by Cat Bruno
“I was at the clinic earlier,” I told him. “You seem to be in a good place, and on the other side so to speak. I hope that the others will look to you as an example, and it would be a great honor if you let me share your story.”
“People need to know not to lose hope.”
His reply, succinct and quick, had no sense of triteness to it. He was a simple, hardworking man whose intentions were to help others. To show them how much they had to lose if they stayed on heroin and to share his story of how to get clean. These small towns needed men like Tink much more than they needed men like William or Dr. Basra.
I photographed him holding a worn, leathery bible against his hip as he walked out of the church basement. It was nearly 9:00 pm, and orange-pink stained the skies. With the sun nearly set, the only other light shining came from a flickering, florescent bulb at the top of a rusting post. The glass that once housed the bulb had gone missing, and the too-bright glare flared in waves against the cement steps leading up from the basement. Where the rays touched Tink, he flashed brighter, his shirt like a beacon.
Each photograph deserves a name. And the one of Tink stepping free from that building I had dubbed Revival of Hope. As my car pulled out of the black-topped and uneven parking lot, I smiled at him. Tink was a god here, or would be, and those who sought his light might walk a safer path.
A month later, Jimmy died from an overdose. His sister was the one who found him.
But that night I forgot them all as I drove west.
The Queen City
Halfway through my drive, I stopped at a gas station for some coffee and realized that I could not show up at a concert hall in sandals and jeans. Or, more accurately, I did not want Mickey to see me wearing the same clothing. Silly, I know, but it has been my goal to be honest here.
I stood at my trunk and examined what I had packed and moaned when I realized that nothing would be open at such a late hour. Gleaming bright in the background of the gas station stood a superstore (you know the type), and, with no other option, I drove there. Twenty minutes later, I came out wearing tiny, black jean shorts with a hem that had been intentionally frayed. To make up for having nearly all of my legs showing, I bought a white, oversized men’s button-down shirt which I tucked into the front of the shorts. Most of the buttons I had left undone, and the shirt hung open across my long neck and thin chest. I bought some makeup, too, and hastily darkened my eyes and reddened my lips as I drove.
While I shopped, I remembered that I had a pair of lace-up, industrial boots in my car that I used when I had to go to a warehouse or other such space for work. I had forgotten to buy socks, but pulled the boots on once I parked near the music hall. After I loosened my hair from its tie, it fell in golden streams against my shoulders.
“What am I doing?” I asked myself as I added another coat of lipstick.
Before I could answer, I jumped from the car and raced toward Bogart’s shining red doors. The venue was not what I had expected. Instead, I eyed a relic of days long past with ornate woodwork and delicately painted trim, charmingly Victorian, and neatly maintained. It was nearly midnight by the time I made my way inside. The burner phone was tucked tightly in my rear pocket as I made my way to an upstairs bar. When I was near enough that I could not change my mind, a few miles or so, I had turned off my other phone. Now it lay discarded in the trunk. Twice I had started texts to Mickey, but I did not send either of them, for no other reason than nervousness. Such a feeling was strange, both because I was a bride-to-be and a criminal in training. I had no time for this girly indulgence, I told myself with disdain. You’ll noticed that I did not stop driving west, however.
As I navigated along the narrow highway toward Cincinnati, I had listened to a handful of songs from the Moon Kings, yet I could not remember any of them in detail. Those around me, however, jumped and swayed, with their heads and arms waving with the changing beats. The seat that Mickey had saved for me was near the front, but I stood off to the side, far enough from the college-aged crowd whose energy seemed endless. It is an interesting experience to attend a concert alone, although not one that I disliked. Unmoving except for a gentle roll of my shoulders, I scanned my surroundings with envy and awe. They were here for pleasure and nothing else, while I still did not know why I had come.
A few times I longed to capture Mickey on stage, but I had intentionally locked my camera in the trunk with my phone. I wanted no evidence to exist of my time with him. That I was certain of, if nothing else.
Remember to always keep your focus on the end game. You are the queen of the chessboard and with that comes the ability to move anywhere you’d like. Anywhere. Think on that for a moment. A pawn must march forward like a lamb to the slaughter while the royalty hides in his shadow. The bishop? He can zigzag across the board in long, angular strides but is always an easy victim. And what strange movements the knight can make, hopping around as if he was in battle and totally unpredictable in his dance. I suppose the rook is simple enough to understand as it can only move straight; stable and boring, but useful enough as a battering ram. All of these pieces serve one united purpose: to protect the king. His death is the only one that matters, and any good player will corner him as soon as possible.
However, it is the queen who is now the most dangerous. It was not always so.
The game originated in the sixth century, a time when women held relatively little power. In the original playing rules, the queen could only move one square, much like the king, and she was not even a female. It took the Spanish Queen Isabella’s rise to power for the piece to be reborn. She was given a crown, sword, and scepter and her movements expanded to the breadth of the board. The game itself symbolizes a battle as two armies march against one another, with their cavalry and soldiers at their sides. Victory and vanquish. It took one woman’s bravery and leadership to change the game for eternity.
