Miss Fortune
Page 25
The last thing I wanted to do was to cause her more stress, but it did strike me as fairly shocking that something as common as a circle would be such a big deal. “You’ve got an Escher painting on your neck. Wouldn’t that be way harder?”
“It’s actually way easier.”
I offer to wait while she practices on an eggplant. I’m trying to help her out. She keeps glancing toward the back where Dreadlocked has disappeared.
“If you’d rather have that guy do it, I’d be okay with that. Please don’t feel you like you have to—” I offer, thinking maybe she wants a way out, but this clearly is not the right thing to say because she starts to panic immediately.
“No! Nonie can do this. Please! I want to try. Can I at least try?” Oh god.
Virginia asks me if I’d like a drink of water. I tell her no but she should go ahead. She turns toward what I assume is the direction of the water, lets out a loud exhale, and turns back around.
“You know why I want to do this? Because it scares the shit out of me. And I’m sick and tired of being scared of everything. I woke up this morning and I was scared of my cereal, so I’m like, what’s next? You know?” Before I can answer, “Me leaving!” she gives me a weepy smile and invites me to “come on back!”
As she outlines the design on my wrist, I stare at the top of her head. Study her pale skin and sprinkles of dandruff caught in her hairline.
She tells me how she’s a dancer. I ask her how she likes living in Boise. “Well, I love snow but I hate snow.” I try not to look at her dandruff again. You know what? I like her. The fact that I’m not at some slick LA “I’m Johnny Depp’s artist” tattoo shop is perfect. A little shaky artist girl in Boise. This is perfect. She looks exactly how I felt so many days these past six months. I’m not walking out on her. She’s going to give me the best tattoo of her life. You and me, Virginia. We are making this happen. This tattoo is going to be the beginning of our new lives.
• • •
I ask her how she’s doing. “I did not sleep well last night.”
Oh, that’s it. She’s just tired!
“I had this dream where I was in an empty apartment and I looked out the window and I see a bridge and it’s covered with people. Like four thousand people walking across it. It was like a big Brooklyn Bridge. Then I look over on the wall in the apartment and there’s a button and I just walk over and before I even think I reach out and I hit the button. And when I do the bridge collapses and I watch all these people falling.”
She takes a moment to finish what must be the circle—I can’t get myself to watch—and looks up at me. “And I think—oh my god, I just killed four thousand people.”
She stares off like she’s seeing the mass murder happen in front of her, makes one last mark on my wrist, and sits up.
“Okay—there’s your tattoo.”
Circles really are hard. The circle is ever so slightly lopsided. That’s not the worst part—the worst part is that it’s just a horrible tattoo. I’ve seen jail tats that had more style. It’s awful. Really awful. Three blue dots in a triangle shape. Three small stubby lines underneath the lopsided circle. The ink looks like it’s already faded. Like I’ve had the tattoo for years.
I mumble “Thank you” and stumble out of my chair. I need to get out of here as soon as possible so I can get back to my car where no one can hear me scream.
Later that day, Keily comes to my hotel to show me her tattoo, which is perfect and she loves it. I show her mine. “Is that really what you asked for?” she asks.
On the plane ride back home I sign up for OkCupid and by the time I land I’ve set up a date with a reality show (“we prefer the term unscripted content”) producer, a journalist from the BBC, and a pool-care guy.
My friends are all throwing rules at me. “Don’t sleep with anyone until after three dates.” “No guys who don’t have jobs.” “No guys without kids.” “No guys with kids.” “You need a guy who . . .” And then all my bossy girlfriends, my birth mother, or Eddie the mailman tells me what I need.
At first, I like all of them. For the first five minutes they all seem way better choices than I’ve ever had before. I’m not sure why. After three dates, it’s the most depressing parade of sad broken robots in the galaxy.
