by NR Schmidt
Jeremy Hockman’s first tattoo was given on his friend Marcus’s bed, during a house party, while Marcus’s parents were out of town.
It was done with a real tattoo gun, bought by Marcus’s brother DeAndre, and stolen by Marcus while DeAndre was on a date to the skating rink.
It was shittily drawn Sonic the Hedgehog, if it can be called that, which proved that even a professional’s tools cannot cure the shake in an amateur’s hands.
There are other things that come with training, like wound care and bedside manner.
When Marcus was done, he bounced his friend off the bed and yelled, “Next!”, his voice wafting over the deep stereo beats and smell of keg-beer.
Jeremy walked off with fourteen-year-old swagger, proud of his ritual completion.
Three days later, Sonic was infected and started to leak sticky white pus.
It was probably because Jeremy had followed a group of girls down to Lake Michigan and jumped in at the Point.
That night, he made it home, opening the swing door in the back just so much so it didn’t squeak, and got into bed, his mother sleeping off her bottle of wine in her favorite chair.
As the days passed, he hid his wound under baggy jeans. He didn’t scratch even though it itched like hell. He spread some playground mud on his pants so the pus wouldn’t show through.
And he thought he was fine.
Until the fever started.
And his PE coach made him go to the office because he was limping.
And they made him go to the hospital.
And they made him roll up his pants.
And they made him show them his leg, now swollen and purple.
And at the next house party Marcus threw, Jeremy got there late and struggled to get his wheelchair through the door.
NR Schmidt is a writer originally from America's West Coast.
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