Skins Don't Cry

The sound of low thumping seemed to fill the air, a squealing guitar suddenly shattering even that as the door to a squat building, the same in a row of squat buildings, opened out into the night. It was cold, mid-winter, and the people who exited looked like they were on fire from the amount of steam coming off of their bodies. Some of them were garish, neon hair flattened and fanned in high Mohawks or twisted into spikes, leather jackets covered in patches, pins, and studs. Homemade jewelry hung from their lobes, noses, and even lips, safety pins with the dried crusts of blood still on them. Some of the others were almost the exact opposite, sweat drenched poles and suspenders hanging off their waists, jeans rolled up to the tops of shining leather work boots.

Tattoos were prevalent on all of those catching their breath outside, and quiet chatter, voices harsh from screaming along to lyrics was broken by shared bottles of beer and passed around cigarettes, only a few abstaining, and those few were people with a drawn 'X' on each hand. The muffled music still filled the night air, swirling around in the steam of rapidly chilling bodies that were gearing up for round two.

It was the kind of environment Connor had realized he thrived in from a young age. From the first show he had ever snuck out of the house to go to, to this one almost twenty years later, this was what he loved. This was what he felt like made him happy, and even if he was starting to get to old to hit the middle of the floor and dance it out with the other kids, he was never planning on slowing down. He ran a large hand over the top of his head, listening to the raspy sound it made against the shaved flesh. He took a final drag on the cigarette he had in his hands, burning it down to the filter, before pinching the fire off and putting the dead butt in his pocket. No littering.

He stood for a moment, stretching his arms, quickly crossing them back and forth over his chest to get the blood pumping again. Connor smiled at his friends, eyebrows lifted, eyes excited as he tilted his head towards the door.

"C'mon, let's go again."

Friends laughed, told him to fuck off, some pinched cigarettes and prepared to head inside with him, while it was evident others were pretty much done for the night. They were the 'Old Guard', punks and skins who were getting into the part of life where they had responsibilities, shit to take care of, and not a few of them had kids of their own that they were doing their best to do right by. But for now? Connor wanted to ignore that adult responsibility, wanted to just leave all the blood on the stage and the sweat on the floor, and scream along to the lyrics he had heard a thousand times before. And those that agreed with him, they followed him inside.

It was a swirling mess of chaos, of almost dizzying body heat and the packed tight feeling of sixty or so people in a room that probably shouldn't have tried to hold more than forty. It was a riot of color, of affiliation by patches and spikes, shaved heads and dyed hair. The lights flashed as the band played music that was fast and raw, the type of shit that made Connor start bouncing on his feet as they cleared the people just standing and watching on the edges of the pit. No matter how old, how tired, how broken he got, this was where he belonged, in this writhing mass of humanity that was spinning faster and faster, this wild exorcism of every fear, worry, and feelings of happiness in the world. You danced to get the good and the bad out, just whatever you poured into it. Every bit of yourself could be found on that dance floor, and as he entered the spinning mass of bodies, he let it all out to the beat of the music and the screamed lyrics.

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He felt it all the next morning. It seemed like he was feeling every single second of his thirty four years, and he made what could only be considered 'dad noises' as he finally got out of bed and made a beeline for the bathroom. He couldn't stop yawning as he took his morning piss, unlit cigarette dangling from his lower lip, finally shaking it off and going to wash his hands in the sink after he flushed. The man looking back from the mirror was a strange one. A shaved head with a 'beard' that was mostly a weekend's worth of scruff, a nose that was as crooked as a West Virginia back road, a few small scars here and there, the most noticeable a thick line that cut at a mostly horizontal angle through his left eyebrow. Faint bruising circled the same eye, and he gingerly touched it with wet fingers to try and assess the damage.

