T. R. Healy

Healy was born and raised in the Pacific Northwest and attended Portland State University.

Rare Highs and Relentless Lows

Shelby, sipping a cup of stale black coffee, sat on a lopsided chair in a corner of the waiting room of the shabby downtown clinic. He was not alone. The room was packed with more people than there were places to sit so a few sat on the floor beside the water cooler. Most were younger than he was, some just barely out of their teens, though there were a couple who were older. He was twenty-four, would be twenty-five in another nine days.
“Number eleven,” the dour receptionist called out in a gravelly voice. “Number eleven, please.”
Shelby didn’t bother to look up, he was twenty-three so he knew it would be quite a while before he was called. Probably an hour, maybe longer, unless some folks ahead of him got tired of waiting and left. He doubted that would happen, though, everyone here he figured was too committed to getting their tattoos removed to back out now.
As he set the empty styrofoam cup beneath his chair, the left sleeve of his rayon shirt rose a little above his elbow and he glimpsed the coral red edge of his lone tattoo. He did not have to see anymore. He had looked at the tattoo so many times since he got it nearly six years ago that he could picture every detail of its design in his head. It was a midnight blue circle, about the size of a half dollar, with minute silver numbers from one to twelve printed along the rim. It was the face of a watch but few ever realized that because it didn’t have any hands. That was his idea, not to have any hands, as if he had broken them off to stop time and start over again. He smiled at its elusiveness, proud that he had thought of something unusual, and not been content to pick one of the familiar designs displayed on the arms and legs and ankles of the others in the waiting room. Nearly everyone of them he had seen on the wall of the parlor where he got his tattoo.
As if it were yesterday, he remembered entering the grungy little place under the railroad bridge on the east side of town, bolstered by a couple of longneck beers he had consumed just a few minutes earlier in his truck. He was alone, not wanting anyone with him who might try to discourage him from going ahead with the procedure. Softly, an old Muddy Waters album played on a tape deck on the counter, right beneath the wall with all kinds of designs to choose from, hundreds and hundreds of them. He ignored it, however, having already decided on what he wanted burned onto his shoulder, and sat down in the cracked leather barber’s chair.
The proprietor, a burly guy with heavily tattooed arms, stepped behind him and asked, “You already know what you want, brother?”
He nodded and described what he had in mind. “Can you do it?”
The guy snorted a laugh. “Hell, I can put Big Ben on your arm if you want it.”
He was sure he could and sat back in the creaking chair as the guy bent over him with an ivory-handled razor and shaved his upper left arm then cleaned it with a swab of alcohol. From a rickety drawer he pulled out a template that was similar to the design Shelby wanted and outlined it in black powder then set the template aside and on his own filled in the twelve numbers along with the broken stems of the torn off hands.
“This might hurt a mite,” the guy cautioned him, “but I figure a nugget as hard as you shouldn’t have any trouble handling it.”
Shelby, not replying, cringed when the electrical gun was switched on then looked down as the needle pressed into his skin. A bead of blood trickled into the crook of his arm. Slowly, delicately, the needle moved along the powdery outline, burning the timeless clock into his skin, while more beads of blood slid down his arm until the burly guy wiped them away with a ragged wash cloth. Shelby barely felt the needle at first, it seemed little more than a cat scratch, but then his arm grew warmer and warmer until he felt it was on fire. He became lightheaded, thought he might even faint, and was about to ask if he could climb out of the chair and get a breath of fresh air when the guy slapped on a piece of gauze and told him he was done.
“Already?”
“Already, brother.”
He paid the guy then, despite feeling a little groggy still, hurried out of the parlor and into the damp evening air. His arm ached but he didn’t mind, he was so thrilled to have the tattoo, convinced that it signaled a fresh start in his life. He only wished the piece of gauze wasn’t concealing it so everyone he passed could see it and try and figure out what it meant.
*
His number was called nearly an hour and a half later and he followed the receptionist through a beaded curtain to a small yellow room that was deep in the back of the clinic. A padded table occupied the center of the room with a green stool beside it and two chairs folded against the back wall. He was there only a couple of minutes when a bearded man in a starched white jacket shambled in and introduced himself as the dermatologist who would remove his tattoo. His name was Dr. Edgarian and he explained that he was a volunteer in the removal program sponsored by the clinic. He handed him a pair of oversized sunglasses then told him to climb on the table and turn over on his right side. Shelby did, and the physician bent down and examined the tattoo while he pulled on a pair of surgical gloves. Shelby expected him to ask what the tattoo signified but instead he asked why he wanted it removed.
