UnCommon Bodies: A Collection of Oddities, Survivors, and Other Impossibilities (UnCommon Anthologies Book 1)

by Michael Harris Cohen

  Tinny seventies rock resonated from the bowels of the failed retail tunnel and my boots clopped an echo off the high sheen floor. Hungarian newsprint papered the glass of all but a few storefronts–the types of places opened by the management's wife, girlfriend, or daughter. A tree of plastic wrapped lollipops adorned the entrance of a pink walled candy shop and two doors down was the token costume jewelry store.

  The only other occupied shop in the doomed complex faced me from the end of the corridor, where the arcade turned to the right. Rather than newsprint, the stall's glass was walled with Hungarian concert posters and a red and blue neon tattoo sign.

  Beneath my throat I felt a flutter, an urge to flee. I denied the anxiety. I was too close, my body resistant to entering Anika's studio but my mind willing. My steps became purposeful, forced.

  As I went farther, the shaft of daylight at my back faded, the darkness encroached from the unoccupied wing to the right, and the neon glow grew more ominous.

  The darkness only added to my anxiety. My chest grew tight and my legs sluggish, the mineral infused blood throughout my body thickened to sludge.

  I stopped outside her door. The ostinato of Zeppelin's Kashmir pelted me from inside her studio. The thought flashed through my mind that I was alone in that under city. The Earth had swallowed me up. The idea of magic made sense to me, coursed through me with the rhythms and wails of Plant and Page. I was in an old city, in the womb of a village aged thousands of years.

  I studied myself. My breathing and heart beat slowed. The darkness that surrounded me seemed to fall away and the soft orange light from within that room appeared to grow brighter.

  The Kiwi had gotten to me. If there was magic, it was that freehand tattoo he had upon his chest, and that's all it was, really. It was no small thing to create such a magnificent work of art, but it was art.

  I sucked in a deep breath and stepped into the studio.

  Immediately, the sound of the music gained in quality. It was a small space, with peach colored walls and a few framed drawings I recognized as H.R. Giger but didn't know well. There wasn't much furniture. The chair was to the right of the door, hidden from the corridor by the concert posters, and beside it, a stool, against the wall, a Formica counter with a cabinet above and below.

  And she was there, Anika, her raven hair draped midway down her back. She faced the counter and the patter of metal told me she was emptying the autoclave, dealing with her tools. She was svelte, wearing tight pleather pants, the kind that laced up the sides to reveal a strip of flesh. I'd seen this regurgitation of the eighties look all over Central Europe. The Prague discos were bursting with bright leggings and bangles, and headbands and Rock-and-Troll leather dominated the Slayer inundated underground nonstops—Central Europe was where the West had shipped the eighties shit surplus when they were through with it.

  I'd bet her vest came from the same place, but it looked like real leather.

  I searched for words, something to say, and then the image of the de-fingered hand rushed into my mind and I tilted my head to peek around her, to search for the uniqueness that I'd come to see.

  She said something in the Hungarian tongue. The words were foreign, chopped, but her voice was familiar, strong.

  The reaction of my throat was to close and forbid speech.

  She spun to face me.

  I want to say that the first thing I noticed apart from her hair was her eyes, because they were like few women have away from that part of the world, dark, direct, piercing and lush. Women of the west wear mascara to have eyes such as hers and tan to have her tone. But I initially missed this natural allure. I was magnetically drawn to her hands. I wanted to see the mutilation, where she had cut away. But she was drying them with a towel, hiding them.

  Blood rushed to my cheeks. I was embarrassed to be so trivial, such a tourist, my eyes veered up to hers, kindly waiting for my reply.

  "Hi," I said. "Anika?" Clever I know, but in all the contemplation of the last few weeks, I hadn't thought of what to say when we finally met. In my visions, our rendezvous was always voiceless, without conversation. She was more beautiful than I imagined yet I don't think I'd ever envisioned her face. There was only her silhouette, the dancer in the rain.