Four months of dating. I’m in the doctor’s office with a fever and a kidney infection. The most promiscuous friend I know—I’ll call her Stan—tells me that a kidney infection is “the whore’s disease.” “My doctor said it was stress related,” I text her from the pharmacy waiting for my prescriptions. “He’s being nice. He feels sorry for you because of your age.”
It’s like I’m trying to get love through all the wrong holes. I’m not sure what the right hole would be. The hole in my heart?
The odd thing is that none of the dates mention my tattoo. They don’t notice it. Maybe if it had been right above my mouth it would have warranted more comments.
The first person to notice it is a sound guy on a VH1 I Love the ’80s 3-D shoot. He asks me what my affiliation is. I have no idea what he’s talking about. “Do you have any idea what the actual meaning of that tattoo is?” Outside the obvious meaning of “never get a tattoo in Boise,” I have no idea what he’s talking about.
“Those three dots are the gang symbol for a major Mexican gang in East Los Angeles. Mi vida loca. Did you really not know that?”
Now that he mentions it, I do remember noticing the three dots when I volunteered in the LA county jail. Women had them on their hands or on their faces. I’d never seen the dots on the inside of a wrist but I’m sure rival gangs won’t be sticklers about it when they gun me down in the 7-Eleven.
I do a search for “best place to get a tattoo cover-up in LA.” The first one that comes up is Zans Tattoo on Venice Boulevard. The king of cover-ups is a rockabilly guy in a fedora named Rand. I like him. He laughs at my Boise tattoo story. “Oh no!” he says when I talk about the shit-talking baby part. “Are you kidding me?” he asks when I describe the girl’s shaking hands. The first thing he assures me of is that he’s going to fix that circle.
My friend Dan is worried that I’m going to spend the next five years trying to repair my bad tattoo and will end up with a dragon that goes all the way up to my forehead. I’m worried about this too. My only request to Rand is to keep it small. He sketches out an image of an old cracked mahjong tile. “This way you still keep the original tattoo but I’ll use it as the design for the tile . . . get it?”
I hate it. It has no meaning to me whatsoever. I’ve never played mahjong in my life.
“You know what may be bothering me is . . .”
The entire tattoo shop is giving a “cool or not cool, Grandma?” stare down.
He asks me what I don’t like about it. I’m not quite sure. As I’m trying to figure out what to say, the other tattoo artists come to his rescue and gather around the image he’s sketched out. They all agree that it’s the best tattoo that he’s ever designed. “I’m not kidding. This is unbelievable.” The receptionist gasps when she sees it. The last tattoo artist to see it drops the image back on Rand’s station. “Fantastic, Rand. It’s your best for sure.”
Oh god, they’re so clearly trying to boost him up. I’ve done it again; I’ve found the weak one. The one who’s about to be fired or having personal trouble. I’m going to let him do the tattoo. I know it. Because he needs it. It will help him. Please god, let him not be single. Story of my life. “Well, he wants it. It would make him happy.” A British guy tells me, “You and I will be wonderful together. You live close, I can bring dinner over, and we can watch The Muppet Movie. This is perfect for me.” I’d liked aspects of that, but it wasn’t anything I’d suggested. Nobody ever asked me what I wanted or wanted to do. It works for me because I do like a man to be in charge sometimes so I can giggle and complain about being fat and getting my period. In that order. I’m not s
ure what I would say if someone asked me what I wanted; I’d be so thrown. Or I’d worry that if I told them what I wanted they’d suppress who they were and only try to please me and I’d never see who they are. Love sucks.
I offer Rand the inside of my right wrist. “Go ahead.”
As the needle digs into my skin, I stare at the sketch on the piece of paper that was passed around the room. It’s not that bad. When people ask me what it is or why I got it, I’ll say it was the last mahjong tile my grandmother played before she died. Or that it’s an homage to one of my favorite writers and fellow Hoosier Kurt Vonnegut, who died yesterday.
“You don’t remember the mahjong game in Cat in the Cradle?”
