Everything in Australia has a nickname. Breakfast is brekkie, gas stations are servos, and paramedics are ambos. Electricians are called sparkies.
Our bathroom light had been malfunctioning for several weeks. It flipped on ok, but then just when you were in the middle of brushing your teeth or applying eye cream, it would turn off without a warning. So there you’d be in the dark, fiddling around with the faucet or trying to find a washcloth.
We are not quick to fix things, so our solution had been to leave the bathroom door open and the hall light on, just in case you were suddenly left in the dark, half-flossed or naked.
Finally we called a sparky. “How’s tomorrow morning?” he said. Tomorrow’s great.
He showed up right on time wearing a mechanic’s jumpsuit with his name embroidered on the front pocket. “Tom,” he showed me, pointing to his chest.
“Rebecca,” I said, pointing towards the bathroom.
Tom was enormous and had a Miley Cyrus haircut, short on the sides with a longer bit on top tied back in a ponytail. As he wiped his feet on the mat, I caught a glimpse of his large neck tattoo – a woman’s face, her long hair appearing to cascade down his back. I wondered if he had her entire body inked on his. If she were drawn to scale, her toes would touch his waist.
He followed me down the hall to the bathroom. I showed him the broken light, which is affixed to the medicine cabinet. He opened the mirrored doors and moved the shaving cream out of the way to get a better look at the problem. As he played with the wires, I counted the number of nail clippers we keep in there. Four. We also have two pairs of tweezers and two tubes of anti-itch cream.
“Maybe I should take this stuff out,” I said. “It’d be easier for you to fix the light.”
“Ta. I’ll get my tools and be right back.” As he tucked a stray hair behind his ear, I noticed that Tom had a large gun tattooed on the back of his hand. A black pistol, lined up with his thumb and pointer finger, so if you were playing Cops and Robbers and pretending to hold a gun, you could really scare everyone. Bang bang.
As the giant man with the gun tattoo went to get some sharp tools from his windowless van, I cleaned out the medicine cabinet. Lipsticks, mascara, toothpaste, four nail clippers, two tubes of anti-itch cream, all now in the bathtub.
Tom arranged his tools on the sink. I was mistaken about the number of gun tattoos. In fact there were two, one on each hand. “I’ll be in the kitchen,” I said. “Let me know if you need anything.”
I made myself some tea and texted Dave. Sparky has gun tattoos. I didn’t hear back. He was probably in a meeting.
I opened the The New York Times. Massacre in Orlando. I read every article while my tea got cold. A mother hadn’t heard from her son. The killer’s ex-wife said he was violent and mentally unstable. In Florida, you don’t need a permit or a license to buy a rifle, shotgun or handgun.
“Come look.” Tom stood in the doorway, taking up most of it.
“Canadian?” he asked as we walked into the bathroom.
“American,” I responded quietly.
“Such a shame about the gorilla,” he said. “That poor mum.” Tom had obviously not seen today’s news.
He showed me how he had repaired the wires and flicked the lights on and off several times. “You should be all set.” He smiled sweetly. I walked him to the door and we shook hands.
Who knows why a man would walk into a tattoo parlor and leave with guns on his hands. The story could be one of passion or revenge, or it could be nothing like that at all. But they’re not hurting anyone.