His boss wouldn't mind if he came in with a black eye, but would probably prefer he didn't, and Connor would prefer to not have to answer questions from his co-workers that a truly bad black eye would make them ask. He ran a hand across his head again, deciding that he'd shave it in the morning before work, and then he walked into the kitchen. After kicking around for a few minutes, he had coffee brewing, so back to the bathroom for a shower it was. Finally, he felt like a decent human being, the smells of last nights show off his skin, a mug of coffee in his hand (the mug had a cat with sunglasses on it and said 'cool cat'), and he idly scratched his chin, taking a sip, and looking out over the neighborhood from his little balcony.

The neighborhood was a good one, despite the efforts to gentrify it, and the community had held strong and kept their identity. A lot of the men and women in the area worked at the same factory he did, shifting metal and building cars at the local plant. They were union people, and Connor especially took great pride in being a union man. The crossed hammer and wrench tattoo on his forearm that said 'working class' in the banner reflected that. He took another sip of his coffee, finally putting the mug down and attempting to enjoy the brisk Sunday morning.

His quiet reflection was shattered by the ringing of his phone, and with a curse he got to his feet and went inside, digging through his covers and pillows until he found the thing. He bit off a second curse, biting the inside of his cheek instead when his ex-wife's name was the one showing on the screen. He took a deep breath, counting to five, finally accepting the call just a second or two before it would go to voicemail anyways.

"Hello?" He said, voice measured. He hated talking to Michelle, hated it with a fiery burning passion since they had split up five years ago, but he tried to be civil for their daughter. That was the plan, anyways.

"I can't deal with her anymore!" The voice, one that he had once loved, was nothing but shrill and hostile now. It was like nails on a chalkboard, scraping down his spine.

"What did she do now?" He fought the urge to roll his eyes, stepping back out onto the balcony and sitting in his chair. Might as well drink his coffee while he heard the latest tirade about what Saoirse had done.

Michelle had been into all of the rebellion and punk rock, all the crazy things they had done, when they first got together. It had even extended for a good bit of their daughters beginning years. Then she had just seemed to decide that she didn't want it anymore, she was done, and that they should be done, completely. Change their music, change their clothes and the way they looked, cover up the tattoos and pretend it never happened. Connor couldn't do that, so she had found a man that was willing, that didn't know her those years. It still stung. He realised he was wool-gathering about the same time Michelle asked him if he was listening.

"Sorry, I seemed to have zoned out. Repeat that for me, please."

"Typical!" She seemed to snarl it into the phone, and he couldn't help but wince, "Your daughter went out with her little friends and someone gave her a tattoo. I don't know how you expect me to tell her she can't do things like that when you're constantly getting new ones and showing them to her as soon as you do, or taking her to the tattoo shop with you when you get them on your weekends!"

He sighed the long sigh of the suffering, biting off a thousand responses.

"She's sixteen 'Chelle. She's going to rebel, she's going to push back against the rules. Fuck, I know you like to pretend it was all some dream, but you did the same thing when we were teenagers, so I don't understand how you don't see why she does it now!"

"You know what, Connor? You're right, she's sixteen." Her voice was dripping with false sweetness, and he was instantly on high alert. This spelled out bad times for him, he just knew it. "And she keeps saying she wants to live with her father, because he just understands her so much more than her mother does. So we'll be there in an hour. She'll have all her things, and you can deal with her for a while. And in a week, when you're begging me for help, we'll see how much 'I used to be a teenage rebel and couldn't let it go' you want to bring up."

The line went dead, and he sighed again, putting the phone down on his little wrought iron balcony table. He just wanted a nice Sunday morning. Drink a little coffee, clean the loft, maybe go down to the local pub for a late lunch and watch a hockey game. But now. That apparently wasn't going to happen. He knew that arguing with Michelle about this would be useless, and she would really expect it all to go tits up and he'd come crawling to her for help and advice. But Saorsie and he got along fantastic, so he didn't really see that coming into play anytime soon. They'd spent longer periods of time together before, during the summer, so surely they could cope during the fall and upcoming winter, until Michelle cracked and wanted her daughter back in the house.

