“Well, that’s pretty cool. You still keep in touch? Spend holidays with them and shit?” he asked. I was feeling a warmth in my chest because he genuinely seemed interested. Most people start patronizing before I get even this far into the low-down of my upbringing.
“I don’t know. Well, I guess… birthdays, fuckin’ Christmas and Thanksgiving, usually. But, like I said, I don’t have all the same feelings they do, and that makes me feel shitty…awkward…you know, like not in the right place. They were kind of religious—went to church a lot and shit.”
Again, he was staring straight ahead, nestled in thought and relaxed. You would think he was just sitting back watching a football game rather than having an inking needle inflicting a murderous rampage on his arm. In fact, he never winced once during the entire job.
Then, slowly, he said, gradually getting louder, “I don’t fuckin’ ever want to go back to fuckin’ Missouri. That fuckin’ shit hole. There’s fuckin’ nobody I want to see there again. After I started my own goddamn family, I tried to be a fuckin’ good dad and husband—not like what I had to be fucked with when I was a kid. I wanted to fuckin’ be there for them for the holidays, school plays, and shit; but, you know, when you’ve fuckin’ got goddamn orders to be somewhere else, you goddamn gotta go!”
He was getting emotional, and I wasn’t sure how to deal with it. The air felt thick, and we both paused a minute or two for the tension to clear some.
“Hey, what do you think of as back home for you?” I calmly asked.
“Back home? Ha! What the fuck is that? Nah, I’m probably like you. I draw a fuckin’ blank. I think home left me when my ma was fuckin’ killed in that goddamn car accident.”
“Goddamn car accidents,” I heard myself repeat. “You said your father died too?”
“He fuckin’ died a couple of years before Ma, when I was ten. I thought he was fuckin’ killed in action, but later my aunt told me he fuckin’ blew his own goddamn head off. Some shit, huh? It’s always made me wonder if I fucked up or did anything to make him fuckin’ want to do himself in.”
“You were ten, did you say?”
“Yeah.”
“Fuck no. You were just a little kid. You were his fuckin’ son. You were probably the last one he’d fuckin’ want to hurt.”
“Yeah, shit, I don’t know. Me and my brother both have good memories of him. He was funny, and he took us fuckin’ fishin’ on a row boat a couple of times. Don’t remember too much else. My aunt said he fuckin’ drank all the time, but I damn sure don’t remember that except my parents would argue a lot. Shit, then after Ma died, I wouldn’t call livin’ with my aunt and uncle fuckin’ home, sweet home at all, even though my brother was livin’ there too. We still keep in touch—my brother and me.”
“Where’s your brother now?”
“Fuckin’ Atchison. He goddamn high-tailed it out of Missouri when I did, and we both signed up for the Corps together. He left a fuckin’ leg in Iraq and lives with his girlfriend now. She’s a nice girl, and pretty fuckin’ hot too if you ask me. Hell, I could sure go for some of that. He got lucky; I guess if you can call it luck.”
“Shit, it sounds like it could have been a lot worse.”
“That’s for damn sure. They ought to be gettin’ fuckin’ married and havin’ kids! I don’t know what they’re waitin’ for. Hell, I’ve got three. Or had three. Fuck, who knows. That bitch! Don’t ever marry a connivin’ fuck-fox whore. They’ll take it all fuckin’, smilin’, and lyin’ to your face.”
“Thanks, I’ll remember that. ‘Never marry a connivin’ fuck-fox whore.’”
“Fuckin’-A,” he said. Then, after registering my mocking, playfully dished out a “Fuck you.”
He got quiet, and I did too. We both must have gotten lost in thought. I was thinking that maybe I should have asked him about his family. I was kind of curious, but I didn’t want to get him riled up again. When I see someone torn up like this, I wonder why they let themselves get so close to someone who could piss them off this much. But, again, I generally don’t understand people, and they don’t understand me.
“So, no brothers or sisters?” he asked in a casual tone.
