Flood Story
Tattoos
Fedora
Beyond the window, the oaks rain acorns on metal roofs. The crows scream "bloody murder."
The geese scram. Beyond the window, the new bosses arrive on bursts of wind. The hawks dip
their bloody beaks in pools. Beyond the window, a window shatters and then another window
shatters, and the glass glitters on black beds, and the beds crack. Beyond the window the
sheets rip, and the ground swallows sticks, rocks, signs, streetlamps and cars. Beyond the
window, the rain sweeps away blocks of houses, and the cries of men and women rise soundless
in water as the fire falls. Beyond the window, the dry land transforms into a sea, and out of
the sea, an ark rises and falls, and beyond the ark another ark rises and falls, a thousand arks like
lit matches, the horizon blazing pink. Beyond the window a mountain rises out of water, some
Noah climbs over the boulders, some Noah scrapes through the burning embers, some Noah
salutes the dove that races toward the rainbow, and some Noah kicks his tiny legs in air, rolling
back and forth on his shiny shell.
“Suli, your tattoos are spreading everywhere,” I said. She liked to walk around the apartment,
wearing only her tattoos. “They’re the same,” she said. I haven’t added one in years. She pointed
to the lotus blossom on the top of her left buttock, the pink umbrella on her forearms, and the
purple facets of the diamond on her boobs. I was shocked that she ignored the dyed shapes
covering the rest of her body. “What about the turquoise angel on your belly and the butterfly
wings stretching across your whole back? And what about the glittery bands around your arms,
and the multicolored eagles on your thighs and the Mayan calendar draped above your
homeland?” She walked into the kitchen and opened the Fridge, looking for something good
to eat, but there were only some leftover dried up vegetables. “I don’t know what you’re talking
about, and what do you have against my tattoos anyway?” As she said this, a new tattoo appeared
on her shoulder, a fiery bobcat with ivory claws. “They’re spreading,” I said. I pointed to the
bobcat on her shoulder and the crossed daggers on the left side of her neck. “Why so violent,”
I asked, following her into the bathroom, where she brushed out her long thick hair so it fell
down her back, covering some of her tattoos. She put down the brush and looked at me in the
mirror. “What’s this really about?” And then I noticed a crow tattooed on my arm, gold rays of
sunlight falling like grains over a field of wheat on my chest, in the distance some winged horses
taking off into the sky, and on my belly, Suli crouched on all fours, waiting to pounce.
Chasin complained that his fedora was too heavy and didn’t fit right. “Take it off,” Maria said,
sitting on the couch. “You look like the minister of death wearing all that black.” But he didn’t like
to doff his fedora because the expanse of his forehead was spreading to meet the open field of
his crown, and his skin looked ashy. “Take it off,” she said, smiling at him as she lay down,
tucking the pillow under her head. “You’ll feel better, lighter, years younger.” Was this an
invitation? he wondered, his eyes glued to her long legs in black tights. Then he removed his
fedora and out flew a robin, complaining bitterly about the heat. Out flew three bees, bumping
against the windowpane, trying to get out. Out came a flurry of snow that caused Maria to sit up
and wave her arms. Out came a few bullfrogs frozen on the floor. Out came a bowl of fruit, the
ceramic jar breaking on the wood floor. Out came a puppy, running to Maria, rubbing against
her legs. Out fell four tickets to a concert five years before, which they never attended. Out came
a warning from his mother, in her husky voice, “Don’t get tied down before you have a good
job,” but he had never had a good job, and now he was middle aged, living with a much younger
woman and sporting a fedora. Out came silk ties, a photo of his daughter with a dozen piercings
in her face. “What guy would ever want a woman with a lip ring and a tongue stud?” Out came
all his bitterness, a stream of angry phrases repeating themselves like a CD with a scratch on the
bottom. Maria rose from the couch. “You’re an ugly man” and went into the bathroom, slamming
the door and locking it. Chasin hurled his fedora like a Frisbee, and the fedora broke through the
window and sailed over the cars on the boulevard. He touched the bare skin on his head, then hurried
out to retrieve the fedora.
Jeff Friedman’s poems, translations and mini stories have appeared in American Poetry Review, Quick Fiction, Poetry International, Ontario Review, Prairie Schooner, Night Train, Agni Online, The Antioch Review, Poetry, North American Review, and The New Republic. His fifth book of poems, Working in Flour, was published by Carnegie Mellon University Press in January 2011.
