Anywhere But Here

by Jenny Gardiner

  “You don’t seriously want to call him Buddy, do you? It’s so cliché.”

  “And Rudy’s not?”

  “Fine, let’s think of a more relevant name. How about Splash.”

  Smoothie laughs. “Splash? What kind of name is that? The dog’ll have no dignity. Splash. That sounds like a character in a Disney movie. You’ll give the thing a complex.”

  “I don’t see you coming up with anything.”

  “Give me some time, I’ll come up with something memorable. Memorable and manly.”

  “Ha! Poor pooch. In the meantime, I’ll figure it out,” I say, thinking for a minute. “Oh, wait, I’ve got it. The perfect name for him: Niagara.”

  Smoothie ponders this, his brows furrowed. “Niagara, eh. All right, let’s try it.”

  He stands up. “Niagara, here boy,” he says with a whistles. The dog stands up and wags his tail, jumping up on all fours so that he looks like he’s temporarily levitating.

  “I think he likes his new name,” I say. “Plus, it’s only fitting. What with Niagara being so central to our existence and all.”

  “You’re not still flirting with that crazy notion, are you?”

  “I told you, I’m doing it. Like it or lump it.”

  “Like it or lump it? Is this one of ol’ Dick’s conversational suicide lines?”

  “As a matter of fact, it belonged to my mother, thank you. And she used it liberally.”

  “Mary Kate, you don’t want to do that crazy thing. You’ve got too much to lose.”

  I look at him skeptically, as if to say, “Yeah, right.” But it goes without saying so I don’t even bother.

  “Well, maybe not a whole lot to lose, except yourself. And that’s one thing you can’t replace. All that other stuff, it’s nothing. It doesn’t matter. But you do matter, Mary Kate. You matter a whole lot.”

  I sigh and lay back on the ground. “Come ‘ere Niagara.” I whistle and he comes right to me and lays down, his drying fur nestled up against my side, sticking to my still-damp flesh. The sun feels restorative beating down on my skin. I rest my hand on the dog’s neck and idle my fingers in the scruff of fur along where a collar would be.

  “I wonder if someone’s missing their dog right now and wanting him back,” I say.

  “I don’t know. I doubt it, though. We’re pretty far back in the woods. He looks mighty skinny, his ribs sticking to him like they are. Have to figure he’s been roaming around here for quite a while looking for a good meal.”

  “Which we haven’t given to him yet,” I say, and proceed to hand feed him a chunk of salami, half my sandwich, and a wedge of cheese.

  “Hey! I wanted that cheese!” Smoothie mutters.

  But he knows the poor dog is hungry so he reaches in the basket and pulls out the other wedge of remaining cheese and gives it to him. The dog looks as if no one has ever fed him.

  “He’s awfully sweet,” I say. “Wish we could keep him.”

  “I don’t know how good of an idea that is. What if someone is missing him?”

  “Like you said, if someone’s missing him, it’s been an awful long time with him looking that skinny. How about this: if by the time we’re ready to leave, no one’s claimed him, we bring him along.”

  “In your nice clean car?”

  “All the more reason to.” I grin. I’d love nothing more than to mess up the exacting clean streak of Richard with wet dog residue.

  We settle down under the afternoon sun and close our eyes. We don’t wake till the sun is dipping low in the western sky. Niagara is fast asleep, snoring by my side.

  “You ready to move on for the night?” Smoothie asks.

  I nod. I don’t want to leave this dog behind, though. He looks so darned sad, watching us pack up the basket of food remnants.

  I turn my back on Smoothie to get dressed—some strange relic of propriety that rears its ugly head for some reason. He doesn’t say a word to me but I know he notices. Just one of those strange quirks of mine.

  The dog is staring at me, a silent plea to not leave him behind. I give him a big hug and tell him to go on his way. We start walking in the direction we came from, and Niagara follows suit the entire twenty minutes or so it takes to get back to the empty parking lot.

  When Smoothie opens the passenger door, the dog runs into the car, trailing muddy paws all over the seats.

  “My car! Look at it!”

  Smoothie begins to laugh. “It’s just about perfect, baby. What more could you ask for than to have a dirty mongrel trash Dickie Boy’s presence right out of your mobile? I think this ol’ boy’s planning to join us for the ride.”