“I’m just tired of it I guess.”
“You figure it’ll improve your chances of getting a decent job?”
“No, not really.”
“Most of the people who come here to have their tattoos removed figure it’ll help them land better paying jobs,” Dr. Edgarian observed as he reached for the laser gun.
“No, that’s not a factor for me.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m an actor with the Storefront Repertory Company,” he answered, “but mainly I earn my living waiting tables at McAllister’s Grill.”
“Acting’s a tough trade,” he remarked as he swabbed Shelby’s arm. “A cousin of mine tried it for a while and she described it as a career of ‘rare highs and relentless lows.’”
Scarcely listening, Shelby watched anxiously as the physician drew the gun toward his bare left arm.
“This procedure shouldn’t take too much longer than it took when you got your tattoo,” Dr. Edgarian informed him, “but it’ll probably be a little more painful. And you’ll have to return for several more treatments before the tattoo is completely removed.”
“You can’t do it all now?”
“Afraid not.”
The physician turned on the laser and carefully directed its beam over the skin to break down the ink in the tattoo. The procedure was not as painful as Shelby expected but it was not something he looked forward to receiving for several more sessions, either. Maybe, he thought, his would be different and it would require only one session to remove. He crossed his fingers, hoping the physician was mistaken.
*
Yawning, Shelby rinsed his razor in the sink but before he lathered his face, he stared at himself in the medicine cabinet mirror. His eyes were still puffy with sleep, still half shut. He was not used to getting up this early in the morning, not for a long time anyway. Then he looked at his tattoo, which seemed as visible as ever, and his eyes closed even further in disappointment. He would have to undergo a lot more laser treatments he realized before it completely disappeared. Still, it was worth it to erase his past, or at least that part of his past that caused him to get the tattoo.
He was up this morning because an actor friend of his suffered some food poisoning last night and asked him to take over a role he had been hired to play this week. It was an unusual part because the performance wasn’t going to be in a theater but in a courtroom. His friend had been hired by a law firm to read the prior testimony of a witness now out of the country at a civil trial currently under way at the county courthouse. It shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours before the jury, his friend estimated, but first there would be a brief rehearsal at the law firm to make sure he understood exactly what kind of impression he was to convey
“Whatever you do, don’t look as if you just walked in off the street,” his friend advised. “Wear something conservative, something as plain as a lawyer would wear.”
“No sandals?”
His friend groaned. “Not even with dark socks.”
*
Shelby arrived at the firm at nine o’clock sharp and was immediately led into a conference room where two associates introduced themselves and invited him to sit down at the polished walnut table. He was then handed a three-ring folder containing the testimony of Leonard Coburn, the witness he was substituting for, and asked to read a couple of pages out loud.
“From the beginning?” he asked after swallowing some ice water.
“From anywhere you like,” the taller associate replied. “We just want to hear how you sound.”
Nodding, he opened the folder toward the back and began reading a passage having to do with the abstruse accounting practices of the insurance company the witness worked for at the time the fraud was alleged to have occurred. The complicated testimony meant absolutely nothing to him, he could have been reciting something in a foreign language for all he knew, but even so he made every effort to be as clear and articulate as he could. It was what an actor did: to be as persuasive as possible in every role he played.
“You’re speaking a little too fast,” the shorter associate observed after Shelby completed a page. “The jury can’t follow you if you keep at that pace.”
“You want them to comprehend every word you say,” his colleague added.
“Your tone is not right, either. You sound like someone who cares about the people who lost money in this case. But you don’t.”
“I don’t?” Shelby said reflexively.
“That’s right. You couldn’t care less.”
“This is a bad person whose testimony you’re reading,” the taller associate reminded him. “He helped cheat stockholders out of hundreds of thousands of dollars.”
“Sound as if you’re pissed off,” the other lawyer interjected, “as if you don’t believe you did anything wrong.”
“Make it so the jury doesn’t believe a word you’re saying.”
“Then we’ll drive a stake through his heart.”
“We’ll bury the son of a bitch.”
“Believe me, Mr. Walsh, nothing is more satisfying than bringing down someone who thinks he got away with something.”