“Well, I don’t know of any fuckin’ real ones. Marla’s the only daughter in the last foster family if you didn’t count me, and I guess you could say we’re like sisters. We stay close. She’s like a good older sister that watches over me, you could say. I don’t really know fuckin’ why, but I have to admit it’s nice to know she’s there sometimes. Shit, her thinking’s pretty straight and narrow, so we make an interesting pair. She thinks I’m a raging goddamn maniac and tries to keep me on track. I’m pretty freakin’ hopeless, though,” I said, adding a chuckle.
I realized that I’ve only had three people in my life I’ve become close to—Marla, Jerry, and Diana. I could call them my family, though two of them are from families I’d never lived with. We never get together for reunions or anything like that. In fact, one of them is dead. Fucking car accidents.
“Earth to Mindy,” he called out.
I chuckled. “I was just thinking about shit. Sorry.”
“Just don’t let it happen again, Marine,” he barked.
“Fuck! You!” I barked back, and we laughed.
I don’t know exactly what it was, but it felt great to chat with him. Usually, conversations during inking amount to little more than chit-chat, and a lot of the time, the guys invariably get around to hitting on me. I’ll humor clients to a point just to pass the time, but I’m seldom moved to take any of them up on their lame offers. If necessary, I can be a real bitch on a dime to make them go away. Of course, if he’s good-looking, funny, harmless, clean, no drama, and he’s got weed… well sure—a girl has her needs. I’m not above all that. And that goes for chicks too. It’s cool; I’m an equal-opportunity-type gal.
Then he went there and jokingly shot me the line, “You’re a cool chick, Mindy-tattoo-girl, no matter what that guy over there says about you.” He pointed his head in Jerry’s direction.
“Yeah, yeah, that’s a new one. Nice of you to say so, buddy, but you’re still a dick.”
He laughed. “Oh, gimme a fuckin’ break! What did I do?”
“You’re making me fuckin’ murder this poor mermaid!”
“Oh well, shit happens. Say, tell me about all your jail time,” he said with a snarly smile.
“You’re such an asshole. What—who, me? Shit, what makes you think I’ve been in jail?” I asked with a laugh.
“Yeah, you. I don’t think you’re as squeaky clean as you look.”
“Oh really? I’m not sure what flatters me most about that statement. A little while ago you said I fuckin’ looked like a slut. I think you better work on your pickup lines, buddy.”
“Ah, I’m just fuckin’ with ya. Really, what have you been to jail for? How guilty were you?”
“Hmm. Well, Your Honor, you’ve got me backed into a corner. But my record and I are absolutely without a blemish. I’m just an untainted virgin, I swears.”
“Oh, now the shit’s gettin’ deep. I know that ain’t right, BJ-lovin’ princess.”
“Hey, fuckin’ watch who you’re callin’ princess!” I exclaimed, trying to sound insulted. “It’s true, I’ve never been jailed, or hooked on drugs or booze, or even smoked fuckin’ cigarettes. Maybe I’m lucky for that, but goin’ ape-shit overboard on that stuff never appealed to me. No mortal sins for me,” I declared, feigning pride.
“Now you sound boring.” He faked a big yawn. “I feel like I’m in goddamn fuckin’ church.”
“I just fuckin’ tattoo,” I said. “That’s all. It’s my passion. It’s a fuckin’ high for me when I’ve produced something for a customer that touches them deep and personal. That’s all.”
That wasn’t entirely true, but I wasn’t going to get into how much I love and crave frequent and crazy sex—even when I know it’s probably not good for me. He wasn’t in any condition to handle it decently, and I wasn’t
desperate enough to risk his volatility going the wrong way. Way too much baggage there. But I had to admit; he was fun and a hot-looking dude. On another night under different circumstances, maybe there could be a chance we’d hook-up—but, for sure, tonight wasn’t the night.
“So you get drunk tattooin’, huh?” he continued.
“I said a high, not drunk, asshole” I clarified. “It puts me in a happy place.”
Reeling the conversation back to his more immediate interests, he asked, “Hey, is that dude over there your guy?” referring again to Jerry.
“Jerry? No, he’s a good friend, though. He’s the one that got me started tattooing.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, he saw some of my artwork and suggested I try it on skin and make some money doing something I fuckin’ like.”
