Phil Temples

Evolved

 

 

For years Sydney Leibowitz had been unhappy with the tattoo that adorned his left arm just above the shirtsleeve. It was an amateur affair; made by a so-called aspiring artist who had yet to even aspire.. It was supposed to be a romantic expression of Sydney’s love for Kathy Parker, his high school sweetheart: the initials SL+KP inside a heart. But the heart was a sad, misshapen affair.  The drawing reminded Sydney of a clod of dirt hanging by its roots. Sydney recognized at first sight that the artwork had been a mistake. It was a mystery to him why he had waited all these years before doing something about it.  Sydney was aware that he was a first order procrastinator. He wife knew it too, and reminded him constantly. She took demented pleasure in cataloging his other faults as well. It’s time for me to take control of my life . . . to change for the better, Sydney thought. I will no longer be a failure. When I set my mind to accomplishing something, I will do it!

 

“What do you think?” asked the acne-faced Goth girl. They were in a tattoo studio in a depressed area of downtown. The Goth handed Sydney a hand mirror with which to inspect the cover up tattoo now emblazoned over the crude heart. Success! Sydney’s arm now sported a black-and-white primitive tribal design.

 

“Yes! Thank you! It’s perfect.”

 

Goth girl ignored his praise, staring at him blankly and chewing her gum with impressive vigor.

 

Sydney paused for a moment. He had an idea.

 

“Say, can you do the other arm, too? Same design?”

 

“Sure, for another hundred bucks.”

 

*    *    *

 

“You schlemiel! It’s bad enough that you’ve been tattooed with that shiksa from high school all these years. Now you want to look like some African savage?”

 

Gladys was in one of her frenzies. It seemed that Sydney could do nothing right in her eyes. Why on earth had Sydney thought that Gladys would be happy with his decision to eradicate the residue of a high school sweetheart?

 

“I thought you would be pleased . . .“

 

“How much did that cost? Huh?! Twenty bucks? Fifty bucks?”

 

“Well, it . . .”

 

“More?! Gottenyu! What gonif separated you from our hard earned money?”

 

Sydney could see that he was not going to win the argument. He sulked out of the room and left the house for the city, to seek the company of strangers.

 

*    *    *

 

Not long after arriving downtown, Sydney passed an upscale hair salon. It was a trendy chain store, with pretty young women and men stylists who fancied themselves artisans and sculptors. Their prices were high, but not overly so. Sydney was overdue for a haircut.  He figured that he could receive a nice cut and have a pleasant conversation, in contrast to being on the receiving end of ridicule. Besides, he told himself, it was quite sensual having a pretty woman massaging his scalp while shampooing his hair.

 

His stylist, an attractive young lady in her mid-twenties, exchanged a few pleasantries with Sydney that included a nice complement on his new tats. His spirits rose; he beamed at her.

 

“So tell me, Sydney, do we have a particular style in mind today?”

 

“I’d like the sides clipped with a number . . .”

 

Sydney always got his sides trimmed with a #2-size clipper, along with a finger-length scissor trim on the top. 

 

So predictable! He thought. And plain.

 

“Say, that guy who just left as I was coming in . . . what do you call that style?”

 

She smiled.

 

“That’s a Mohawk. Are you sure, Sydney?”

 

“It might go well with my new look, don’t you think?”  Sydney glanced at his arm.  Then he said more confidently, “Sure! Why not?”

 

*    *    *

 

Upon arriving home, the fallout from Sydney’s new Mohawk haircut was immediate. Gladys nearly fainted when she saw it, then she caught her breath and began hurling new epithets at him—the likes of which he had never encountered before. But Sydney managed to tune her out. In his mind, he repeated the mantra:

 

I am in control of my destiny. I am evolving. I am somebody.

 

“. . . Did you even hear a word I just said, Sydney? SYDNEY!”

 

Disgusted, Gladys stomped out of the room and slammed the door behind her.

 

In the weeks that followed, Sydney continued his pursuit of what he defined as personal growth and evolution. The Goth tattoo artist gave him several piercings. Sydney had both ears and a nostril pierced, as well as one of his nipples. It complemented the hairstyle (now dyed purple) along with the new tat on his neck.

 

Sydney’s novel look had not gone unnoticed in the work place. His boss, Mr. Steiner, called him into his office one afternoon to have a frank discussion.

 

“Sydney, what the hell is going on with you? Are you having some sort of mid-life crisis?”

 

Sydney didn’t answer right away. Instead, he looked at Steiner, studying him intently in a way he had never before.  For the very first time, Sydney saw and recognized in this man--his so-called superior—all of the insecurities, weaknesses and pettiness that Sydney had tolerated for many years as his underling. But most of all, what Sydney saw in front of him was a plain, stunted man—one who had stopped growing, evolving. It all made sense now. He was pissed.

