They don’t have secret identities, just outdated ones, people they used to be.
by Joseph Mills
A kid on the other team, the Broncos, has the worst mohawk Valerie has ever seen. Mohawks are ugly by design, but they should seem to be deliberate. This one looks as if the kid either did it himself or changed his mind after it was too late. It isn’t stylish or impressive or scary. It wouldn’t strike fear into the opponents, or make them think twice. It’s just…weird. It’s weird for a ten-year-old to have a hacked-up head. Had he been trying to emulate some player he knew? Pro soccer players have the funkiest hair in sports. Or is something going on with the parents? Would a psychologist look at that and say, “Come see me right away.” Had the parents approved, been upset, or shrugged? Valerie knows that after a while, you simply stopped fighting, even caring, about certain things. Like what they wore. What they ate. You get perspective about what’s important which is to say you get tired. Look at that kid who clearly had been wearing his jersey for a while even though this is the first game of the season. White uniforms are nightmares for parents — the mud and blood and grass — but she can’t even tell what those stains are. The parents must have thrown up their hands and resigned themselves to having him wear it until it falls off his body.
The mohawk would get the award for worst hair although there is some competition. The pink stripes. The shaggy dog look. The white girl with corn rows. That’s expensive, and for what? For who? How had that girl possibly known to ask for that? Or wanted to?
Some kids are allowed to go feral, and some seem to be living dolls for their parents to dress up and accessorize. Look at that one wearing his uniform like it has a bow-tie. Shirt tucked in. Socks pulled up and at the same level. Everything aligned. Not a stain. Not a smudge. He looks like a fashion model doing a soccer-themed shoot. The coach should run every play right at that kid. Someone looking like that isn’t going to tackle or challenge for the ball.
And that kid over there. Is that a tattoo? What’s the minimum age for a tattoo? 16? 14? Is there a minimum? It must be a birthmark, a sticker, dirt, something he has done with a magic marker. Sometimes Sean came home from school with his arms covered in ink because they drew all over one another in the art room and lunch room and playground. It was a type of flirting. But that kid’s mark is so defined, dark, and well-done. Like someone knew what they were doing and had good equipment. It looks legit. Just like a Nike swoop, and the kid is wearing Nike cleats. This might be the winner for the day’s bad parenting contest and it isn’t even noon. Valerie finds it satisfying. Didn’t somebody say every drunk needs a friend who is more of a drunk than them? Every bad parent wants to see someone who’s worse. She might lose her temper, say horrible sarcastic things, simply ignore danger like water glasses about to be broken because she doesn’t have the energy to have yet another argument, but at least her kids don’t have any tattoos. At least not yet. It might be setting the bar low, but it makes her feel good.
She isn’t against tattoos. She isn’t that hypocritical. She has hers. On the back. Before the phrase “tramp stamp” became popular, or at least before she had known about it. At the time, she had thought it was cool. She and Melinda had heard about prison culture, Mexicans getting Virgin Marys on their backs to protect them, and the idea had appealed. Someone watching their backs, keeping them safe. Melinda had gone for a Hello Kitty. Something she loved that could be seen as ironic. Valerie had gotten her animal totem. A raven. At least what she thought was her totem at the time. At the time. At the time. That is always the key phrase, isn’t it. Everything seems good At The Time. Another drink. Having a kid. Getting a tattoo. At the time it had seemed the thing to do, but everyone makes mistakes. Marriages. Mohawks. It definitely hadn’t kept her safe.
Now, there is no danger of anyone seeing it except the doctors and physical therapists. Sometimes she even forgets about it herself. Sometimes she wonders if she hadn’t had the accident if she would have gotten it removed. Everyone has tattoos now — arrows, anklets, Maori symbols, kanji, sleeves — until not having one has become the cool thing. But it wouldn’t have been worth the trouble. It’s like the crap they shove into the backroom or garage, stuff that had been useful at one point, but now they move out of sight and don’t think about. The way most parents deal with their past lives. They don’t have secret identities, just outdated ones, people they used to be. Of course, with her it’s not the tattoo that makes that obvious. Her daughter Vera had once told a therapist with a shrug, “Everyone is working on something.” Yeah, and everyone is recovering from something whether you can see it or not.
What’s interesting to her about the kid’s tattoo is that it seems to be a logo. She looks around to see if there are parents decked out in Nike gear. That sort of brand fanaticism should be obvious. Maybe the company has sponsored infertility treatments or something. Hopefully the family got some money out of the deal, a lifetime supply of shoes and gear. Maybe she should look into it. It might be a way of paying for Vera’s college. Or some of the medical bills. Sell ad space on her daughter’s arms to Xbox or Coke. Or Nike. With the swoop, if they changed their mind, it could be worked into another design, like a cattle brand being changed. The thing rustlers used to do. It left open possibilities. That’s the secret to parenting. Leaving open possibilities. Maybe the kid’s parents are better than she had first thought. Or she’s worse. Or both. Probably both. At half-time, she’ll wheel closer and try to get a better look.
Joseph Mills teaches at the University of North Carolina School of the Arts. He has published several volumes of poetry with Press 53. ‘Mohawk’ is part of a collection of short fiction titled Bleachers.