BACKSTORY: 13 February 1995, London
He comes from a place where people buy wedding gifts at the drugstore; where the course of true love is a rutted red-clay road that washes out even in a drizzle, littered with broken beer bottles and blue Wal-Mart bags. Verity of sentiment is frequently punctuated by the full-stop pop of a nose or eye-socket exploding under the impact of a heavy Freemason's ring.
He has come a long way from that place.
But even if you shave your head, man, you still got your roots, and despite all the years and miles there's more than a little bit of Kentucky still left in Johnny. He hands the man his drawing and sits down in the chair.
"Where, again?"
"Here, right here. I want it to be..."
"Obvious?"
"Yeah, man. Yeah." Johnny grins and rolls up his sleeve.
Over the buzz of the tattoo gun he hears Jack's voice in his head, his tongue slipping and sliding over the words he recited into Johnny's skin.
All you Loves and Cupids cry,
and all you men of feeling:
my girl’s sparrow is dead,
my girl’s beloved sparrow.
She loved him more than herself.
He was sweeter than honey, and he
knew her, as she knows her mother.
He never flew out of her lap,
but, hopping about here and there,
just chirped to his lady, alone.
Now he is flying the dark
no one ever returns from...
"I wouldn't," Johnny had said, and Jack had smiled and tousled his hair.
"You wouldn't what, darling?"
"Fly away," he said seriously.
"I know." Jack smiled again, kissed him. "I know."
(continued)
He has come a long way from that place.
But even if you shave your head, man, you still got your roots, and despite all the years and miles there's more than a little bit of Kentucky still left in Johnny. He hands the man his drawing and sits down in the chair.
"Where, again?"
"Here, right here. I want it to be..."
"Obvious?"
"Yeah, man. Yeah." Johnny grins and rolls up his sleeve.
Over the buzz of the tattoo gun he hears Jack's voice in his head, his tongue slipping and sliding over the words he recited into Johnny's skin.
All you Loves and Cupids cry,
and all you men of feeling:
my girl’s sparrow is dead,
my girl’s beloved sparrow.
She loved him more than herself.
He was sweeter than honey, and he
knew her, as she knows her mother.
He never flew out of her lap,
but, hopping about here and there,
just chirped to his lady, alone.
Now he is flying the dark
no one ever returns from...
"I wouldn't," Johnny had said, and Jack had smiled and tousled his hair.
"You wouldn't what, darling?"
"Fly away," he said seriously.
"I know." Jack smiled again, kissed him. "I know."
(continued)