 

“Screw you, little man. I quit!”

 

*    *   *

 

The news of Sydney’s resignation was too much for Gladys. The following day, Sydney came home to find his suitcase, clothes and other belongings scattered across the front yard. It suited Sydney fine; he was ready to move out and leave his shrew of a wife anyway. Her preemptive strike made their parting all the easier. Sydney collected his things, checked into a motel, and proceeded to the bank offices where he promptly withdrew most of their savings. Sydney figured there was enough cash to support himself for the better part of a year—including paying for the additional artwork he was contemplating.

 

In the months that followed, Sydney had his entire upper body turned into a canvas of intricate and elaborate doodling. He took his ideas and inspiration from various sources: architectural design, nature—even magazine ads. Sydney shacked up with the Goth girl, who called herself Zakoor. She and her inner circle of Goths quickly became Sydney’s best friends. They hung out every night in the park, smoking pot and drinking beer into the night. Despite the age difference, Sydney enjoyed their company. He felt as though they were kindred souls.  Like him, each one was seeking change.

 

“Hey, show me your tongue again,” said Sydney to Fera, the oldest Goth in the group. The thirtyish-something man burped, and then he stuck out his tongue. Not only was the tip of the tongue split, resembling that of a snake’s—but also it contained an inch-and-a-half hole supported by a metal ring.

 

“Far out!”

 

“Hey, Fera, show him the pièce de résistance,” said one of the women.

 

Fera stood up, and dropped his trousers. He whipped out his penis and exposed a Prince Albert piercing. Someone commented, “gross!” but Sydney was intrigued. “Is that your work, Zakoor?”

 

“No,” interrupted Fera. “You think I’d let Z near my johnson? I got it done in Denver last year. There’s a bitchin’ shop down there.”

 

The following morning, Zakoor woke up alone in her flat. Sydney was nowhere to be found. She discovered a note on the dresser that read,

 

“Z--Not finished yet.

Be back soon--Love, S.”

 

*    *    *

 

Zakoor missed Sydney terribly for the first few weeks, but as the weeks turned into months she eventually got over him. She continued to ink people and perform piercings. She and her friends hung out in the park as always, getting high and wasted.  Nearly two years passed; with Sydney long forgotton. But one chilly September night, he returned.

 

“Hey, did you guys hear something? Over there.”

 

Fera pointed to a bush twenty feet behind them, next to large tree. All eyes turned to look.  Just then, a solitary figure emerged and stood up.

 

“Holy shit! What is that?”

 

Sydney slowly walked toward them.  One of Zakoor’s friends pulled out a switchblade.

 

“Hey!  YOU . . . you stay away from us!”

 

Sydney stopped. He no longer sported a purple Mohawk. His head was now shaven, and inked completely with tattoos. In fact, every inch of his head was decorated. Both of his cheeks contained a large hole with a metal ring. The holes exposed his gum line, teeth, and tongue; the latter was split down the middle. At the sight of their fear, he grinned at them; two vampire fang implants were visible. A ring of metal spikes protruded from Sydney’s neck. But Sydney’s ultimate statement of evolution was the horns he’d had implanted into his skull, giving him a devilish appearance.

 

Sydney finally spoke. “What’s the matter, Z? You’re not afraid of me, are you?”

 

Zakoor turned away, sobbing. Someone put an arm around her for comfort.

 

“Aren’t you happy for me, Z? I’m evolved now. You see it, right?”

 

“Hey, pal,” replied one of the newest Goths. “I don’t know who you are, but why don’t you crawl back into the slime pit you came from.”

 

“Yeah, beat it,” replied another.  “Get out of here, you sick fuck!”

 

Sydney stood there for another moment, and then he turned and walked away. While disappointing, their reaction was hardly surprising. Strangers always shunned him. To think that these people would behave any differently was unrealistic. They were little and pathetic. They had stopped growing. He no longer had any need for them—or anyone, for that matter.

 

The encounter prepared Sydney for the final step of moving into the old abandoned cabin he had found near the timberline in the nearby mountain range.  He would stock it with provisions and stay for the winter.  If anyone spotted him up there . . . well, they would have stories to tell to their children. He would surely become a legend.

 

 

 

Phil Temples lives in Watertown, Massachusetts, and works as a computer systems administrator at a university. He has published over fifty works of short fiction in print and online journals. Blue Mustang Press recently published Phil's full-length  murder-mystery novel, “The Winship Affair." And his new paranormal-horror novel, "Helltown Chronicles," has just been accepted by Eternal Press.