POCKET WATCH TATTOO MEANING : watch shark bait : chronograph watches.
POCKET WATCH TATTOO MEANING : watch shark bait : chronograph watches.
pocket watch tattoo meaning – Owl Watch
NYC00922/the B-MOVIE STAR
A B-movie star.
Hands filthy black, malodorous, staring downward, almost immobile, reeking of cheap whiskey and urine, stopped dead in his tracks on a street corner where a church feeds homeless.
His head hangs low, he looks as if he is foreign even to himself. He says nothing. He stares at the cracks on the pavement. His hair is matted in some areas. He is a B movie star.
He played a third rate actor in his own life. Never knew himself nor liked himself at all. The scripts he read were trite and age old. Nothing novel. He didnt like the scripts. He abhored them. Couldnt think clearly, his lines got all jumbled So…… he threw them away. He hated them with such passion he left his place of birth and went somewhere else. He walked off his own stage. He walked out of his own life. He didnt like what the scripts said or how he was supposed to say what he was supposed to say. He didnt seem to care anymore either. He walked away. Nothing in his pockets.
You see he made B movies. He was never a star though. Directors told him he was nasty angry furious mean unapproachable, acrimonious, not a nice person, not amenable, not a team player ,not meant for this, not reasonable, not decent , royally messed up .
As a boy a budding " child Star to be " he was kicked in the head and scolded all the time. He was called the biggest asshole in the world by his father all the time, who btw beat the living crap out of him several times after a few beers and 3 shots of whiskey. He was made to feel like human shit. He watched his father screw another woman once. He then watched his father go home and beat the living shit out of his mother because his soup was cold. She tried always to hold back tears. She would accept slaps, hard ones. one after the other, some were straight across her face. His father made her nose and mouth bleed alot. She lied about it at the market. He stared at his mother helpless and powerless. He was paralyzed he felt when this happened. he realized he couldnt move any extremity or his head. He stared at his father take a belt to his mother and almost take her face off. He watched his father nearly kill her night after night. When his father left the house after he had beaten his mother for the last time, he never saw his father again. He thinks he was 7 or 8 or 9 or maybe 6. He doesnt recall his father saying goodbye either. His father told him he was the biggest asshole in the world. He believed what his father thought about him. He still does. He’d tell you straight out he loved his father too . " a real man".
He saw these movies being made in his little town in the middle of the world where no one really goes to and more certainly most leave from. He made these movies up in his head, without real actors, cameras, directors, producers, no big names. He was in these movies you see, B-movies before he even went to a movie. He made movies in his head. He loved it. He played the fool. The loser, the jerk, the toilet bowl cleaner, the clown, the jerkoff, the asshole he was acc to his father, the idiot. The has been. The retard. The self defeatist. They still play on and on and on and on and on and on in his head. He never made himself the star though. He always played a subordinate.
Hes a B movie star . He thought he was fat and ugly and wanted love but felt undeserving of it and so never got it. One night it rained in Manhattan and he stayed on this corner standing in the rain. He felt real and human for those few minutes for the first time in his life. He was being touched, felt, tingled, his skin was wet and humid. The rain made love to him and he loved it. The rain came at him, soaked him, moistened him. Made him feel like he’d never felt before.
He came to America to win in life. He ended up losing, sleeping on its filthy pissed filled pavements and subway vents. He never had many friends. He was his worst enemy. There was a girl in his small town who once and only once kissed him on the cheek. This was 30 or 40 years ago. She ran away embarrassed. He wanted that moment to last forever. He never ever ever forgot that moment. He still thinks about it as if it was yesterday. He memorized her face, her thin body her childish way. He thinks about her too much. He knows it. He cant STOP thinking about it. He cries sometimes about it. Sometimes its uncontrollable. He screams in a foreign language but its pain in any language. He puts his dirty filthy hands on his ears to deaden the sounds. He sees her. He sees her coming. He awaits. She never comes. Whiskey takes his pain away. He thinks he loves her. He thinks he does. He cant erase her from his mind. At night when he finds a cigarette on the pavement and he sits in a store front she talks to him. He then yells and curses himself for the life he’s led. This scares passerbyers and once got him in trouble with the police.