  "Oh," she said. "English. You've come for a tattoo. Yes?"

  Her accent was smooth, stunning.

  And again I must've looked the fool because I remained without words.

  "A tattoo?" she asked again, tapping her arm.

  "Yes," I said. "Yes, I came for that."

  Anika nodded, expecting me to say more. "Do you know what you'd like?" she asked.

  "My friend said, I mean, I was told, you'd know."

  I surely was the fool for saying that. But Anika didn't appear fazed.

  "Okay," she said. "Sit in the chair. Let me have a look." And then as I sat she added, "Take your shirt off."

  I did as she instructed, pulled my tee over my head, and sat back. My spine slightly quivered as it touched back against the cool vinyl of the seat.

  I heard her moving about behind me, the music—Pink Floyd singing of the moon and a lunatic—bounced off the wall to my front. The framed Giger to the left of my chair was one I hadn't seen before but typical of his style—biological, mechanical, organic–it reminded me of a print titled Lilith, but this creature had more arms.

  I squinted to absorb the surreal detail in the picture.

  "You like H.R. Giger?" I asked.

  "I studied under him," her voice came from behind. "In ink and in oils."

  "No shit?"

  "No shit."

  "He's very famous in America."

  "He's famous here too. I studied as a painter," she said, stepping to my left, "but Ruedi taught me about metamorphosis, completeness, and body flow. Now I prefer the living human canvas."

  "Ruedi," I repeated.

  Anika raised her brow, rubbed a lotion into her hands, and took a seat at the stool. She let her left hand glide over my torso. She appeared pleased, observant, and from my peripheru I scanned her—her hands at least. I could see nothing off with her right hand, or her left. I looked more closely at the rings that she wore, for a hidden prosthetic, but if a fake finger was there, it was the best I'd ever seen.

  "I smell the baths," she said.

  "My friend told me I should go there before seeing you."

  "He spoke correctly. You are cleansed." She pressed and prodded around my nipple. "I can see clearly."

  In an effort to be more at ease I said, "You don't have any tattoos."

  It'd only just occurred to me. Anika glanced away from my chest to make eye contact and I realized the blunder–no tattoos that I could see. But then I realized that brow-grin combination she formulated was designed to tease me, and after only a brief few seconds of taunting she coyly said, "No."

  I was going to then ask if she had any piercings and decided the question was too forward.

  She dialed her left index finger counterclockwise around my left pec, once, and then a second time. "I see something here," she said, and then she did it again. Sure of herself she ran the tips of her nails up and over my left shoulder, "and here, definitely you have a lot going on here."

  Her touch was comforting, maternal, yet I still felt an anxious thrill, like when I was a boy and my young teachers would lean over me to run their bright red painted nails under the words Dick and Jane. They'd breathe on my neck and my body would stiffen, my breathing would stifle, and the back of my neck would tingle and quiver. Anika wore no makeup that I could see, and she didn't smell of perfume, but her touch triggered the sense memory of the floral fragrance of the compact powder those teachers used to wear, Miss Newhouse, second grade.

  "Yeah," I said, clearing my throat. "That sounds good."

  "And how are we going to pay for this?"

  And I was the fool thrice. In my quest, I hadn't calculated the cost. I traveled on a tight budget, working when I could as I went along, and the unscheduled month’s st
ay at the Troll's House had taken a toll. Clouded as my mind had been, I'd only thought to exchange for enough Hungarian forints for the baths, trolley, and a meal.

  But I did have some US dollars.

  I wasn't sure how many. I dug into my pocket to pull out what I could, and then my fingers came across something else–my chapstick.

  I held up the small cylinder and said, "I have a few dollars, but I also have this."

  "This?" she asked.

  "American LSD. I understand it's hard to get around here."

  I could tell she was intrigued.

  "Is it any good?"

  "It's double dipped." I furrowed a brow, "paper dipped twice. That means it's potent, the best."

  "Okay," she said, "two."

  She watched while I removed the top and unscrewed the lip balm until it fell from the cylinder to my hand. "Why do you use that?" she asked.