Should we all not strive for such a legacy? To move in any direction we wish? To become the most powerful threat on the board?
To defeat the king and claim the realm as our own? As women, patient for far too long, is it not finally our time to conquer?
When the Moon Kings began playing their hit, “Glory,” the crowd of t-shirted hipsters chanted along with each word. The music hall echoed with the harmony, and I could not stop myself from recording a few minutes of it on the burner phone.
Glory to the moon. Glory to the sky. Glory to the stars and glory to those who let the old gods die.
Glory to those who let the old gods die.
They repeated the phrase at least ten times, jamming in a way that fanned the fires of their flaming crowd. The drumming thrums extended, lengthened and slowed as the tempo relaxed. Mickey curled against the mic stand while his hand played on.
Down with money, down with plight. Down with government and their unholy might.
The lyrics continued in the same anarchic theme, encouraging those listening to rebel against those with power and unite as one. A modern hymn that praised kinship and nature, mindfulness and peace, despite its call for disruption and civic unrest. It was just the type of stuff that an intelligent, educated youth would sip at like mother’s milk. I found myself enjoying it with a sardonic smile spreading across my flushed face. I was too old and had been too poor to fully appreciate the Moon Kings call. Another time, before William maybe, I would have danced along with them without any hint of irony, though. Now I feared I knew too much.
It was their last song, but after a robust and determined cry from the crowd, the Moon Kings returned for an encore. Two songs later, the lights flashed bright and revealed the sweating, half-clothed crowd glowing with the after affects of revelry. It was a beautiful thing, and I regretted that I did not have my camera. Instead, I grabbed the phone and sent a quick message to Mickey.
Great show! I’m glad I made the trip. Dandelion.
Before I made it out of the hall, my phone buzzed, for what was the first time.
Where are you?
/> His message stopped me cold. I had not expected him to reply so quickly.
Near the main doors and trying to avoid a stampede. I’m one of the old gods, you know. I typed the admission slowly and deliberately.
Come around back. Tell security you’re with the band.
Mickey disappointed me, and I nearly told him that I had no desire to be his groupie. Instead, I texted that I’d be at a bar across the street. It was quite late, and the bars would only be open another hour or so. I suspected that he would decline meeting me so near the venue, but by the time I had ordered a drink, he had replied that he’d be there soon. While I waited, I called a nearby hotel and booked a room on the credit card that the Gazette had provided to cover my travel expenses.
It was not until I finished my first drink that Mickey arrived. He had come by himself, and, had he not sat down beside me at the bar, I might not have recognized him. Despite the warm spring night, Mickey wore a gray and black striped knit hat pulled low across his forehead. An hour before, while performing, he had donned a black t-shirt with the faded logo of a many-branched tree and ripped blue jeans. Now, black covered him from head to toe, much like it had when I first met him.
“What are you drinking?” he whispered against my ear as he slid into the stool beside me.
Before I could answer, the black-rimmed face of the pony-tailed bartender leaned in and said, “Revolver on the rocks, a small-batch bourbon from just over the border.”
“I prefer an Irish whiskey,” Mickey laughed, “But I’m up for the challenge. Two of those, sir.”
To me, he said, “I didn’t think I’d see you again.”
As I cupped the empty glass to keep my hands from quaking, I told him, “I’ve spent the last week covering heroin addicts. I needed a break.”
His smile, crooked and aged, struck me like an arrow from Apollo’s bow. I was saved by the return of the trendy flannel-shirted bartender who placed two maple-colored and sparkling drinks between us. I had finished half of it before I could look at Mickey again.
“Tough week for sure,” he patiently agreed as he sipped slowly and carried no judgment or apathy, unlike most of the others who learned or heard of my story.
Around us, there were several large groups of young people, most having attended the concert I realized suddenly. Now, Mickey’s half-hidden face made more sense and I mumbled an apology.
“I’m not that kind of rock star!” he teased. “But, yeah, I would rather just be able to sit here and talk to you without any interruptions.”
“What would you like to know?” I asked with the added confidence that the whiskey offered.
Even the shrug of his shoulders electrified me in a way that I could not explain or control.
“What is it that you love?”
His unexpected question gave me pause. However, after a moment, I answered, “The way my camera feels in my hands as I lift it to my face. I love the moment when I capture something that will never exist again.”
“Are there many moments like that with your work at the newspaper?”
“A few. But I travel as much as I can to Europe, which is where my best work has come from.”
“Can I see something you’ve shot?”
Noticing how my face crinkled, he hurriedly added, “Did I say it wrong? Do you have any pictures with you?”
After some time searching on my phone, I found my winning Omni image and passed him the device.
“I was in France last month to receive an award for that photograph,” I explained as he examined it from several angles. “Those red sparks you see are called sprites.”
His gaze held cynicism and laughter.
“No, really, they are. It is the scientific name for red lightning, which is a super rare phenomenon that exists in the upper atmosphere. Very few have photographed it from the ground.”
While he continued staring at the image, I finished my drink. The ice had only begun to melt, and the oaky burn reminded me to slow down. Finally, he handed me the phone. His graying eyes watched me with a wisdom I had not expected to come from someone like him.
