As I move my car to the edge of the road, I am dialing 911. People in the cars behind me are stopping to ask if I am calling the police – “Yes”, I answer. As the 911 dispatcher is answering, I see an elderly woman hurrying down the street towards the boy and she is trying to get him to come with her. I tell the dispatcher what I am seeing and explain that I am witnessing a young boy trying desperately to do himself harm. My heart is pounding. All it is going to take is one person in a vehicle driving towards the ferry not paying attention and this child is going to purposefully hurt himself. I am determined to prevent this.

As the dispatcher assures me he will report the call, the older woman has the boy cornered in a driveway and an older man is quickly walking in their direction. I leave my car running (Remy is with me) and cross the street. The young boy makes a break for it and the older man grabs him. As I get near the three of them, the young boy sees me and begins screaming at the top of his lungs, “someone help me, someone help me”. As he is struggling against the mans grasp, they fall to the ground and the man lands on top of him. As he rises, he places his knee in the boys back and pulls his arms behind him. I can tell it hurts and I also see he is in a sticker patch. When I finally get to them, I tell the young boy to please stop struggling, to sit down, I have called the police, they are on their way. If he will just sit down, calm down, take some deep breathes. When I have his full attention, I tell him I will not leave him. I will stay until the police arrive. The man and woman are not explaining to me why they are doing this and I am not asking. I am focused on the boy. The man is telling the boy he is not going to let go. I am so calm I am beginning to wonder what kind of Goddess is channeling through me.

I am looking up and down the street to flag down the responding officer and I see a contractor from one of the condos who has come to investigate and he kindly agrees to move my car from the other side of the road to a driveway. I explain I have given my word to this young boy that I am staying until the police arrive and if I get in my car he may fill like I am abandoning him.

I finally see a Constable car. He pulls into the Dairy Queen, gets out of his car, and goes in. I am not sure who is going to respond to the call or if anyone will.

A woman (the mother?) and young girl show up. The woman is pissed and telling the boy how embarrassed she is that he is doing this. She is his mother. The older woman tells Brian’s mother I have called the police. She glares at me. She tells me they are leaving. She asks me if I am going to stop them. I tell her what I told Brian. I am not leaving him until the police come. Period. She tells the older woman I cannot stop them. The mother is talking to Brian again, saying, “we’ve been having a good time, right. Why would you do this? What is wrong with you?” She is not mothering him. She is berating him. She is standing in front of him three feet away. The older man is still holding him on the ground. I look towards the Dairy Queen and the Constable is getting in his car. As he approaches Cotter, I realize he has not seen us, he is turning away from us. I wave my hand in the air and he sees me. This is almost over. A total of 15 minutes has passed. It is very hot and I feel like everything is in slow motion. The Constable pulls up in front of us. I step to the side. He asks Brian if he is okay, but before he can answer, his mother starts talking. I step further away. I want to hear what Brian has to say, but realize no one, including the Constable, is going to let him speak. The Constable seems satisfied that everything is okay. He does not seek me out as an eyewitness. He does not ask for any type of identification. He gets back in his car and drives off. While he is talking to the Mother, the older woman has walked back to the restaurant to get their vehicle. She pulls up next to me. She walks around her suburban to where I am standing. She is very upset and begins telling me Brian has been like this since he was a baby. They have had to put special locks on doors, she is crying. I hug her. Then I see Brian and he is walking towards me, saying, “I’m sorry.” I open my arms and he comes close to me. He lets me hug him and I quietly tell him how much he scared me. I tell him life is hard, but never so hard that we have to harm ourselves. He tells me again he is sorry and he thanks me for caring for him. As he pulls away from my embrace, I place my cupped palm on his chubby, tear-stained, right cheek, make sure he is listening and making eye contact, and then I ask him to “please do great things with your life. I can see you are special and I do care. Know that, Brian. I care.” And then he is gone and I drive to Casa Azul and mix a pitcher of Mango Margaritas. 

I had the brilliant idea while visiting friends in Nacogdoches during the Christmas 2004 holiday season. It was the perfect storm – Pat, a tattoo artist and friend, was available, alcohol was freely flowing, as it always seems to do in Nacogdoches, and ex #2’s birthday was looming. It was a spur of the moment decision, not a lot of thought behind it, just a blind pursuit to prove my love, permanently. In hindsight, I suppose my thought was I would be with this man for the rest of my life so what would be the harm in PERMANENTLY inking his name on my right hip. Never say never or forever and ever.

What man in his right mind would not love to be honored in this fashion? This was my declaration of undying love, but thinking back on the actually “unveiling” there was a lack of enthusiasm. Where I thought there would be applause and cheers, this small piece of ink art was coolly received. And since there was no pre-planning involved, I had a lot of ink transfer to my white panties – warning: if you are planning a tattoo stupid, wear loose clothing and be prepared to go naked for at least twelve hours after if the art is in an area where clothing will rub and irritate.

As I have continued to emotionally process the divorce – the move to The Flat, photographs for the last fifteen years, the memory boxes, and on and on and on – the last item to deal with was the tattoo. The tattoo was draining my energy. It had an “ownership” attached to it. Duh. It was time, well past time, to proactively address the ink and potential possibilities for modifying.

I started talking to tatted friends and acquaintances and Axis Tattoo in downtown Corpus Christi received the most thumbs up and last Wednesday evening, my neighbor, Richard, acting as my body guard, took me downtown to discuss the possibilities for tattoo stupid. I met with Joseph, a tall drink of water tattoo artist that seemed cool, confident, and had a pretty laid back attitude about the whole affair. After staring at my ass for twenty minutes, he made several suggestions and we made arrangements to meet again at 5:00 o’clock Saturday, July 4th. This would be my personal Independence Day.

OUCH!

It took Joseph less than thirty minutes to modify the original tattoo. And it hurt like hell. It truly felt like he was cutting the damn thing off of my skin, and it also felt like it was going to be twice the size of the original. Funny how our imagination runs away when we are in the dark. I could feel him drawing on my skin and when he finally offered me the mirror to approve the changes, I felt let down. Not because it was less than I expected, but because it felt like more when I could not see it. Seeing the changes in the mirror made me realize how simple this process would be. I nodded my head and said, “go for it.” Then I felt the first stab of pain, started panting like I was in labor, and wondered where I could get some lidocaine. I told Joseph I did not remember it hurting so badly when I initially got the tattoo – oh, yeah, I was stinking drunk, which obviously dulled the pain, and he tells me this area of the body is very delicate. No shit!

Last night while attending a 4th of July bar-be-que I went commando. It took me a while to find something to wear that did not irritate the area and this morning it is still a little tender and I have my shorts rolled down so nothing touches it. It was worth the pain, though. It is my tattoo now – there will always be the memory of it origin and the reason behind it, but now it belongs to me. And I thank Joseph for his understanding and talent. He took a tattoo stupid and gave me a piece of body art I do not have to explain should I get caught in the future with my pants down. Independence Day 2009!