He made B-MOVIES.
As he stands on the corn
♡ Kindness Begets Kindness (1,974 views)
The story was written by someone who admired a war veteran named Carl, a man who left a legacy of kindness in the people of his community.
Here is why:
Carl was a quiet man. He didn’t talk much. He would always greet you with a big smile and a firm handshake. Even after living in our neighborhood for over 50 years, no one could really say they knew him very well.
Before his retirement, he took the bus to work each morning. The lone sight of him walking down the street often worried us. He had a slight limp from a bullet wound received in WWII. Although he had survived WWII, he may not make it through our changing uptown neighborhood with its ever-increasing random violence, gangs, and drug activity.
When he saw the flyer at our local church asking for volunteers for caring for the gardens behind the minister’s residence, he responded in his characteristically unassuming manner. Without fanfare, he just signed up.
He was well into his 87th year when the very thing we had always feared finally happened.
He was just finishing his watering for the day when three gang members approached him. Ignoring their attempt to intimidate him, he simply asked, ‘Would you like a drink from the hose?’ The tallest and toughest-looking of the three said, ‘Yeah, sure,’ with a malevolent little smile.
As Carl offered the hose to him, the other two grabbed Carl’s arm, throwing him down. As the hose snaked crazily over the ground, dousing everything in its way, Carl’s assailants stole his retirement watch and his wallet, and then fled.
Carl tried to get himself up, but he had been thrown down on his bad leg. He lay there trying to gather himself as the minister came running to help him. Although the minister had witnessed the attack from his window, he couldn’t get there fast enough to stop it.
‘Carl, are you okay? Are you hurt?’ the minister kept asking as he helped Carl to his feet. Carl just passed a hand over his brow and sighed, shaking his head.
‘Just some punk kids. I hope they’ll wise-up someday.’ His wet clothes clung to his slight frame as he bent to pick up the hose.
He adjusted the nozzle again and started to water. Confused and a little concerned, the minister asked, ‘Carl, what are you doing?’ ‘I’ve got to finish my watering. It’s been very dry lately,’ came the calm reply. Satisfying himself that Carl really was all right, the minister could only marvel. Carl was a man from a different time and place.
A few weeks later the three returned. Just as before their threat was unchallenged. Carl again offered them a drink from his hose This time they didn’t rob him.
They wrenched the hose from his hand and drenched him head to foot in the icy water. When they had finished their humiliation of him, they sauntered off down the street, throwing catcalls and curses, falling over one another laughing at the hilarity of what they had just done.
Carl just watched them. Then he turned toward the warmth giving sun, picked up his hose, and went on with his watering. The summer was quickly fading into fall.
Carl was doing some tilling when he was startled by the sudden approach of someone behind him. He stumbled and fell into some evergreen branches. As he struggled to regain his footing, he turned to see the tall leader of his summer tormentors reaching down for him. He braced himself for the expected attack.
‘Don’t worry old man, I’m not gonna hurt you this time.’ The young man spoke softly, still offering the tattooed and scarred hand to Carl. As he helped Carl get up, the man pulled a crumpled bag from his pocket and handed it to Carl.
‘What’s this?’ Carl asked. ‘It’s your stuff,’ the man explained. “It’s your stuff back. Even the money in your wallet.’ “I don’t understand,’ Carl said. ‘Why would you help me now?’ The man shifted his feet, seeming embarrassed and ill at ease. ‘I learned something from you,’ he said.
‘I ran with that gang and hurt people like you. We picked you because you were old and we knew we could do it. But every time we came and did something to you, instead of yelling and fighting back, you tried to give us a drink. You didn’t hate us for hating you.
You kept showing love against our hate.’ He stopped for a moment. ‘I couldn’t sleep after we stole your stuff, so here it is back.’ He paused for another awkward moment, not knowing what more there was to say. ‘That bag’s my way of saying thanks for straightening me out, I guess.’ And with that, he walked off down the street.
Carl looked down at the sack in his hands and gingerly opened it. He took out his retirement watch and put it back on his wrist. Opening his wallet, he checked for his wedding photo.
pocket watch tattoo meaning