James Molski
The Marked Man
Xavier was walking down the street, heading back home from his friend’s house. It was a nice, quiet neighborhood, a typical suburban area. Only those who lived there ever came through, and all the neighbors were friendly with one another. Xavier knew a face in every house, and he tried his best to do what made them happy when he met them.
It surprised him greatly, then, to see someone he didn’t recognize. A large man, fairly muscular, was laying on his back in the grass on the side of the road, next to a blazing blue-green motorcycle, which, as Xavier grew closer, noticed matched the man’s eyes. Green at the middle, growing more blue towards the edges. Xavier had never seen any eyes like that before either.
He realized he was standing still and staring about the same time the man did. “Howdy, Junior,” the man said with a smile, lifting his head to see Xavier better. “Can I do somethin’ for you?”
“My name’s not Junior!”
“Well, what is it?”
“I’m Xavier.”
“Nice to meet you, Xavier,” the man chuckled as he leaned back again. “Am I in your spot or somethin’?”
“What do you mean, my spot?” Xavier asked, confused and mesmerized by the individual before him. The man wore such strange attire, faded, tattered jeans, heavy, scuffed boots, and a black, studded leather vest. The helmet sitting beside the man was simple and open, with a small row of x’s starting to circle around from the front. The man was also covered, as far as Xavier could see, with all sorts of different markings. “I don’t have a spot. What are you talking about?”
“You’re just standin’ there, lookin’ at me. I figure, either I’m in your way, or there’s somethin’ you want. Which is it?” The man looked back at Xavier, smiling again, and crooked an eyebrow. “Well?”
Xavier was unsure how to answer, at first, and it must have shown, because the man chuckled. “I’ve just never seen you before. I know everyone here. But not you. Who are you? And what are all those things on your arms and face?”
“What do you mean, the scars or the tattoos?”
“I don’t know what those are.”
“Heh, alright.” The man sat forward, leaning on his elbows. “Well,” he began, pointing at a deep furrow in his hand, “this one’s called a scar. It happens when you get hurt real bad, or when somethin’ heals funny. And these,” pointing at a pair of initials and a date on his forearm, “are tattoos. You pay someone to put ‘em on you, and they never go away.”
“Never?”
“Nope. Never. Unless you go and mess it up and get a scar over it, like that one,” the man continued as he pointed towards a vine of thorns on his other forearm, with a deep marking through the middle of it. “I was pretty pissed when I did that, couple years back.” The man sighed, looking sadly at his arm.
“What does that mean?”
“What, pissed? Slang word for bein’ mad.”
“Oh.” Xavier looked sheepishly at the ground. He felt a little foolish for asking so many questions. His teacher in school got mad when he did that. “Sorry, mister, I didn’t mean to bother you.”
“Naw, you’re not botherin’ me, you’re fine. Not a big deal. You’re little, you dunno this stuff yet. And don’t call me mister.” The man looked over at him curiously. “How old are you, anyways?”
“I’m six years old.”
“Huh. Alright.” The man laid back down and kept looking back at the sky.
“What’s your name?” Xavier asked.
“Does it matter?”
“I can’t call you mister, so what should I call you?” Xavier said as he sat down a small distance from the man, facing him.
“Heh. You’re a bright kid, you know that? You’re gonna grow up to be somethin’ special. Maybe to the world, maybe to just one person. But you’re gonna be someone special, I’d bet.” The man rolled on his side, stretched an arm out towards the boy, and said “Call me Chuck.”
Xavier shook Chuck’s hand tentatively. “Nice to meet you,” he said, as his mother taught him to always do when he is introduced to someone.
“Now, I just wanna say,” Chuck said as he rolled onto his back, “that’s not my real name, just so you know.”
Xavier was confused. He knew the man’s name, but it wasn’t really his name? This man was nothing but new things for Xavier to comprehend. “Why do you use a fake name?”
“Well, it’s not really fake. It is me. It’s a nickname.” Chuck’s eyes drifted towards his helmet, and a finger gently brushed the line of x’s, staying briefly on one with an underline. Xavier stayed silent, feeling there was more to come. “My buddies gave it to me. I had a bad habit once, and the name kinda stuck.”
“What was the bad habit?”
“Eh, nothing crazy, like drugs or somethin’. I just threw people through windows every now and again. Chucked ‘em, you could say,” he said with a faint smile crossing his face.
Xavier was shocked. He didn’t know windows could break, much less the fact that people threw other people through them! And here he was, sitting in front of such a violent individual. He scooted back a bit on the grass, trying to be subtle, but Chuck noticed.
“Don’t worry, little man, that was a long time ago. I’m different now.”
“Why do people still call you Chuck then?” Xavier asked, still worried.
“Like I said, the name stuck. My buddies gave it to me, and I kept it. Part of how I remember them.” His hand reached out and caressed his helmet again, “these, too,” he mumbled, before sighing.
“Where are your friends?” Xavier asked. His young mind didn’t comprehend what was wrong, Chuck seemed sad.
“They’re here, now,” he forces out, pointing at the x’s on his helmet. “And here,” pointing at his arms and the markings covering them, “and most importantly, here,” he finishes, tapping above his heart with a closed fist. Xavier doesn’t entirely understand, but nods anyways. “You’ll get it better when you’re older, trust me.” Xavier nods again.
“What do all the different tattoos mean?” Xavier asked. He had started to pay closer attention to them, and realized there were many, many different types. He sat and listened closely, as Chuck talked for almost an hour, explaining what each one was, and why he had gotten it. All of them had unique, special meanings, and Xavier felt that he wanted to do something similar when he got older. Chuck ended on his right bicep, with a simple phrase in curvy letters.
“I gotta go, little dude,” the marked man said at last, standing and walking towards his motorcycle. “Thanks for the chat. It was a nice distraction. You’ve got a pretty nice little neighborhood here.”
“Will you ever come back again? You’re different. It was nice.” Xavier stood next to the motorcycle as it roared to life, then settled into a low rumble.
“Heh, probably not. If you don’t remember anythin’ else about me, though, remember that last tattoo. Those are words to live by.” Chuck tipped his head toward Xavier briefly, and then the motorcycle roared again as it carried its rider away, around the corner, and out of sight.
For the rest of that night, Xavier pondered everything Chuck said, and everything about him, intensely, especially his last words to Xavier. “Words to live by,” he mumbled to himself, several times. He started writing down the phrase from the last tattoo, several times, to help make sure he would never forget it. He felt like he almost understood the words, like the true meaning was just out of his grasp. He pinned the page with his best handwriting of the phrase on the wall, next to his bedroom door, so he would see it every day.
The next morning, as he left his room to go to school, he paused at the words. They still didn’t entirely make sense to him yet, but he knew that in time, they would. Just like other things Chuck had said to him yesterday. He knew for sure one thing, though: Xavier wasn’t going to stop asking questions when he wanted to know more, even if it made his teacher, or someone else, mad at him. He wanted to know more about things outside his neighborhood, everything he could possibly learn, and he was determined to figure out the true meaning of the phrase Chuck passed to him.
“There’s no one I’d rather be, than me,” the little boy’s voice read the paper aloud. He smiled a little, feeling like the answers were already closer, and left for school.