Here I am, keeping my promise to keep this journal going until my girl gets back. There’s been no word from her, and the few leads the police had have gone cold. It’s like she just vanished.
I went to Tyne a few days ago and talked with her mom again. Even tho’ we’ve never seen eye-to-eye, she actually let me in her house and talked with me for a while. I have to admit, it was pretty weird, us chattin’ like two people who could actually tolerate the sight of each other. She told me Res left without taking anything other than a few handfuls of clothes, the jacket she snatched from some girl I was with last year, and that army bag we doctored with band patches and spray paint when we were fifteen. And that was it. Nothing personal. No mementos. And–the thing that makes me so antsy–no money or credit cards. That just don’t fit how Res works. If she was going away, she’d have cleaned Meg out before she went. But she didn’t.
If her intention was to vanish, then she did a goddamn good job of it. Something’s wrong in all this–wronger than her disappearing, I mean. First off, she wasn’t herself. I mean, she wasn’t herself since her dad kicked it, but when she found out she was moving to Hicksville USA, she got worse. In fact, she got downright strange. It was like she didn’t even want to talk to me anymore. She thought she was doing a great song-and-dance routine, keeping me in the dark, but she should’ve fucking known better. I know her better than anyone and I knew something was goin’ on. I could hear it in her voice. But she wouldn’t tell me. Now she’s missing, and it’s like she meant to take so little, like she was expecting not to, well, like she knew from the beginning of all this she was going–and then she just did it.
But to where? And why didn’t she come to me? Why couldn’t she trust me to keep her safe from whatever the fuck it was she was running from?
I can’t worry too much about her, though. I don’t think there’s anyone that can take my girl down. There’s just something about her that’s pretty fucking scary. Maybe she’s just on a head trip, out walkin’ the earth or some shit, trying to figure out what’s what. The least she could could do is send me a fucking postcard, or something.
Christmas is coming up. She used to ditch her family to hang with me, ’cause she knew I didn’t really have any. We’d go to a bar and get lit. I really dug those dives that stayed open on every holiday. Everyone in there was the same. They either had no one, or didn’t like the ones they had, so they drank and listened to shit music on the jukebox with each other, instead. Unification in Freakdom. Amen.
This year I have no one to drink with. And drinking alone with the loners just aint gonna do it for me. I volunteered to keep the tattoo shop open. I doubt there’ll be many walk-ins, but I have one appointment. This guy wants me to put his profile mugshot on the side of his neck, so when anyone looks at him from the side, they’ll see him as he is now, and then what he used to be. I guess it’s a cool idea, tho’ it probably won’t open up a lot of doors in the career department. But, the guy’s not too sharp anyway, so I’m guessing it’ll even out.
Some guys would refuse to do that kind of ink. Me? I don’t care. If that’s what the dude wants, well, who am I to tell him it ain’t? My job is to make sure it don’t look like shit, but other than that, he can get a tattoo of the Pope’s dick if he wants.
My next client will be in in a few minutes. I’m gonna go grab a smoke in this shit-ass wind before he gets here. If anyone wants to come in on Christmas, bring me a turkey leg and I’ll give you half-off your ink.
And to the dude who said after my last post, “Never trust anyone named Spider,” well, man, you’re probably right on that one, most days, and with most people. Hell, with all people–‘cept her.