With another sigh, and copious amounts of dad noises, he stood up, finishing his coffee and heading back inside, making sure to shut the door behind him. If Saoirse was going to be staying here, then he needed to clean up with a little quickness. Fresh sheets on her bed, air out the room a little. A quick check of both fridge and cupboards told him that grocery shopping was going to need to be a thing, but they could save that until after she got here and settled in. He wasn't quite sure what she was or wasn't eating these days, so it would be better to just let her pick stuff out on top of his normal list.

He turned the record player on and started on his cleaning, the soon reopened door and cracked windows letting the smooth noises of ska filter out into the world as he stripped old sheets and replaced them with fresh ones, adding the sheets to the pile of laundry that he had meant to do that day anyways. He was dancing and singing, badly, as he chased the imaginary tracks of dirt across his hardwood floors with his swiffer soon enough.

"What have I done wrong that I should be sorry?" He spun, punching the handle in his hand forward twice to the beat like a microphone stand, "You broke my heart, you left in no hurry," strange dancing back and forth across the floor followed, "What I'm sorry for is all the wasted ways, all the wasted days, that I loved you." Another spin move was abruptly stopped by knocking on the door.

He turned off the record, knowing that Michelle would further bitch about his choices, and went to unlock and open the door up, getting jumped by his daughter as soon as it swung open enough for her to get in there and give him a hug. Saoirse was truly the light of his life, and he returned the hug just as enthusiastically. She was still all skin and bones, gangly as hell, the weird in between place a lot of kids seemed to get where they hadn't quite grown into how tall they were going to be or something. He ruffled her hair, then felt a heavy presence against his legs, followed by a bad carburettor like breathing that he hadn't noticed until just then.

"Ah. So Meatball is coming as well." Connor crouched down, scratching the fat English Bulldog behind the ears, shaking his head as Meatball's tongue lolled out of his mouth and the dog flopped down in the entryway.

"Yes, Meatball is coming. I'm not taking care of her dog for her, the dog you bought for her, while she sits here with no responsibilities." Ah. Michelle had decided to come up the stairs and 'help' with her daughters things. Even worse, she had brought Daniel with her.

Connor wanted to hate the guy. He really wanted to hate the guy. After all, Daniel had married Michelle less than a year after the divorce was finalized, and while it had never been discussed, Connor was pretty sure the guy had been one of the big catalysts for the end of the marriage. But he was a good guy. Never tried to step in and replace Connor in Saoirse's life, was always willing to help out, was the kind of guy that had worked with his hands before becoming management. That was what made it so hard to be around him. He was just too likeable to hate as much as Connor wanted to hate him.

"Daniel." Connor said it in as warm a tone as he could muster, sticking his hand out. Another reason to hate Daniel, he thought, as the man gripped his hand in a firm handshake before letting go.

"Mornin' Connor. Sorry to disturb your Sunday, but figured you would want more time with your girl." Daniel smiled, shrugged one shoulder and gestured to dog and wayward teenage girl, "And we all know Meatball hates being without her, so they somehow turned into a package deal."

Connor smiled and shrugged, "I'm fine with it. Anytime with my daughter and the lump is a good time with me. Let's get her loaded in, yea?"

Ignoring Michelle's glower, the two men headed down the outside stairs to grab bags and boxes. A teenagers life. Saoirse had already taken her guitar case and skateboard upstairs with her, and Michelle had taken a bag or two with her as well. As they reached the truck, Connor stopped, checked to see if Michelle was listening, and turned to face Daniel.

"So, level with me. How bad are we talking here?"

Daniel huffed a sigh, running a hand through his hair before speaking.

"It was pretty bad this time. She got the tattoo, but her grades have been slipping for a little bit now. I'm assuming Michelle hasn't told you about that?" At Connor's nod, Daniel sighed, "She thinks it makes her a bad mother, so of course she won't tell you. But yea. There's been the grades, she got caught sneaking back in from something, Michelle swears she's drinking and smoking with her friends, but I don't think so." A slight smile crinkled his face, "I don't know much about all the things you guys are into, but I'm pretty sure the three x's on all of her stuff means she doesn't do things like that." They started to unload the truck bed, but Daniel continued, "Then it got worse with the tattoo, and Michelle started talking badly about you. She knows it's not something I agree with, but she never listens when she gets angry about something. Talking bad about you always makes Sar get angrier, and they just end up having nuclear meltdowns across the house at each other."

