in august of 2008 i was sitting in a psychiatrist’s office waiting to get my fix and ended up making a new friend in the waiting room
“those look like some cool inks,” commented a dude sitting across the way from me, “mind if I see what you’ve got?”
i blinked, consented, and he got up and limped over. the guy was about 50, had blue hair, glasses with only one dark lens, a sleeveless, torn shirt that revealed countless tattoos snaking on his skin and pants covered by boots that reached his knees.
“wowwww,” he said in a simplistic manner, “this dragon’s pretty cool. the stitches too. that hurt, gettin’ that done under your wrist?”
“hey man, you’d know better than me,” i said pointing to his arms, “you’ve got way more than me and most of them looked like they’d sting a bit”
he looked down as if he’d just realized he had ink, “huh? oh yeah, yeah, some of these were a bitch,” he pointed around his wrists and the cobweb done on his elbow, “what’s your name?” he asked as he wobbled back to his original seat.
“ky,” i said.
“my name’s bones. hey, come sit over here for a second, lemme give you a poem.”
i walked over and sat down in the seat to his left. he rummaged through his bag for a bit and took out two sheets of paper. carefully, on the top of one sheet, a poem that he had written, he marked my name.
he looked it over for a second and then handed it to me, “here ya go. this is a poem that I wrote (I’m a writer, you see) and this is a flyer for the open mic night down at Miller’s.”
i remembered someone on campus telling me about the place once and nodded, “yeah, i’ve heard of it, i’m pretty sure i could find it without much of an issue.”
“you should come and speak at the mic. write somethin’! you should always write, all the time, never stop. then go out and tell it to everyone.”
i smiled, “not so sure about the performing thing, my boyfriend does most of that. i’ve got a stage fright issue so I usually hang back and take photos of the gang while they’re doing their thing on stage. i get enough kicks watching them be crazy.”
he laughed at this. we continued talking for a while. he told me about how he was in the office for his bipolar condition.
“my friends tell me Bones, Bones, don’t take the meds, they’re bad’, bah,” he waved his hand, “they really do help. you seem like a real smart one, like ya understand.”
he mentioned his bike and i remarked seeing it parked out in the handicapped spot, coincidentally marked with the words “BONES”. he said that he had gotten into an accident not too long ago that left him in a coma and his right leg crippled. even so, he told me that he loved riding his bike way too much to stop.
“no car, just my bike. it’s just hard riding in the rain and snow. i have electric heated suits for those kind of days at least,” he chuckled to himself, “bikes are just so cool.”
before long, i was in and out of the doctor’s office and bidding farewell to my new acquaintance. be reminded me once more about the open mic on my way out the door. i never did end up going but i never forgot bones. i regret it a little.
the world is like the USA channel; characters welcome. you never know who you’re gonna meet.
v.
Artless Valentine 