Push(52)

David moved to New Orleans a little over a year ago from some small town in Illinois. He grew up there, and when the opportunities ran out, so did he. He had worked for his father’s construction company, and when it went under, David saw it as a sign that it was time to leave. His dad was a drinker, and he got mixed up with their secretary. David said this woman had his dad “by the balls,” and one day she cleared out the company’s bank account and left town. They never found her, or the money, and David’s dad drank himself into a constant stupor. Apparently, his father tried to convince the cops that David was somehow involved, saying that David was sleeping with the secretary, too. But nobody believed him. The secretary was twice David’s age, and when they questioned David about the whole thing, he said he and the deputy nearly laughed their asses off. He didn’t even know the secretary’s last name, he told them. He sure as hell hadn’t slept with her. He told the police that blaming him was his father’s way of trying not to look so goddamned stupid. The whole town knew that David’s dad was a drunk, and his dad had had numerous run-ins with the police over the years. They knew David had nothing to do with stealing that money. Questioning him was nothing more than a formality.
David left Illinois six weeks later because his dad grew more and more belligerent, and then completely lost it when he had to declare bankruptcy. David said he would have offered to help his dad out had he not tried to blame the whole damn fiasco on him. But, as it stood, he saw no reason to bail out his alcoholic father. So instead, he left.
I met David a few weeks after he moved here. He came into the shop looking for someone to do some work on his arms. I was inking Frank Lagasse when he walked in. David told me later that the moment he saw the full-rigged, three-masted ship I was putting on Lagasse’s side, he knew I was the right artist for him. That ship was beautiful. It took me four full sessions to finish it, but Lagasse loved it when it was all said and done. So did I. David’s birds took even longer. The colors were custom blends, and I worked my butt off to come up with his drawings. I ended up designing the birds one by one, layering each new body against the one I had made the session before. He came in every two or three days for weeks until they were finished. We started with just the wretched little falcon he had gotten from some lousy artist when he was still in high school. I built the rest of the birds around that falcon, taking great pride in making each feather a work of art. David’s arms are some of the best work I have ever done.
Those birds clearly signify something to him, but what that is, I don’t know. I suspect I never will. When he first came into the shop and told me what he wanted, I actually tried to talk him out of it. I tried to convince him to do just a few large birds rather than hordes of smaller ones. But he said no. He wanted a hundred different birds in a thousand different colors. They are beautiful, I’ll give him that, and they cost him a whole lot of money. But that’s no matter now, because I have David. And that is worth more than a million birds.
Because David spent so much time in the chair, we did a lot of talking. I got to know him without ever really looking at his face. I can say, though, that by the time I was finished with the birds, I knew each and every wrinkle on the skin of his arm. And I knew a lot about his past and even some of his hopes for the future. David is so bright and warm and calm, and when he is around me, everything feels good. Everything is love. His mental sway is hard to believe.
We have been together for about seven months now. The day I finished the last bird—the gouldian finch on his inner left wrist—was the day we had our first date. After I wrapped the tattoo, he asked me if he could take me to dinner to celebrate. We went to Cooter Brown’s, and by the time dinner was over, I remember feeling like David had wound me up like a spring-loaded toy. The energy he had built up in me was unbelievable. I was ready to hit the ceiling. To this day, whenever I am with him, it feels as if I am going to pop. As if he makes my whole body into a tight coil. And when the spring lets loose, the happiness I feel is almost absurd.
David and I have sat on these bridge trusses together many times. Our legs hanging off the beams. Our feet twined together, dangling, while the cars rush across the bridge above. And we are here again, hip to hip, doing the same. We have talked about everything here. About the whole world. About all the problems and all the solutions. David is scarred, deep and hard. And despite the positive energy he carries around like a crown of gold, I can see that he also carries hurt. He doesn’t let it bury him, but it does, in large part, define him. To hear him tell it, David’s childhood was an insane mess. Because of his father’s alcoholism, as a boy, he had no choices, no power; and now that he’s an adult, David always keeps his shit in check. I think it must be a lot of pressure to expect that kind of perfection from yourself. Maybe that’s why he can’t seem to bring himself to smile. Not a true smile, at any rate. Yes, he grins, he laughs, he smirks, but he doesn’t ever seem happy. You know, the kind of happy that cracks apart your face. The kind of happy that makes everyone around you want to be happy, too. The kind of happy that makes your heart sing. There is so much control in David that it keeps that kind of happy away. But that’s okay with me, because that is who he is. He is ripe with discipline, and I love him for it.
Today we are here to talk about us. At least that’s what I think. I have been telling David for a few weeks now that I love him, and every time I do, he says the same thing.
“I love you,” I say.
“You shouldn’t,” he says.