The redo doesn’t take very long. The way Rand has colored in the circle with red makes it look like I got a tattoo on top of a herpes sore. I can’t look at it for very long.
“Thank you so much,” I say and shuffle toward the door.
The receptionist stops me. “Hey! You have to pay!”
“Oh, right.” She runs my credit card. Three hundred and fifty dollars.
I ask her if she wouldn’t mind handing me one of the tattoo-removal pamphlets behind her.
She wants to know if I’m kidding.
“Oh yeah, I’m kidding.”
A tall, willowy woman strides through the door, platform shoes and a million feet tall. Her backless sundress reveals angel-wings tattoos that cover her back. She glances down at me, gives me an “I’m beautiful, no?” smile, right as she notices my tattoo. She is incredibly beautiful. Please don’t steal my husband, I think. Oh wait, I don’t have one.
“Oh my god, what is that?” She takes her sunglasses off and bends down like Big Bird talking to one of the working-class kids of the neighborhood.
“Is that a Flintstones iPod?”
“No,” I tell her. Give her a polite smile.
“Oh, okay. Sorry. Let me see it again. Oh! Oh! Is it money?”
“Yeah, it’s money. Eye on the prize. Right? I’m kidding. No, it’s not money.”
“Okay. Okay. Hold on . . . I know! Is it toast?”
“No. As passionate as I am about toast, no.”
Now she’s got me wondering . . . what the hell is it? Really. I look down and study the tattoo along with her, trying to figure out what I’m looking at . . .
“Let’s see, it’s an old dirty cracked piece of concrete with a fucked-up circle and a gang symbol in the middle of it.”
She wrinkles her nose like the tattoo smells bad too, and turns away from me toward the receptionist. The two of them share an eye roll.
“Yeah, I’m here for my eleven o’clock appointment. I’m just getting the last two feathers on my wings done.”
I’m sitting in my car staring at my wrist. It’s the most awful tattoo I’ve ever seen. I have a cracked piece of concrete on my arm. A symbol that says, “I can be talked into anything by anyone.” I’m scared to drive my car. I don’t even trust myself to do that, for some reason.
What will I tell my date, Kevin, the yoga guy from Venice, tonight? I’m going to tell him it’s a tattoo I got for a short story that Kurt Vonnegut wrote called the “The Mahjong Tile,” not well-known except to his die-hard fans.
The parking lot attendant, a Hispanic man in his sixties, with glasses and salt-and-pepper hair, is very handsome, Eric Estrada–like. He could very well be Eric Estrada; that’s how bizarre and great this town can be. He sticks his head in my window, giving me a burst of cologne that smells like what my high school boyfriend wore. It’s lovely. He’s lovely. His hands are so smooth. His fingernails look buffed, the little moons so white and perfect. “Hello, sweetheart, I’m sorry. I’m closing valet. If you want, you can street park.” As he’s talking to me, I’m admiring his hands and I see it. Three dots. Mi vida loca. Speechless, I stick my wrist out and put it next to his hand. His eyes narrow. “Mi vida loca,” he says. “Did you grow up in East LA?” In my white Prius with the toddler seat in the back, I’m so flattered.
“No,” I tell him. “North side of Indianapolis. Did you really think I could have grown up there? That makes me so—”
“No, I didn’t, but those three dots are Mi vida loca tattoo. It’s big-time, you know. I did a lot of bad things with gangs. I was a gangbanger, you know, all that stuff. Bad times. I’m out now. Never go back.”
I ask him if the tattoo ever gets him into trouble, if people think he’s in the gang. “Not when I’m working in Beverly Hills or Santa Monica, and you know, it could get you in trouble, but I think, hey, it’s good. I look down and I remember, you know. It’s who I was but it’s not me. It’s a good reminder, you know. Bad times behind me, good times right now, sweetheart.”
He tells me to go ahead and park in the parking lot. “I’ll keep an eye on your car.”