  “You sure we’re not stealing someone’s pet? I picture some little girl crying for her missing dog.”

  We look over at the dog, with a tattered left ear, obviously the victim of some street fight, a couple of scars across his muzzle, and of course those bones poking through. There’s no little girl mourning his loss.

  “All right, Niagara, join the fun. But you go in the back seat, you hear?” His tail wags as we escort him around to the back, where he settles down readily, resting his chin on the front seat so he can see everything going on.

  “Where to, Miz Doopreeee?” Smoothie at the helm asks.

  “I’m leaving it up to you, Mr. Cunningham.”

  “In that case, I know precisely what we’re going to do next. So don’t ask.”

  We putter down the road and eventually end up in some town called Rolling Rock. Smoothie pulls over to a Lucky Seven convenience store to ask directions to wherever it is he wants to go. We drive a couple more miles and then he tells me I have to close my eyes for the next few minutes for the rest of the drive.

  After a couple of minutes he checks on me.

  “Your eyes still closed, baby?”

  “Very much so. Can I open them yet?” I’m dying to squint just a little to see where we are but I’ll be a good girl.

  “Not yet. In a few short minutes.”

  Smoothie parks the car and tells me to sit tight. I hear his door open and then close, and then he comes to the passenger side and opens the door. He tells Niagara to stay, helps me out and guides me from behind, his hands on my waist steering me. “Now don’t you peek, you hear me?” he whispers in my ear in a voice as warm and sweet as drizzled honey.

  “As closed as they’ll ever be,” I assure him.

  He stops and turns me a quarter turn, then gives me the go-ahead.

  “All right, Mary Kate. You can open ‘em.”

  Oh, I open them all right. And smack dab in front of me is a huge sign in the shape of a something that Abe Lincoln might have grown up in. In bold red letters are the words Stabbin’ Cabin.

  “Uh, you got plans for us you might want to clue me in on, Smoothie? Doesn’t something like this take two to tango?”

  Smoothie looks at the sign and starts to laugh. And he begins to laugh so hard he can’t stop himself. I’m not sure what’s so funny but his laugh is infectious, and soon I’m howling alongside of him, tears streaming down my cheeks, despite my blanket ignorance of the situation. The dog hears us and starts to howl; his windows are cracked just enough so that anyone around would hear his mournful noises and think we were beating him or something.

  “Mary Kate. You don’t think I’d take you to a, a, a house of ill-repute?”

  I sure didn’t think so but it does say it’s the Stabbin’ Cabin.

  “Look below that. Way below the large letters.”

  I wipe the tears of laughter from my eyes so I can read again, and I see what I missed before. The words Tattoo Parlor emblazoned in Asian style lettering. The Stabbin’ Cabin is a tattoo parlor.

  “What in hell are we doing here?” I ask.

  “I’ve decided we have to commemorate the prediction by
our good friend Zayna. We’re gettin’ tattoos!”

  Oh, sweet Jesus. Is this man off his rocker? “Are you absolutely nuts? I don’t do tattoos! There’s nothing about a tattoo that is on my horizon, immediate or otherwise, Smoothie. First off, I don’t like pain. And secondly, I’m an old thing. Old things don’t do tattoos. Old people only regret the tattoos they got when they were young and stupid. And C, well, well, I don’t think I even like tattoos!”

  Smoothie is grinning a Big Bad Wolf grin. I sense I’m about to be eaten for dinner, a victim of his crazy notions.

  “Lighten up, sugar! We won’t make you get anything big and ugly. I have something in mind. Something classy and delicate. In fact, yours can be even smaller than mine.”

  “You can get tattoos all you want, but no way, no how I’m getting one.”

  I cross my arms and stand in the stubborn silence of the Stabbin’ Cabin’s parking lot.

  “You’ll be sorry!” he says.

  “As if! There’s nothing to be sorry about.”

  “Only that I’m going to have but one half of a matching tattoo and the person who’s supposed to be sporting the mate to it just gave up on me.” He juts his lower lip out in a pout, as if that’s going to make me feel bad. “And here I had this great plan. You and me, we were going to split a tattoo. I get the sun and a spray of stars, and you get the moon and spray of stars. And together we’ll always match. Just think, some day we could have told our grandchildren about it.”

