The Tattoo by Chris Mckinney Page B

but he was wide, carrying the kind of frame that can be achieved only with heavy weights. Below his shirtless torso, he wore dark-blue Levi’s, which drooped down so his tan line and the top of his ass crack were visible. I looked up at the back of his head and saw the outrageous bushel of hair. It was the kind of wavy hair that grew out, not down, defying the laws of gravity. Clouds of smoke billowed from the front of his mane and hung there just long enough that he looked like he was wearing a twisted halo. I was scared of him before I’d even seen his face.
    “Hey, Freddie!” Koa yelled, attempting to be heard over the rapid guitar solo that screamed from the tape player.
    Freddie put his hand on the gun and slowly turned around. A joint dangled from his lips. He smiled and waved Koa over.
    “Hey,” Koa yelled, “no shoot me ah, you fucka!”
    We both walked to the bench. Freddie was sealing ounces. After he finished packaging the one he was working on, he grabbed a bud and a Zig Zag, and began rolling a joint. About thirty seconds later, he passed it over to Koa.
    We got stoned. I looked at Koa and laughed. His glassy, blood-shot eyes peered at me, squinting as his mouth broadened. Suddenly we heard Freddie say sharply, “Hey, shut up.” We froze and it looked as if he was trying to hear something. He held his hand up at us and remained still. After a few seconds, he reached for the volume knob. The screaming music dulled to silence. I thought he was having some kind of bad trip. He reached under his workbench and pulled out a handful of cat food.
    I was tripping. I was fascinated, though, especially because I was so stoned. I looked over at Koa, and he was just as captivated. Freddie quietly stepped out of the shed. He began to make clicking noises, calling noises. Koa and I walked out and saw him crouched down, beckoning, sometimes pausing to throw a dried gem of cat food into the thick bushes.
    Sure enough, after a few minutes, a cat reluctantly emerged. It was a gray one, one of those short-haired gray felines that have squiggly black stripes running all over its body. A real stray, ugly and skinny. Freddie patiently called. It was a sweet call, full of calming emotion, like a soothing song. The cat wasn’t immediately taken by it. At first it was smart, paranoid, like most cats are, but soon the food and call harmonized together, making the cat come closer and closer. I was amazed at how patient Freddie was, his rhythm never became strained or anxious. He just crouched there, motionless, singing his call. Finally the cat rubbed against his leg and purred. Freddie gave it a gentle stoke down its spine, then suddenly clamped his hand around its tail.
    The cat tried to run, but Freddie just stood up and let the cat dangle from his grip. It went crazy, contorted its body in violent spasms, scratched at his hand, but Freddie unflinchingly strolled back into the shed with a big smile. He motioned for us to follow him. I knew the cat was in deep shit.
    Freddie swung the cat over his head, spun it around and around like it was a sling and a stone. He let go and it crashed onto his workbench. Before it could recover, he quickly ran over and grabbed it by the neck. “Hey Puana,” he yelled, “go grab me dat rope in da corner ova dea.”
    Koa looked at me with this “holy shit” look, walked over to the corner and picked up the rope. It was a short, thin nylon cord that already had a noose tied to the end of it. Koa threw it over to Freddie, probably not wanting to get too close. “Hea, you crazy fucka.”
    We watched as Freddie tied the rope to a high, thick branch. He put the cat’s neck through the noose, and lowered it until the rope tightened around its neck. He let go of the cat. The branch bent down from the cat’s weight so that it swung at our eye level. At first the cat went crazy, clawing and kicking the air. But soon it settled down, exhausted and defeated. Freddie rolled another joint, lit it up,