His Heart & Soul
By Leslie Fulton
Andy:
I knew I was doomed the minute she walked in the
door. She stood there, all leggy and
blonde and glowing. I thought my heart
would jump out of my chest just at the sight of her. I had to meet her. I don’t usually believe in love willy-nilly
hijacking your senses -- that kind of stuff is for suckers, bad country songs
and Hallmark cards. But she was
perfect. She was the one meant for me.
I don’t remember how I finally got my legs to stop
quivering enough to walk over and say hi.
She stood there uncertainly, backlit by the setting sun. I think I may have fallen over a chair. I know I pushed Bill, my assistant, out of
the way. I had to be the first to reach
her, to talk to her, to possibly touch her.
She was mine.
“May I help you?” I recall saying. “Welcome to my store. Are you looking for anything in
particular? For you I’d have it, or at
least try to find it.” I remember
grinning stupidly and swallowing my gum.
My angel had the grace to smile at me. Her voice was melodic and pitched slightly low. She stuck out a hand, free of rings, for me
to shake.
“I’m Charlotte.
Charlotte Hanson. I know you’re
Andy.” She looked around the store, giving me a chance to delight in the
dusting of freckles on her perfect nose.
“Great shop. I read about it in
the paper. Actually, I am looking for a
couple of albums, on vinyl of course.
I’m DJ-ing a party at the university tomorrow night and I need
some late seventies stuff. Something
ironic. Village People maybe or Elton
Montello if you have it.”
I couldn’t believe my luck. Not only was she gorgeous, she knew who Elton
Montello was. A Goddess. Perfection Itself. I sent Bill scurrying to the back room to
find the album. I have a couple thousand
back there, arranged alphabetically.
Bill always rolls his eyes when I make him work the back and says I’m
like that dweeb from the movie High Fidelity.
I don’t care – it makes my life easier.
Elton Montello, that perverse, omni-sexual punk, was definitely filed
under M. I had just played his opus, Jet
Boy, Jet Girl, last night after the store had closed. It was an old song, obscure, rude and
brash. Not one that I would have
expected this vision, with her fresh skin and clear gray eyes, to have chosen.
Through sheer determination, I got her talking and
laughing. We stood by the cash register
for close to an hour, me, playing song after song, her, rolling her eyes in
mock disgust or excitedly dancing in place.
She knew her music, alright.
Loud, fast and raucous was how she liked it. I invited her for a drink at The Pelican, a
pub around the corner. She
accepted. She helped me close up, her
finely muscled arms lugging boxes of freshly Fedexed CDs from behind the
counter into the back room where Bill would unpack them in the morning. At the pub, she matched me pint for
pint. She drank Guinness. I drank Harp.
She called me a wuss and playfully punched my arm. I pulled her close and kissed the creamy foam
off her lips. I invited her back to my
place. We fell into bed.
For two blissful weeks, Charlotte was my life. We spent every possible waking moment
together. She helped out in the store
and I set up the turntables at her gigs.
She would always turn to me, her slim, lithe figure in black jeans and a
white T-shirt, her long shining hair in braids, and give me an incandescent
smile, a knowing grin. I was in love.
In that time, we were apart only once. She had a gig in Napanee at the army base and
I had a day’s worth of inventory to plough through. After work, I stopped by The Pelican for a
pint or three. I nursed my beer and
love-addled thoughts of Charlotte. I had
to prove my devotion to her somehow, this rock and roll, quicksilver girlfriend
of mine. Trouble was, I didn’t have much
money. I wanted to give her a part of
me, not something transitory and impersonal like a ring in a box. I wanted her to know that I loved her with
every pore of my body.
It hit me.
Perfect. A tattoo. Her name, emblazoned on my chest, just over
my heart. In big, bold, colorful
letters. Italicized. I usually avoid pain at any cost, but I
wanted to do it for Charlotte. And for
myself. Frank, an old friend of mine,
ran a tattoo and piercing shop three doors down from The Pelican. I could trust that Frank’s tools were clean –
we had played football together and he was like a brother. Frank was a local
legend – his work graced the biceps of some of the most hardened bikers in
Kingston. I called him from the
bar. I was in luck. He had a cancellation that night. A bride-to-be had chickened out of getting a
tattoo of interlocking wedding rings on her ankle.
Frank held the door open for me as I ducked in out
of the November rain. He looked quizzical and a trifle worried.
“Andy, you’re out of your mind, man. You hate pain. Are you sure you want to do this?” Frank took my beaten up brown leather jacket
and hung it carefully in the closet.
“Listen, bud, it’s my duty to try and talk you out of this. You barely know this chick. She’s gorgeous and all, but are you sure this
is a long term thing?”
I glowered at Frank.