Before I go in for my date with Kevin the yoga instructor, I give Erik Estrada my keys and ask if I can take a photo of our tattoos next to each other. Nothing says gangbanger like posing for an Instagram photo.
Kevin is a tall suntanned man in a cardigan sweater. He smiles and nods at me while I’m talking. Listening. He’s very attentive and kind and he’s married. It’s an open marriage. “Would you rather know someone in this life or be lied to?” he says with a smile, salsa dripping down his white cable-knit cardigan. This could work, actually. Why not? I’m not looking for a relationship. It would be nice to know there was really no chance of it getting too serious. Maybe I’m one of these evolved hippies I’ve been reading about and fearing for so long. Kevin never notices my tattoo; he’s far too absorbed texting his wife to tell her how much he likes me. No. This is not what I want to do. Not even for another five minutes. Without much explanation I stand up. “Thank you so much, Kevin. Tell your wife she’s very lucky.” I ask the hostess on the way out if valet is still open and she gives me a confused look. “Well, no, there’s no valet.” Hearing that they don’t have a valet and have never had a valet doesn’t worry me at all. Not even for a second.
Cold, Cold Water
I’m on an airplane flying to Portland, Oregon. It’s my first trip away from home since David and I split.
Walking into the living room to say good-bye to Leo before I left this morning, before his dad came to pick him up, I considered pretending I heard someone calling my name outside—“Who’s that? I’ll be right back”—and running out.
After I finally did manage to say good-bye, I had that “I’m about to cry” bubble sound in my voice, which was more upsetting than if I’d just lain down on the floor and howled with tears. Leo asked me if I was crying. I told him of course not. Bugs had just flown in both of my eyes and I was eating a brownie that got caught in my throat “and it’s so cakey.” This made Leo mad. He’s four, so brownies and bugs in his eyes are the stuff of fancy parties.
The plane is about to land and all I want to do is make it back to my hotel in time to Skype with Leo. I haven’t spent that much time in Portland. I was here once before a few years ago doing my play Bust at a local theater, but that’s been it. I have no idea how many bridges I’ll have to cross or naked bike-rider parades I’ll encounter that will slow me down.
I lean across the aisle and ask the no-nonsense composter-type lady sitting there if she’s from Portland. The neon-green Crocs on her feet and bright red fleece pullover she’s wearing have already answered my question, but I don’t want her to feel racially profiled so I go ahead and ask her.
I’ve never seen anyone happier about being asked a question. It was like I’d asked an evangelical Christian if he knew anything about Jesus.
“Yes! I am. I am from Portland! I’ve lived there my entire life. I’d love to help you out. Please ask me. Ask me!”
In my best “you don’t want to get stuck talking to me—I’m a manic depressive burden” flat tone, I ask her how long she thinks it will take to drive from the airport to downtown.
“I think the theater I’m working for is sending an airport pickup for me . . .”
“Oh well, maybe for your return flight.”
I sigh. Traveling with Leo after he was first born had been so easy. We’d shove him in a pocket like a kitten, and off our little family would go to Vermont, New Mexico . . . Orange County.
After the first year, though, David started getting tired of being stuck in a hotel while I was onstage performing. It wasn’t like I was coming home every night with my arms full of roses, smelling of champagne cocktails and gushing with tales of “not one but three standing ovations!” Most nights, I couldn’t wait to get back to the hotel so I could complain to David about the row after row of sleeping old white men who were dragged to the theater by their wives against their will and viewed theater as nothing more than a planned nap time.
David, the greatest champion and supporter of my work, was also a man who wanted adventure, travel, and to be working in the theater. These are not things that happened a lot in a hotel room with a toddler. David started complaining that I was treating him like a glorified babysitter. Eventually, he couldn’t take it anymore and decided to stay at home and glorify our actual twentysomething babysitter.
David doesn’t like it when I call her “the babysitter.”