The Mirror is a Glass Bottle:

The front yard was a pit of boiling sand tucked into an alleyway within the concrete maze of a city. Smoke disappeared into a hazy blue sky that rose in coils from a weed packed joint. The cream colored ‘64 Impala sat right outside of the twisting metal that Mike called a fence. It reflected the shimmering sun in its spotless exterior. 

“Been in there a minute aye bro?” Omero asked his brother. 

Salvador answered coolly while exhaling tendrils of smoke. “Chill out ski – if you’re really questioning his shit, I’ll tell you to look at my arm.” His shoulders shrugged. 

“Well bro –” 

“No ‘well bro’ this time, you’re getting the damn tat like everyone else.”

Omero slumped back in his chair, deflated by his brother’s words. Salvador took a long pull from the smoking paper and extended his arm out as he held in the hit. He spoke as he exhaled again. “Here –” Omero snatched the joint while Salvador kept speaking. “ –it’s gonna be fine ski. Just take a fuckin’ drag and think about how much you would pay for a piece that phat. Just me and you anyways.” He looked up into the sky. Past a thick birch tree that barely shaded them. Tiny leaves hanging onto a dried out husk of life. It once bloomed, long ago. 

Omero replaced his oxygen with thick white weed smoke. Then let it out with the anxiety that curled his toes as he was playing all of the images of the art he saw on the rest of his siblings. Tension flew away and into the air with the weed. 

Even from where I was placed. 

He took one more pull and passed it back. He never needed much to feel its foggy effects. “Tattoo Mike got you. As right as rain, ski.” Salvador closed his eyes as he inhaled the burning tree. 

Tattoo Mike was a white boy who was adopted by an older Mexican couple. Hung around with the two brothers all the time, and he was especially known on the block here. Just got out of prison – again, but with even more practice on his craft. All of his own tattoos on his huero skin were done by his own hands. The white boy was good, on top of being relatively cool with all of the homies tucked into the city. 

His front door swung open as he stepped out into the front yard with them. He held a shoebox worth of supplies, quite literally, and another folding chair for himself. Salvador never sat down – who flicked his roached joint away as he grinned at Tattoo Mike. 

The white boy rubbed his face down with his right hand and inhaled his suspended snot profusely. “Thanks for waiting, homeboys. You got that beer, Salvador?” He squinted as the sun met his eyes, they became black slits as he forcefully unfolded his aluminum framed chair. His fading shoebox was set onto a decaying wooden stool right next to Omero. 

Salvador spoke from the street while he stood beside the Impala. “Can I bring her in for some jams, ski?” 

“Course, homie.”

“Orale.” 

Tattoo Mike looked at Omero square in the face. His left eyelid twitched every now and then, which included the occasional snort and palm rubbing his face like he needed to itch something he couldn’t quite reach. “Gotta pic’ for me homie? Or we freehanding?” He asked him through yellowed teeth. 

“Yeah I got this piece the homebody drew up for me.”

“Alright then – bust it out while I make this gun. You mind grabbing me that bottle?”

He pointed at me sitting on a slab of cement that never amounted to nothing. 

Omero stood up with care, not wanting to bumble into anything as Tattoo Mike flipped open the lid of the shoebox. 

Salvador slid into the single car driveway and lowered all of the windows. His blacked out ‘oldies’ CD was echoing into the yard. No other genre came from that Impala. 

Omero picked me up and looked at himself in the polished glass. His reflection scattered across the smoothed edges of my visage. “You polish your bottles?” He asked as he took me over to the artist. 

Omero handed me to one of his pink and calloused palms. Tattoo Mike placed me next to the shoebox. “Yo?” Omero asked him. The man was piecing together a battery and a pen into a mess of wires to form the gun itself. He had one well of ink to use. No gloves – actually – I’m not even sure if he washed his hands before plunging his blood into a battle of narcotics inside the house. Never seemed to matter to everyone else though. The artist finally answered after securing everything together with electrical tape. “Huh?”

“You polish your bottles?” Omero asked again. 

“Oh – yeah – pass the time. You got your pic?”

“Yeah, here you go homes – the eagle eating the snake.” 

“Orale.” He put up a fist. 

Salvador exited the car smoking on another hand rolled joint. “Tight shit huh Mike?” It was the first time Omero saw the white boy grin. His eyes were still sliced in darkness. He wiped his face down again and grabbed the picture from Omero with a stone steady hand. He violently snuffled up more snot back into his throat. He put the picture against me and opened the well of ink laying around my base. “Where you want it homie?” 

Omero rolled up his sleeve to reveal his shaved shoulder – it was quite massive and round. Tattoo Mike took one look at the picture and then back at the shoulder. He nodded and craned his head to look up at Salvador who stood between them now. “Got that beer?” 

Salvador handed him an opened bottle and a fresh joint rolled just for Tattoo Mike himself. The dark drink went down his pale throat like water. He took a deep breath and set the joint inside his shoebox. 

“Ready then homeboy?” 

Salvador answered for his brother. “He’s ready ski! Let’s get down.” He extended his joint to Omero, who took one last giant puff before the bleeding began. 

He winced, but he was steady enough to get it done. Quickly too. The artist only needed to glimpse at the picture every now and then. It came out identical, if not better. 

The brothers grinned at each other as Omero’s blood mixed in with the ink. Salvador handed Tattoo Mike one more joint and a twenty dollar bill before they rode off into a dusk backdrop of the city. Nobody bothered to wipe the tattoo down or cover it up. Nobody usually hung around after he was done anyways. 

The white boy was slumped in his chair like ghastly sludge. The comedown always hit him after his work was finished. A half empty case replaced Omero in the seat in front of me. The man made machine was already in pieces inside of the shoebox. The ink was completely used up and empty. Splotches of it were on his frequently chewed fingernails. His chest fell like a brick and rose like it was lifting it as well. A small stream of snot crawled its way down and onto his upper lip. 

The purple sky bled into everything above as the half moon popped out from the night like a white pimple. Mike’s chest contracted with slow pulsing life. He was quieter than the crickets in the brush behind him. The sound of sirens echoed across the pavement in the city. The sound of lost potential crooned to nobody.

(Thank you for reading <3)