.
“Jeremiah, take a look at her wrist. I’ll clean up in the back,” Alice says, getting up from the table.
I watch on high alert as Jeremiah comes around the table, crouches down on one knee, and begins to unwrap my hand. The look on his face tells me everything I already knew.
“I think it’s broken,” he says, looking up to me.
Finally building up enough courage to look, I peek down, and sure enough, you can see a huge bump bulging out the side. The pain has been intense, though the cupcakes and company have dulled it a bit. But now looking at it almost makes me want to scream.
“You have a high pain tolerance. I’ve seen soldiers with this same break crying and screaming like a baby.”
“I’m good at faking,” I say, feeling a bit faint.
“I don’t know your story, nor do I need to. Just know I came home to my wife and best friend in my bed, with my three-month-old daughter screaming from her crib in the next room. I’m not looking for anything, but I can tell you one thing; I’m a damn good set of ears.”
Tears fill my eyes. Squeezing them shut, I try to force the fuckers back.
“I want a tattoo. I wanted a cupcake and tattoo for my birthday. It’s the one day of the year I celebrate living. I want a tattoo today.”
Jeremiah smiles. “Done.”
Standing up, he hollers, “Gram, I’m taking Michelle to Cody’s tattoo shop, and then the ER. I’ll give them your insurance info.”
“What?” she asks, rounding the corner.
“It’s her birthday. She wanted a cupcake and a tattoo. I’m a fucking gentleman, what can I say?” he says, shrugging.
“Goddamn, crazy kids,” she says, waving a towel.
I reach into my pocket with my good hand. “Thank you for everything. How much do I owe you for the cupcakes?”
“Cupcake,” she reminds me with a raised eyebrow.
“Right, cupcake,” I chuckle.
“Four dollars and fifty cents, dear. It was nice meeting you, Michelle.”
Alice holds her hand out for the cash, and nothing has made me prouder than handing it over to her.
“Thank you for everything,” I say again and lean in to give her a hug.
“Not many young women break the cycle like you’re doing. You should be very proud of yourself. Keep going.”
“I will,” I whisper more to myself than to Alice.
“Let’s hit the road,” Jeremiah says.
I follow him out the door, ready to walk down three blocks, take a left, walk to the yellow building, cross the street, and then walk a half block more. That’s what I’m ready for, but Jeremiah holds the door open to an old truck.
“Well, come on,” he says. “We have a long night ahead of us, girl.”
“What is this?” I ask, hesitating.
He scratches his head and blinks. “A truck?”
“Can’t we just walk?”
“No, I have a truck. You can wear your seatbelt.”
Nervously, I climb in, buckle up, and have a slight panic attack. Trying like hell to slow my breath before Jeremiah gets to his door, I realize this is the first time in over a year I have been inside a vehicle other than a Greyhound. What the hell am I doing, riding with a perfect stranger to get a tattoo, with a broken arm, no less? My mind races over the last couple of hours spent with him and Alice. Nice grandson, funny, a US solider, and a heartbroken husband. These thoughts seem to calm me down a little. But still, what in the hell am I doing?
“So, it’s your birthday, or was that a ruse to get free cupcakes?” Jeremiah breaks the silence as he fires the engine to life.
My birthday. Yes, it’s my birthday, that’s what I’m doing. Who cares about the rest? I’m going to live this day up with cupcakes and a tattoo, Oh, and a broken arm.
“No,” I reply, on the defense.
“I’m teasing you. Calm down.”
There’s something about his laugh I find easy to relax to. It reminds me of the time spent with Jazzy when we would both be off in our own little worlds working, and burst out with a random thought, action, or noise, and then both get sidetracked. Those times are my favorite to remember, and it’s ripping at my heart to feel even the slightest of those feelings with him on my birthday of all days.
“What kind of ink are you going to get?”
“What do you mean?”
“Your tattoo,” he says with a raised eyebrow.
“Some birds.”
“More specific?” he prods.
“No, I just want some birds floating and flying in their own direction. Nothing patterned or predictable.”
He nods. “I see. You have a wild heart.”
“Naw.” That’s not it at all. “So, what are you getting?”
“You’re really good at that, almost expert level, if I do say so myself.”
“At what?”
“Avoiding questions and changing the topic.”
“So, where’s this tattoo shop?”
“See, you did it again,” he points out.
“I know. I know. Trust me, I’m an expert at a lot of things one doesn’t brag about, and I’m not proud of it, but glad to leave it all behind.” I peer out the windshield, scanning the street. “Where’s the tattoo shop? I know of one on McMillan.”
He cringed. “Well, you can go there if you want herpes and gonorrhea. I’m taking you to a little classier place. Just about two more minutes, and we’ll be there.”
“Then by all means, drive,” I reply.
We travel in silence the rest of the way. His two minutes are more like fifteen, but it’s pretty scenery, and I keep mentally coaching myself everything is fine even though I’m off route. Jeremiah has been a complete gentleman this whole time. He turned up the radio a few miles back and is singing every single song that comes on. The man flat out sucks at singing, but bless him for giving it his all.
A catchy tune comes, and I find myself swaying to its beat and wanting more of it, from the words the artist is singing to the captivating rhythm.
The words leave my mouth before I even realize it. “What song is this?”
“Hall of Fame by The Script. It’s my favorite band.”
“I like it.”
I hear, ‘The world will never know my name… When every single piece of my past is officially so far behind, I can no longer haunt my inner core, that’s when I’ll know, I made it to my hall of fame…’
Listening to the words, I find myself tearing up. ‘I’ll reach it or die trying…’ I repeat it over and over in my head until I almost believe the mantra, and that’s when I feel the truck come to a stop and notice Jeremiah staring at me.