As they headed up the stairs, Daniel offered one last nugget of discussion.

"I think it'll be good to get her out of our place and here. She loves you to death man, and you guys just understand each other better. And if I'm being honest, she's a great big sister to Ryan, but I don't want him growing up around them constantly fighting."

Connor could understand that. He wouldn't want his two year old growing up around a screaming adult and a screaming almost adult all the time, and couldn't fault Daniel for thinking the separation would be good for at least that reason. Again, just another reason that you couldn't hate the man. When they finally finished packing everything in, Connor and Saoirse both received a dressing down from Michelle in the living room, every ounce of self-control Connor had being used not to go off on her in return. It seemed his daughter was fine with it, able to not let her mother get under her skin so much because she knew that she was going to be staying with dad. In a rare moment of tenderness, Michelle hugged her daughter tightly, kissing her on the cheek before finally leaving.

Meatball was splayed out in a pool of sunshine through the balcony doors, and Connor turned to his daughter and smiled.

"Okay, first things first, we need groceries to stock the kitchen up. So we're going to do that, especially because you're overdue for a driving lesson in Big Blue. Secondly, let's see this tattoo." He was excited. For him, underage tattoos had almost been a rite of passage in and of itself, and he certainly didn't get his first one in a tattoo shop at eighteen. His daughter smiled widely, tugging at the hole in the knees of her jeans to show him the simple on her leg, making Connor smile and pull her into a hug, that kind that ended with him mussing her hair up with his knuckles.

"It's not so bad. C'mon, let's get going." His grin turned into a smile, a devilish look in his eyes, "I can't wait to hear you complain about manual transmissions the entire ten minute ride to the corner store."

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They seemed to settle into an easy enough routine after that. Connor worked, helped his daughter with her homework if she needed it, cooked them dinners and made sure she ate a halfway decent breakfast before she went to school. The weather started to cool down a bit more, and he took her to a few all ages shows if she seemed interested in them. It had been a while since they had gotten to spend a huge chunk of time together since the divorce, so he was loath to run out to shows she couldn't tag along to and leave her on her own.

Everything had been going so well, seemed to be going so well, that he was genuinely shocked when he received a call on his lunch break from Saoirse's school. They hurried to assure him that everything was fine, there was no emergency, but they wanted to know if there was anytime he could come in and discuss some issues they felt his daughter was having with her classes and some of her behavior. They had called her mother, who had informed them that Saoirse was living with Connor, and as such he should be the one to call and set up appointments with. He bit his lip at that little tidbit, knowing that Michelle was probably crowing about that one. After all, she had said that she wanted him to deal with the problems and see if he could just explain them away as teenage rebellion. But he knew that he'd be off work in time to get over to the school not to long after it let out, so he could catch a teacher then if they were willing to wait.

After getting an affirmative and setting up the appointment, he went back to work. He tried to focus on what he was doing, but he was just turning the problem over and over again in his mind. Why hadn't Saoirse said anything was going on? He was helping her with homework, and felt like they were getting good answers, so why was there a problem with her grades? His mind kept circling back to the part that made him most uncomfortable at the end. Why wasn't his daughter talking to him about it?

He knew she would get home while he was here, so he at least texted her to let her know that he was going to be late, no worries, and he would grab some fast food to make up for missing dinner, just text him whatever she wanted. Satisfied that she wouldn't be curious about why he was late, he followed the directions that he'd been given on the phone, standing outside of Room 202 before knocking on the doorframe.

The woman he assumed was the teacher stepped out from whatever she had been doing at the back of the room, smiling widely at him as she stepped forward, hand out. She was a beautiful woman, long red hair gathered in a ponytail, bright blue eyes that seemed to sparkle as she greeted him. Her shake was firm and quick, and then she was gesturing for him to come in, sit down, she had some water if he'd like one. He declined, wanting to get to the point of his visit.