“Listen, she’s the one, Frank.
THE ONE. This is it. Let’s just get to work, shall we?”
I don’t remember much about the process except that
it hurt like hell. Frank told me I
passed out at one point. But Charlotte
was worth it, and this was the first and last tattoo I’d ever get. There was pleasure in the pain. By branding
her name over my heart and my soul, I was making her mine forever.
Charlotte
I:
I just about flipped when Andy tugged off his rugby
shirt when I got home. There, amidst the
oozing and scabbing, I could make out my name.
He stood there, his chest bared, proud as could be. I remember backing away. I felt trapped and cornered. I couldn’t breathe. I had just met the guy, for Chrissakes. We were having a lot of fun. He was wonderful in bed and he loved music as
much as I did. We were definitely
simpatico. He liked the fact that I was
a DJ and could get him into some great clubs.
He was nice and everything, but this was a little too much. I felt betrayed – he hadn’t given me any
indication he was that nuts about me. I
would’ve extricated myself pretty fast if I had any idea he was so intense. I thought we both knew it was just a fling
and that it was reaching its natural end.
I remember his face crumpling when I told him I was
leaving. He was picking at the scabs on
his chest. I could make out the C and
the H, luridly pretty in bright green italicized script. A mixture of blood and pus bubbled out of his
skin. I thought I was going to throw
up. He gave off some pretty heavy
vibes. All I could think about was
canceling all of my Eastern Ontario gigs.
Anything to get out of there. I
had received a few offers to DJ at some clubs in New York. It seemed like a good time to check it
out.
He followed me into the bedroom and watched me pack
my stuff. He was crying and kept asking
why I was leaving. Didn’t I understand
that he loved me? Didn’t I understand
that he had undergone immense pain to prove it?
Frankly, it gave me the creeps. I
couldn’t even look at him. I just
grabbed my duffel bag and got the hell out of there.
It was nice while it lasted. Too bad he had to get so weird on me.
Andy:
She just walked out.
Never even looked at me or said goodbye.
Her eyes turned black with anger and some other emotion I couldn’t
identify when I showed her my tattoo.
Her tattoo. Maybe fear, I don’t
know. I didn’t mean to hurt her. I thought she’d really like the gesture.
The scarring healed a lot faster than my heart. I tried to hate her and then forget about
her. It was impossible. Every time I breathed, her name pulsed on my
chest. I got rid of the Elton Montello
album. Gave it to Bill with strict
orders that he never play it in my presence.
I spent a lot of time in the record store, listening to anything but the
thrasher bands Charlotte and I loved so much.
Christ, I even found myself listening to Tony Bennett one night. Pathetic.
I asked Frank about getting the tattoo removed. He said it was an excruciating procedure and
that it would cost me a bundle of cash.
I’d also have to go to Toronto or Montreal because he didn’t have the
technology to do the job. He pointed out
that I could erase just a few letters – and end up with Harlot on my
chest. That pretty much sums up how
Frank feels about women. Me, I can’t
handle any more pain. Of any kind. I guess I’m stuck with Charlotte for the rest
of my life.
How the hell am I going to meet somebody new? That question bugged me for months. I shied away from social situations. I didn’t go to The Pelican at all. Too many memories. I’m also a decent looking guy. Women always hit on me. I just couldn’t handle that scene
anymore. The idea of getting naked with
someone named Carol or Cathy or Cindy scared the hell out of me. Who would want to be with me when they’d be
constantly reminded of my one true love?
My horrible mistake?
I made up my mind that as far as women were
concerned I was out of the picture.
Unless
I met another Charlotte of course.
Charlotte
II:
A friend had told me about Andy, and I was
intrigued. The story about his tattoo
had made the rounds. Kingston is a
pretty small city and everybody hears everything, eventually. I thought he sounded sweet. My friends said I was crazy to want to meet
the guy. Sure, the whole tattoo thing
sounded a bit obsessive, but I couldn’t help myself. I’d seen Andy around a few times. He had been a fixture on the local pub scene
– a handful of clubs, upscale watering holes and dives. I thought he was handsome in a shambling,
bearish sort of way. I never introduced
myself because I didn’t think I was his type.
He tended to go for tall blondes and I’m short and petite with cropped
brown hair.
I worked up the nerve to go into his shop, which is
probably the best music store in town.
It sells all sorts of imports and rare recordings. I had walked by it a number of times, peering
in the window looking for him. I only
ever saw Bill, a guy I knew years ago from high school. Finally, one day, I saw
Andy’s head bent over a vintage cardboard cutout of the Ramones. I pushed open the glass door and walked
inside. He straightened up and smiled at
me. God, he was gorgeous.