Shelby obliged the lawyers by reading the next page slower and in a much edgier tone that he hoped conveyed the arrogance and indifference they desired. They seemed satisfied and did not interrupt him until he read three more pages then told him to be at the courthouse at ten o’clock tomorrow morning and to wear a dark suit.
“I have the job then?”
The taller man smiled. “You most certainly do, Mr. Walsh. Tomorrow, for a couple of hours, you’re going to be the meanest man in town.”
*
The lawyers encouraged him to take home the three-ring folder so he could go over the testimony. He was grateful because he liked to rehearse a part as much as possible, believing that was the surest way to eliminate any flaws in his performance. So, after getting a bite to eat at the diner down the corner from his apartment, he sat down at his desk and opened the folder to the first page and began to read the testimony in the smug, deliberate voice the lawyers requested. He recorded the first few pages then played back the tape to see if he noticed any serious mistakes. He often recorded himself when he was working on a role so he was quite familiar with the sound of his voice but the person he heard on the tape now didn’t sound like him at all. It was stern, petulant, brusque, defiant, absolutely sure of himself; it was the voice of Leonard Coburn, he thought, smiling with satisfaction.
He stole a glance of himself in the oval mirror he kept on the corner of his desk, confident the lawyers who hired him would approve of his performance.
The more he read the more he became the person he was portraying, his own voice barely recognizable as he played back the tape, and the more he began to empathize with the alleged culprit. He didn’t know if the witness was responsible for all the allegations made against him, perhaps he was, but he certainly didn’t believe he was the reprehensible person the lawyers hoped to present to the jury tomorrow. He knew all too well that was the tactic used by lawyers to impeach the credibility of their adversaries. Certainly it was what they did to his father when he was on trial five years ago next month for embezzlement of monies at the auction house where he was an appraiser for almost eight years. His father was not a bad person. He was just down on his luck, having made a couple of indiscreet real estate investments, and borrowed the money to pay off some of his staggering debts. He had every intention of paying it back but his misappropriation was discovered before he had the chance.
On the stand his father told the prosecutor that he intended to return the money, but the surly man dismissed his claim and through a series of withering questions reduced his father to a pathetic wreck. Tears streamed down his craggy face and his shoulders and arms trembled as if bitterly cold. Shelby, who was in the courtroom with his heartsick mother, could not bear to look at his father and stared at the floor, but he could not block out his father’s voice, which sounded as strange to him as the voice he was now using to recite the testimony of Leonard Coburn.
Again, he glanced at the mirror on his desk and looked at the tattoo blazing across his left shoulder. One of these days, he thought, it would be erased forever, he just wished that could happen to the bitter memory of his father that still burned in his head.
*
Shelby was called to the stand shortly after he arrived at the courthouse. He was a little nervous, as he was before any performance, but believed he was well prepared and was sure the blue pinstriped suit he had borrowed from a neighbor in his apartment building was perfect for the occasion. A bailiff the size of a Clydesdale escorted him into the courtroom, and as he walked past the jurors and approached the witness stand, he could not help but think of his father. He had not been inside a courtroom since the day his father testified at his trial. He was so distraught after watching him fall apart on the stand that he could not return for the last two years of the proceeding.
In another moment, after taking a deep breath, he began reciting the testimony of the absent witness in the unfamiliar voice that he heard last night on his tape recorder. It was firm and solemn, proud and unapologetic, delivered slowly and clearly so that everyone in the cavernous room could hear it. The lawyers who hired him seemed satisfied by his performance as they listened intently to each and every word. Page after page he recited, carefully modulating his voice so he didn’t put any of the jurors to sleep. Almost from the start, he felt in command of his character, as comfortable in the witness box as he did on a stage. Then, gradually, the terrible memory of his father intruded into his head, and as he looked at the approving lawyers who hired him, he again thought of the obnoxious prosecutor who had humiliated his father. And then, ever so slightly, he began to soften his voice, to introduce some compassion and doubt in the words of the person he was portraying. And he could see the concern in the lawyers’ eyes as they wondered what he was doing, the growing agitation when they realized that they had lost control of one of their props. He suspected the witness was more like his mistaken father than the malicious person the lawyers wanted him to present and he wanted the jurors to realize that so he continued to modify the intensity of his delivery until the lawyers’ eyes were simmering with indignation.
Almost smiling to himself, he was pleased with his performance, felt it was as good as anything he had done on stage in a long while. The eyes of the lawyers were his applause, and they were as resounding as any he had received as an actor.