“Fuckin’-A, and here you are.”
“Yep, and here I am.”
“So, who’s your guy? Some fuckin’ rich dude with a Benz? Your sugar daddy?”
“You got it—me and Batman.”
“Alright, bitch, be that way, don’t tell me your fuckin’ fuck stories,” he said, with an exaggerated tone of disappointment.
“You fuckin’ wish,” I replied sardonically.
I had plenty of stories I could tell if I wanted to. Truth was, I felt over and done in the arena of romance and shit. I’d had one too many crash-and-burn attempts at having a committed relationship. I kept telling myself to get my act together and change, but if all I’m doing is hitting my head against a wall, it‘s crazy, right? I get a lot of satisfaction feeding my impulses with casual, recreational, get-my-rocks-off kinds of hook-ups. Those kind are easy to find, and they’re accommodating, less stressful, and there are no feelings or strings to get tangled in. And the more mind-blowing the sex is, the better. Yeah, I’ve got lots of stories.
It didn’t seem much longer before I was finished permanently inking the murder scene that was damning evidence of a sacrilege recorded on his arm forever. It was so wrong; I had to hold back tears as I took a last good look at it. Then I let him see the finished work. He studied it, his eyes squinted. He was lost in his head again—among the unspeakable thoughts, emotions, and images I suspected made up his battle-torn mental landscape.
He finally looked at me and said, “Thank you, Mindy. I don’t know what to say. It’s so fuckin’ beautiful. It’s goddamn perfect.”
I saw that he was tearing up too, but no doubt his tears were shed for different reasons than mine. I couldn’t resist giving him a hug. He put his long, strong arms around me and I felt myself rest comfortably against him. His body was surprisingly soft and warm. We finally let go of each other a nickel or two longer than a mere thank-you hug ought to last.
As I stepped back, he said, “You really fuckin’ are a fuckin’-A tattoo babe.”
“Bitch,” I corrected, wiping away a tear.
“Wha—?” he asked with his puzzled look again.
“Bitch! I’m a tattoo bitch, goddammit!” I proclaimed. “Fuck! I get no respect.”
He chuckled and shook his head as he reached for his wallet. “Alright then, tattoo bee-yutch, what do I owe you? It’s so fuckin’ sweet.”
After hearing and relating with all he’d been through, I was feeling friendly and charitable. “Hey, no charge. You earned it, dude. And tell you what, come back goddammit when you can and I’ll give you another one.” What I meant was, Be safe, come back, and don’t let your ass get shot up over there. I couldn’t bring myself to tell him that, though.
“What? Really? Shit, I don’t know what to say. Really, dammit, I want to pay you,” he insisted.
I shook my head. “Just don’t ask me to ink a vagina on your ass, motherfucker.”
“No, ma’am,” he replied with a laugh. He thanked me again, and as he passed to check out at the front counter, he stuck a ten dollar bill in the waistband of my skirt. I wasn’t expecting it, and I jumped. "I'm still givin’ you a fuckin’ tip, goddammit. And I’ll be back,” he swore with a wink.
I pulled the bill from my waist and watched him go to the checkout counter. He said something to Fran and then pointed toward me. They both turned to look in my direction, and I raised my hand and said, “It’s cool.”
After he had picked up his post-tat instructions and aid kit, he left with his friend who had been waiting for him for at least an hour after Jerry had finished. Dale waved at me as he walked out the door, and I quickly smiled and waved back. I was moved and wished I could do more to help him bear his shitty situation. It was a rare, warm emotion for me, which I normally try to avoid by all means. All I get from all that emotion crap is heartache and self-esteem issues, mostly in the vein of chastising myself with sweet aspersions, like, Goddamn, you’re a FUCKING IDIOT! Maybe I would see him again; maybe I wouldn’t.
Now I had to face the fact that I had just killed one of my gorgeous, big-booby mother of mermaids! It was obscene. Jerry had come over to take a look at it when it was almost done and shook his head. He told me later that he thought I might have gone a bit wonkers with the graphic gore and terror. He was right, and all I could think was, If I had my choice, I would much prefer having drama in my tattoos—not in my life. I folded the ten-buck note and slipped it into my denim skirt pocket.