  I start to laugh at that. “That’ll be a little bit tricky, telling them about that. Haven’t you missed a few steps along that path? Like, we’re not even dating, let alone married. Or parents, for that matter!”

  “Just thinkin’ ahead, baby. I know how you’re used to planning and all. But I suppose if you don’t want to get yours, I’ll just get my own. And forever be missing the moon, but I guess it’ll be fine enough.”

  He reaches for the door of the building and steps on in, leaving me to feel guilty and wimpy in the parking lot before I join him inside.

  “So you’re doing it?” His eyes light up as he sees me enter.

  “No! I’m just coming to be moral support for you. Period.”

  Smoothie raises his eyebrow at the woman in the clinical white coat next to him. I’m guessing she’s the tattoo doctor. Or doctoress, or whatever you’d call her. I eye her up and down, expecting her to be coated in tattoo, along her arms and legs, her neck, her earlobes. Sorta like my old friend Doug, who stabbed my navel so successfully just a few days ago. But she’s surprisingly free of taint. She’s practically mainstream.

  “Hi, I’m Buffy, your artist.”

  Oh, she’s an artist. In her artist smock.

  I introduce myself and Buffy starts explaining to Smoothie about the procedure. He’s already told her what he’s after, and she’s showing him several stencils with his desired pattern.

  “Help me pick one, Mary Kate,” he says, beckoning me.

  I realize I’m nervous about this as my fingers begin to type. Buffy the Vampire Artist. Buffy the Vampire Artist. Buffy the Vampire Artist.

  “You like this one?” It’s a bit big, so I point him toward a smaller one. “Where should I put it?” He’s got a twinkle in his eyes when he asks this, so I fear his answer.

  “Uh, your arm?” Lame suggestion, I know. I tug my bra down.

  Buffy pipes in. “I think something like this might be perfect at the base of your hip,” she says. “Sexy, too.” She winks at him like some coy country western gal singer might do at the Grand Ole Opry.

  “D’ya hear that, honey? Buffy thinks it’d be sexy there,” Smoothie says. “You think so?” He leans over to confide in Buffy, “I always do what my wife wants me to do.” He winks my way and I can’t help but laugh a little at him. But if he thinks I am going to sit here while she tattoos something on his bare behind, he’s got news coming.

  Yet five minutes later, Smoothie is on his stomach, his pants pulled down, his boxer briefs pulled toward his hips, and Buffy is applying alcohol and then shaving his skin to ensure no hair is on the tattoo site. And I’m sitting next to him holding his hand against the anticipated pain.

  Buffy transfers the tasteful little sun and stars pattern onto his ass, right at that strategic dip in his hip that looks so good and so much different than Richard’s hairy, dimpled and occasionally pimpled behind. I’m trying to use my southern manners and not stare, but it’s hard not to. Just as I glance away from glancing away, Smoothie catches me staring.

  “Whad’ya think, Mary Kate?” He grins because he knows what I think.

  “You’d better enjoy that smile while you can because she’s about to start poking your hind end with that needle and life won’t be so amusing then.”

  “Piece of cake, baby.”

  We watch as Buffy the Tattoo Artist opens the needle and tube pouches, assembles the machine, and starts it up.

  “You ready?” she asks Smoothie, to which he gives a thumbs up. He squeezes my hand and I squeeze back as she starts with the outline. He winces and I feel a pang of empathy for him.

  “Bad?”

  He shrugs. “Oh, I’d give it about a five point two on the Richter Scale. Like the house shook, the dog ran under the bed, but nothing Earth-shattering. In fact, I’m already used to it. It’s fine. A breeze. Right, Buffy?”

  Buffy smiles but doesn’t look up from her task.

  Once the outline is done, she goes to work on the shading and coloring and Smoothie’s design comes to life. I half think if I weren’t such a coward, I’d take him up on his idea. But I saw his face when Buffy started outlining his skin. He was not enjoying himself one iota.

  Soon Buffy finishes up the tattoo.

  “Ta-da! What do you think?” she asks me. It’s funny, poor Smoothie can’t exactly see her work of art from his vantage point.