“I wish I would have been there with you.”
What do you say to that? I did not dare question his sincerity. Each bit of him trembled, gently shaking both his stool and mine. And I loved him then, in that moment when he understood me better than William ever would.
I hated myself, too. I should not have come. I should not have involved Mickey in what I planned. Each minute we talked, his addiction made more sense to me. This world, the modern one with its artifices and deceptions, was not one that he called home. His soul was ancient and from another time and place. His eyes glossed under the false light of technology, scarring a gaze that had once stared upon a world only lit by flames. Had we met before? Perhaps. But those lifetimes are lost to me, a punishment for a past crime.
Meeting Mickey was another kind of punishment altogether. One that was more torturous than any other. He offered a chance for me to escape, to forget my plans for William and start anew.
But once the holy scales of justice are weighted, they cannot be adjusted. Divine intervention must come. Reparations must be made. I was simply the earthly warden and could not stop what must come. If I tried, the scales would shift again, and I would be deemed guilty and suffer the terrible consequences of one who seeks to escape fate. I am the messenger, winged and sent by the gods. Mickey was a trickster in disguise tempting me to abandon my duties. That common man of mischief who so often appears throughout centuries and cultures. Beautiful and wise and so very tempting. Mickey had been gifted with the gaze of a truth-seeker, and he saw through me. He saw me so clearly that he could be my downfall.
To quiet my thoughts, I ordered another drink and kissed Mickey more deeply than I had ever done before.
When I pulled away from him, I licked my lips, looked up at him, and said, “You should go now and forget that you ever met me.”
Heeding my warning with a speed that suggested he, too, realized what we risked, Mickey pushed himself away from the bar and rose. I reached for my bourbon and did not turn around to see him off. I clutched at the smooth-sided glass as if I sought to strangle it. I warned you of the god’s cruelty. This is just the game they play; dangling choice in front of us like we have any control, only to make us suffer when we act upon those freedoms.
I do not know how long I sat there, but I was half-drunk when the bartender softly told me that he was closing up. His merciful eyes, light blue behind his oversized glasses, suggested that he recognized my despair. However, unlike Mickey, this man was only mortal, a commoner without the depth that a thousand deaths grants you. He was not to be blamed or pitied for such a lot, and, really, I envied him. How easy life must be for one so simple and forgetful.
After placing cash on the bar, I weaved my way to the door. The hotel was nearly a mile away, but I needed to clear my head so I decided to walk. Each step reminded me of the Kentucky bourbon swilling around in my stomach, yet my sturdy boots carried me along the evenly paved sidewalk. Having only visited Cincinnati a few times, I did not know the city well enough to venture far from Jefferson Avenue, the main strip that separated the university from the rest of the town. College-aged kids laughed and bobbled alongside me as I walked, and I never felt unsafe, despite my growing intoxication.
“Shit,” I groaned as I saw the looming, brick hotel complex.
My bags were in the trunk, with my camera and phone, although a small purse hung across my body. The hotel was housed on the university’s grounds, and I paused just outside the main doors on a neatly manicured lawn while I considered walking back to my car. It would mean that I would not be back at the hotel for another half hour at least. Deciding that pajamas weren’t worth the walk, I hopped across a narrow path to the arching entrance. Automatic doors ushered me onto small, slate squares. A man in a maroon vest stood behind the desk with a telephone leaning against his ear and a look of disinterest across his face.
After a quick visit to the bathroom, I interrupted his phone conversation, a welcome distraction his stare suggested. A short time later and with my room card in hand, I walked toward the elevator, half awake after what felt like a day twice as long as it should be.
“Hold the doors, please!” a voice called out.
With my eyes on an unlaced boot, which I had been too tipsy to tie, I stuck my hand between the closing elevator halves.
“Which floor?” I asked without turning around in a weary attempt at friendliness.
“The way I figure it, I’ll just keep following you.”
When my eyes met with his, he said, “You’re lucky that you’re such an amazing photographer, because you’d make a shit detective. I’ve been following you since the bar, you know.”
“Making sure I got here safely?”
“No. Making sure that I got to see you again.”
“Mickey,” I began in a voice deepened by a combination of fatigue and whiskey, fear and forewarning.
In a romance novel, this is the part where he would kiss me to prevent my protests from blooming.
And he did. But this is no romance novel, and I cannot trick you into believing that it is. I will, however, tell you about that night in a three-star hotel room in the Queen City. He waited while I made some coffee, commenting about how surprising it had been that I had not noticed him. When I asked why he had not called out to me, Mickey said, “I’m not so sure that you are who you say you are, Dandelion Jackman. And that scares me.”
“Check my purse,” I told him as I stirred sugar into a white mug.
“That’s not what I mean.”
My silence suggested that I was not going to offer any rebuttal; he was right, of course, and we both knew it.
“How long have you been with the band?” I asked as I sat across from him in the standard-sized room.
“Ten years, which shocks me every time I say it. We met in college and have been playing together since then.”