All this emotional commotion left me in a freakish mood. My feelings for the guy, rehashing some of the worst parts of my life, the hurt over the torture of the mermaid—it was a place in my head I didn’t want to be. So I told Jerry goodnight early and left in search of a fix for my ever persistent craving—which was to get my brains fucked out. Tonight, all control for the contrary had vanished. Sometimes this girl just has to have some cock for therapeutic reasons. It clears my mind and gives comfort to my restless and defiant soul, like a good religion. If it’s not for that, then for my art. Shit, art, hell—I’m just fucking horny!
I thought of my ex-SEAL buddy, Jaymes, who makes for a great booty call when I want to be rough-fucked this way and flopped that way and fucked and flipped the other way and fucked hard again, do-si-do and repeat and all that. He didn’t answer, and I didn’t bother leaving him a message. He would know what I wanted.
In the meantime, I headed to a bar I hadn’t been to in a while on the other side of town. I was determined to throw caution to the wind to still my agitated mind. I found myself wondering what the future could bring if I hung with Marine Dale, but he had all those monsters stirring up the living hell in his world. And I couldn’t get out of my mind the ghastly carnage I’d left on his arm. God help me if the gods decided to bestow their vengeance upon me for killing one of their beloved. Sometimes karma sucks, and I feared harsh retribution.
And, wouldn’t you know, Jaymes, the SEAL, never called back or left a message. His goddamn loss. But then I would never have had the fantastic, spectacularious adventure that was already beginning that night if he had.
Episode 2 - Night Ride High-Jinx
It was around one AM on a warm late-summer night when I got to Whistler’s. It’s not a joint I frequent often, but I like the edginess of out-of-the-way places like this—and the cheap beer. Some sporty cars, pickups, and Harley’s were parked out front, so I thought it might have decent potential to help me satisfy my carnal urge. It’s still a smoking bar, but I don’t get all freaked-out about that unless it’s just too smoky to breathe. I don’t smoke, but I hadn’t exactly gone there for health reasons anyway—well, except for some hard and healthy meat.
I grabbed my car key and driver’s license and left my purse and phone in the car. I didn’t think I would need any more cash than the ten dollars the Marine had left me for a tip. That was if I played it right. I stuck my license and the key into my red skirt pocket with the folded ten.
I walked into the bar and took in the cigarette smoke and the noise. The lights were low, and it was a busy night. I noticed a guy with a nice ass standing at the end of the bar counter. I positioned myself next to him but not too close. He and a barmaid were talking shit
, but not loud enough for anyone else to hear. The other bartenders were busy getting and pouring drinks, so I thought she must be on break. Then she looked up and asked me what she could get for me. I ordered a PBR. While she went to fetch the beer, I took the money out of my pocket and started to unfold it. As I did, I thought about how likable Dale had been and how he’d made me laugh. When I realized what I was doing, I told myself that I better forget about it and tossed the bill on the bar. Fuckin’-A.
Still, I couldn’t take my mind off him. I even thought, Maybe tonight will be the night I turn my life around. I really liked the vibes I’d gotten from him, and now I was feeling a little inspired. I told myself that all I had to do was make the fucking serious decision to change. I needed to give myself the chance to become cozy with someone and stop going after the quick fix. But first I had to forget my shitty track record with loyal relationships. A bar was a lousy place to start, though, and I wasn’t leaving till I drank my beer. I knew I was only torturing myself, and something had to give.
The bartender babe promptly brought me a bottle, and then I lost my train of thought when a guy came up from behind and made a place between me and the guy with the hot ass.
“Nice hair,” he said.
“Yeah, thanks.” He noticed my blue hair. Woo. He was a middle-aged dude with decent looks, but his shirt was tucked in. He looked married. He had that overly sweet innocence that said he was hiding something, but not his desperation.
“What are you?” I heard him ask.
“What?”
“Hispanic? Turkish? Jewish, maybe?”
Mindy Poppago: Blue: Part 1: The Spectacularious Night Page 2