  “It looks great!” Granted she’s still wiping up blood from the site, but I can see how it’s going to end up looking great.

  “Now I want to show you some things, because I suspect you’ll be the one caring for this.”

  I will? Caring for his gorgeous butt?

  “I hadn’t thought about that, Mary Kate. How else will I be able to keep it clean? I’ll make you a deal—I’ll take care of your piercings and you take care of my tattoo.”

  “Like we’re part of the mutual disfigurement society,” I laugh. “Ha ha! You’re at my mercy.” I rub my hands with glee.

  Buffy proceeds to show me how care for Smoothie’s wound—and it is a wound—a bleeding, seeping wound.

  “I’ll cover it here but in a couple of hours, you’ll remove the cover, wash it carefully and dry it with a clean cloth, and apply Neosporin cream. You want to keep it slightly moistened with the cream and free from contact as much as possible for several days while it heals.”

  “Now how are you going to do that, Smoothie?”

  He winks at me. “I guess I’ll just have to keep my pants down.”

  He loves to tease me because he knows it makes me blush so.

  “My sun sure is gonna be lonely without its mate, Mary Kate. How will the sun ever set?”

  “Huh-uh. And if you’ve forgotten, you put this thing where the sun don’t shine, so it’ll be settin’ pretty much all the time,” I reply.

  “Don’t you wish. But just think how fun it would be. Your moon, my sun. Our stars.”

  “Sounds like an ad for Lucky Charms if you ask me.”

  Buffy covers Smoothies tattoo up with plastic wrap and I laugh because it’s like a slab of meat at the Food Lion.

  “I’ll make you a deal.” Smoothie’s got that look in his eyes.

  “My treat for dinner tonight if you—”

  “—if I permanently discolor my flesh. Nice try. Always making deals, this man is.”


  “Pretty please?” Smoothie bats his eyes at me and Buffy adds to the full court press by telling me how totally incredibly cool I would be. Cool schmool. But then I think about how much Smoothie has done for me. I don’t exactly know why it matters to him that I have a matching tattoo, but hey, it’s not very big. I’ve had scraped knees that are bigger than that thing. Plus a moon will be smaller still.

  “Oh, all right. But I’m not doing it on my behind! And I want you to know I’m doing this of my own free will. I didn’t buckle to peer pressure. I’m Mary Kate Dupree, and I’ll do what I damn well please, when I want to.”

  Smoothie lets out a loud whistle and claps at my declaration of independence, clearly happy about my agreeing to the tattoo. He takes my hands and does a little shag dance for a minute.

  “So, Mizz Doopreee, where ya gonna put it?”

  I have never once considered where on my body I would put a tattoo, so don’t know where to begin.

  “How about right here?” I point to a spot on my finger where a ring would cover it.

  “Nope!”

  “How about here?” Again, I point to an obscure area, behind my ear.

  “If you want it hidden, how about here?” Buffy offers up, right near my hipbone.

  “Oooh, nice. I like that idea,” Smoothie pipes in.

  Already partly maimed from my piercings, I worry that I won’t be able to wear anything with this tattoo. But hey, I’ve already committed myself so better just swallow my pride and go for it.

  “Is it gonna hurt more being so close to bone?”

  “You want the real answer or the modified one?”

  “Modified?”

  “Look at it this way—you know those models who are so thin their hipbones jut out at sharp angles?” I nod my head in understanding. “Well, for them, it hurts a lot.”

  Oh, jeeze, some concession that is. Like, if you didn’t have fat on your hips it would be worse, sweetie!

  I’ll pretend that wasn’t the way it was intended, and take solace in that extra hippage I’ve obviously accrued.

  I stretch out in the chair Smoothie had occupied a short while ago, pull down my shorts just on that side, and allow Buffy to prep the site, hoping she doesn’t slip with that razor. She pulls out her accoutrements and assembles it all together. My fingers are plastered to the pleather chair typing nonsensical things like “Hips don’t fail me now. Hips don’t fail me now, and Do you tattoo? Do you tattoo? Do you tattoo? My breathing has accelerated and I recognize this is something that if allowed to continue at this rate will lead to hyperventilation. A trend for me these days.