“Can I help
you?” he asked politely. I felt like I
was going to sink through the floor. My
blush swept from my hairline all the way down to my fingertips. “I guess so,” I stammered. “I’m trying to find an old record. From the late seventies.” He stood there, hands on his hips, staring at
me. “Um, do you have any …..” I looked
around frantically, racking my brain for a name of a group from that era. The Ramones wouldn’t cut it. Too obvious.
“Do you have anything by Elton Montello?” There.
That was good. We used to play
Elton Montello a lot in high school, along with the Specials and Black Flag.
The silence was awful. It went on and on. Finally, I heard someone sniggering from the
back of the store. It was Bill. He stifled it pretty quickly when Andy shot
him a murderous look. “No,” he finally
said. “Sold out. Shit music anyway.” He started to walk away. I grabbed his arm. “Listen, if a copy happens to come in, would
you mind calling me?” I pulled a
business card out of my purse, handed it to him and turned to open the door.
“Wait.” His
voice was strange. “Is your name really
Charlotte?”
I stopped.
“Yes, it is.”
“Charlotte, I’m closing up. Would you like to go for a drink with
me? There’s a nice little pub around the
corner. Maybe we could grab a bite to
eat and a beer.” It was more of a
command than a plea. My heart
thumped. I smiled and nodded. He turned to Bill, whose jaw had hit the
floor, and threw him the keys. “Lock up,
would you Bill? Thanks.” He opened the door and together we stumbled out
into the late afternoon summer sun.
Andy:
She was an odd little thing, Charlotte the Second,
as my friends liked to call her. I don’t
think I would’ve hooked up with her if it hadn’t been for her name. She was incredibly shy. And short.
I’ve always been attracted to tall athletic women who walk with
assurance. Charlotte the Second scuttled
sideways like a startled crab. We used
to lie in bed and she’d trace the pattern of my tattoo over and over again with
her finger. Her tattoo, she called it. She asked me endless questions about the
other Charlotte. What was she like? Was she pretty? Was she smart? Was she good in bed? It drove me crazy. I used to bat her hand away, roll over and go
to sleep, just to get away from her incessant probing.
We were together for about six months. She haunted my apartment in the evenings, her
large dark eyes growing bigger and more vulnerable each day. She’d drop by the record store on any pretext
– to bring me some lunch, a coffee, a kiss.
Her small clenched fist would creep up my chest when I thanked her with
a hug. Her fingers would begin to form
the nine letters that spelled her obsession.
She started to bug me about getting a second
tattoo. Another Charlotte branded
somewhere on my body. She wanted her
first and last named inked in an elegant script on my left arm. Somewhere noticeable so the world would see
it. She couldn’t understand why I
refused.
“Is it the money?” she demanded, thrusting an
envelope of bills in my hand. “I’ll pay
for it. Is it the pain?” She pulled a bottle of codeine from her
purse. “These will dull the
throbbing. Andy, please. For me.”
I couldn’t take it anymore. She was driving me crazy with her demands,
her insecurities and her demons. When I
finally broke up with her, one rainy November night at The Pelican, I felt an intense
rush of freedom. The manacles had been
loosened. She didn’t take it too
well. She paled and her face twisted in
pain. Her eyes etched questions and
accusations into mine. After awhile, she
got up and walked out the door. I never
saw her again.
I was pretty sick of the dating scene. The experience with Charlotte the Second had
drained me of all my energy. I spent the
rest of November getting the store ready for the Christmas rush. Lots of old Bing Crosby records to sell. Nevertheless, I perked up when Frank dropped
by with some good news. His roommate’s
cousin was planning to visit during the holidays. She was supposedly cute, vivacious and
fun. Her name was Charlotte. What the hell? I needed some levity in my life. Merry Christmas and all that kind of
stuff. Might as well give her a whirl.
Charlotte
III:
What an arrogant asshole. He took me to some grotty pub called The
Pelican and insisted I drink beer. I
hate beer. I hated him. He kept saying that we were meant to be
together and that he’d show me why if I went home with him. As if.
I got out of there pretty fast.
Later, my cousin told me about the tattoo. What a pathetic loser.
Andy:
A year and a bit after I got that damned tattoo, I
finally found the Charlotte of my dreams.
She has silky blonde hair, kind brown eyes and loves me for who I
am. She makes few demands. She is easily the love of my life. I never thought it could be so great. We eat breakfast together in companionable
silence – no more of that yap, yap, yap that I got from the other Charlottes,
especially Charlotte the Second. A blessed
relief I tell you. She’s at home waiting
for me in the evenings after work. We go
on long moonlit walks along the waterfront.
Afterwards, she curls up by my feet in front of the fire while I stroke
her head. I love her. She’s great.
This is it. Finally.
Charlotte
IV:
Woof.