“You okay?” he asks, switching off the ignition.
I can only nod as the song fades out, and secretly pray my mind can continuously replay those words for the rest of my days. It may just be enough encouragement to never give up.
I reach for my door handle. “I’m fine. Let’s do this.”
“Don’t let Sledge scare you. He looks like a fucking gremlin, but he’s a great guy. Trust me.”
“Okay, if only you knew where I came from,” I say.
“Let’s get your ass inked up.”
“I’m not getting it on my ass,” I scream in horror.
“I know. Let’s roll.” He opens the door to the shop, and we step inside.
When Sledge walks around the corner, I mentally take a step back and gasp in my head. Thank the lord Jeremiah gave me the heads up. He’s definitely not a looker, but his body is covered in the most beautiful artwork I’ve ever seen. His skin is simply breathtaking, and I know it’s his story. He’s imprinted his story upon his skin for the world to see. I thought I’d witnessed true courage in the past, until now. Lost and insecure are the only two words I could have ever inked on my skin to tell my own story.
“This is my victim,” he growls, pulling me from my thoughts.
“Yeah, buddy, take it easy. She’s an ink virgin,” Jeremiah replies, protectively stepping in front me while shaking Sledge’s hand.
“You know what you want, girl?” Sledge asks, turning to me.
“I’d like some birds randomly scattered across the top of my foot.” Genuinely shocked at my own response I stand a little taller.
The artist tilts his head back and says, “More deets, girl. Outline, solid, color?”
“I have this little drawing I sketched up.” I pull a crumpled napkin from my pocket and smooth it out.
“Let me see it.”
Handing over the drawing, I feel the immediate urge to puke frosting all over the small tattoo shop. Nobody, not even Jazzy, knows about my secret obsession of drawing. It was my one coping strategy when stuck in my bedroom. These were the days there was no Jazzy or Old Man. Just me, my mom, her entertainment, and my room. It started out by drawing on the walls in my closet, then the inside of my dresser, then pretty soon I was brave enough to shoplift a dollar notebook from the store. I filled every single page of that book from cover to cover. Some pages only displayed black and white, while others were full of color.
My mom found it one day, and that was the end of drawing and sketching. I hadn’t drawn one single thing until this tattoo design on a napkin while working for Junior’s dad on a slow day at the restaurant. The birds floating on the cheap napkin made me want more for myself, and deep down I knew ‘more’ was never an option. I saved the drawing, thinking that one day if I ever got a tattoo, I would use this sketch to remind me what could have been if … Only if.
“This is fucking legit. Did you draw it?” Sledge asks, turning the napkin and examining it from different angles.
“Yes,” I say and nod, secretly just wanting him to tattoo it and run.
“A’ight,” he replies, “Give me about fifteen to get it sketched up. Jeremiah, brother, you want ink today?”
Jeremiah shakes his head ruefully. “Nah, man, I need to get my head on straight first.”
“I hear ya. Be back in a bit. I’ll get this drawn up, and I need a smoke. Have a seat.”
Sledge walks down a long hallway before disappearing into the back alley.
“What? Are you kidding me? We wait, while he smokes?” I screech.
“Sit, Michelle. It’s fine. This is the way it goes. He’ll sketch up a design, you approve it, and then he’ll smoke and ink the shit out of your skin.”
“Are you fucking kidding me right now?” I declare, suddenly remembering the searing pain my wrist.
The movement in my arm drops me to the ground, and I finally cry in pain.
“That’s it. We are going to the fucking hospital.”
“No,” I wail.
“You want to know why it took me way longer than two minutes to get here? Because I turned toward the hospital about ten times while driving three blocks. I can’t stand that I’m driving around a beautiful woman in my truck who’s in excruciating pain when I’m a fucking solider who fights for his country.”
Jeremiah is down on his knees, pleading his confession, and I feel my heart falling for him. Not as a boyfriend or husband, but as a best friend. Then, in the back of my mind, I remember what I did to my best friend; I left her behind in the cesspool where we were raised. No, I don’t deserve a best friend ever again.
“It’s fine for now. We will go get it checked when I’m done here,” I say, knowing it’s a full lie.
The hospital will want identification and all sorts of information I don’t have to give.
“Are you sure?” Jeremiah asks. “I don’t like this at all.”
“I’m sure,” I reply.
Sledge walks back into the room with his hair tied back and stale cigarette smoke lingering around him. The smell reminds me way too much of home and makes me want to run like hell.
“Get your ass over here,” he says, pulling a rolling stool up to a well-organized workstation.
I listen. Sitting down in the chair I carefully watch him prep all the tools and then shave the top of my foot. I watch as he cleans my skin with several different cold liquids. Can’t say I’ve ever had my foot shaved before. Next, a transparent paper with the tattoo design is pressed down on the prepared area. It leaves behind the design, and I smile at its simple beauty and meaning.
“No going back after this. Are you ready?” Sledge asks.
I nod, and then feel Jeremiah take my hand.
“Squeeze if you need to.”
Sledge picks up the tattoo gun. “Here we go.”
The buzzing sound fills the room, the ink soaks into me, and I feel each tiny bit of my old flesh rip and tear, as my very first piece of beautiful artwork begins to fill my foot. It takes about ten minutes before my body adjusts to the pain and I can relax a little.
Bending down, Jeremiah whispers in my ear, “You’re going to run. I can tell. Take care of yourself.” I don’t tell him he’s wrong.
Jeremiah holds my hand the rest of the time and lets me go my own way after paying for the tattoo.
Goodbye, Michelle.