Skin

By Loraine Chow

Mac had almost slipped off this roof once. He’d clambered
out of his bedroom window to smoke a blunt, dangling
the lit end between his left thumb and forefinger, and pushed
off confidently from the windowsill with his right hand. Unfortunately,
the sill wasn’t actual plaster and it had crumbled
under his fingertips moments before his feet met the shingles,
leaving him scrambling like a jackass on his own roof.

Still, Mac liked the roof. The adjacent side of his room led
to a massive balcony that Ben Baller had once pronounced
“fit for a fucking king” and although Mac agreed, there was
something oddly reassuring about pretending to sneak out
of his own house for a smoke. Every day brought new thrills
and cheapened the old ones; some nights climbing out his
bedroom window was the closest he could feel to innocent.

He pressed the heels of his slides into the shingles. The
hypebeast magazines liked calling him a sneakerhead but Mac
knew he wasn’t – sure, he’d rap about Jordans and flex the limited
release sneakers that Kith sent him but doth not maketh a
sneakerhead. Or something.

Mac inhaled sharply, blew out some air, and coughed.
Stubbed out the ash crumbling from the end of the blunt and
examined the rings on both hands. He had two simple silver
rings that were hand-me-downs from his father – those he wore
on his forefingers. He kept hoping one day he’d grow into
them. Two gold bands studded with turquoise gems – those
were his favorites. He wore them on his middle fingers above his cross tattoos –
his favorite stones hovering above his favorite tattoos.

He liked the story behind turquoise, the way it didn’t
take itself too seriously. Mac didn’t believe in anything that
took itself seriously. His left pinkie was stacked in four rings
that his friends had stolen from Base last weekend in Miami.
Mac didn’t approve of stealing but he figured they probably felt
pocketing the little twists of silver the way he felt on his roof
right now, puffing away. So he wore them – in honor of that
lost innocence, if you could wrap your head around it.

His right ring finger was blinged out in icy pink and blue
diamonds that he’d had custom-made at the same time as his
grill. He was positive he’d lose them, probably soon – he liked
wearing them out too much and there were only so many times
he could dive to the bottom of the club floor to rescue them. If
that didn’t get them, sticking his hand out the Uber window to
watch them glitter in the streetlights certainly would.

Mac knew how the game worked. He knew money didn’t
equal taste, that he had an excess of the former and a serious
lack of the latter, and that nobody cared either way. He was
no connoisseur of jewelry, sneakers, or anything else that
streetwear blogs wrote about while citing paparazzi photos
of him as evidence. He was an expert on simpler things, like
smooth sandwiches to eat at football game halftimes (turkey,
tomato, lettuce), a magical beat, a perfectly rolled joint. And he
enjoyed beauty – beautiful women, beautiful clouds, beautiful
sneakers, beautiful rings; if the world was offering something
beautiful, he certainly wasn’t going to refuse.

Money doth not maketh the man. That was it.

There was something nasty in his lungs. He took his eyes off
his rings to pound the top of his chest with the hammer side
of a fist, coughing until he formed enough texture in the back
of his throat to spit. He thought about taking a break from
smoking, knew he wouldn’t. But he thought about it. Truth
was that he didn’t really know how to be sober. Mac’d been
getting high since he was ten – he knew what was like not to be
an addict. But not an addict doth not maketh sobriety.

The first time, he’d been at a friend’s place in Point Breeze
– his favorite neighborhood in Pittsburgh. He’d gotten so high
he thought he was a spy, scrambling around corners of the
house and executing his mission until his friend’s older brother
wrestled him into submission and stole his things. At ten, the
novelty of getting robbed was thrilling.

Ten sounded exuberantly, deliciously young now. He
thought he knew what life was about back then – spending
hours walking in downtown Forbes and Murray in Squirrel
Hill, talking to pretty girls, smoking in cemeteries with friends.
He supposed it wasn’t too different to right now, not really.
Maybe he’d had it figured out at ten – maybe it was the ten-year old
in him that kept him at the rooftop.

Loraine Chow is an English major at the University of Maryland. She enjoys yoga, creative writing, tending to her herb garden, and creating strange and particular music playlists for her friends.