  "I cross a lot of borders," I said. "The chapstick tube is sealed in wax. What's inside can't be detected. And a lot of people carry it." I reached in and withdrew a small cigarette cellophane repurposed to hold a perforated sheet of LSD. "Do you have some tweezers? I don't want to touch it."

  "Yes." She reached to the table behind and gave me what I needed to secure her pay.

  When the transaction finished, she unceremoniously donned a pair of gloves and sprayed my chest with a foamy shaving cream. The foam was at first chilly and then warm. She went right to business, stripping away the hair from my chest with the quick short strokes of a disposable lady bic razor.

  "So, your name is Anika?" I asked.

  "Ahem," she said, but didn't ask me mine. Talking time was over.

  When my chest was shaved she rose from the stool and went to what I guessed was a bathroom. I heard running water and then she returned with a metal bowl and a large sea sponge. The water was warm and soapy and Anika used the sponge to mop my chest and wash my arm.

  My breaths went short with the intimate attention.

  When she finished she set the bowl on the counter behind her.

  "I will now take my top off too," she said, and, as if asking my permission, added, "okay?"

  "Okay," I replied.

  She began to undo her vest, and I admit I was aroused. The low v-neck of the leather revealed an attractive bosom and I was under the impression I was about to see her breasts. I remembered the haircuts I received in the dorms at college. One of the art students used to cut hair topless to make a little extra money, and the boys, and girls, would line up down the hall. Nothing funny ever went on and the haircuts were fair at best, but the excitement came from the nubile young lady's nipple slipping into your ear as she leaned close to trim the top of your head.

  I wondered if that's what was happening here, if the Kiwi had set me up from the beginning with his tale of the two missing fingers. Again forgetting my manners, I chuckled openly at the idea of the ruse. The thrill was to have this beautiful woman create the fine work of art while nude.

  Anika, mid-button glanced at me. "Are you thinking of something?" she asked.

  "Oh," I said. "I'm just excited to get the piece. I've seen your work, the friend who sent me here. It's marvelous–no–spectacular."

  "Hmm," she said, her dark eyes again teasing me as they had when I asked whether she had tattoos of her own. "And what did you see?"

  "I saw a silver fer..." I hadn't meant to stop speaking, but what I saw before me took all my attention. It wasn't her breasts, I mean, they were round, full, perky, evenly toned with her dark apricot complexion. Perfect I suppose, as was her midriff and stomach. She was young and healthy, and youth in itself is perfection. No, it wasn't her body that left me speechless. The stone fruit curve of her breast, the sloping nape of her neck, those most attractive physical characteristics apart from her eyes would've elevated my voice, but not quieted me. What shut me down was her left arm.

  Not the arm I'd seen before, but the second left arm that'd been hidden below, beneath her vest.

  "You'll see," Dave had said. "It's not just her fingers." I've known Kiwis to be humble and understated, but this certainly was something more.

  Anika had a second left arm that appeared as natural, fully formed and functioning as the one at the shoulder above, and a second right one as well.

  Two sets of arms.

  There'd been no giveaway with the vest on. Her second arms had been tucked under her breasts, and she simply appeared to be well endowed. But I hadn't really looked for second shoulders, and there weren't any in the same way as her arms above.

  To see her four arms fluidly moving together as she prepared her workspace was dizzying. Were I standing, I'd need to sit down. Even sitting, my head swam, so I closed my eyes. When I opened them again, the four arms were still there.

  I did my best not to show my intrigue, my shock. My mind raced to the obvious. There were many Hindu gods and goddesses with four arms. Their images were plastered all over the hostels. There was Vishnu on top, his gal Lakshmi, the goddess of wealth and wellbeing, and Parvati, the goddess of knowledge and the arts, even the Shantee House, where I had my rooms in Buda, had a wall sized Lotus and image of a four armed goddess.

  Anika placed her swabs and cloths on a metal tray by the stool and then rubbed more lotion over the middle and index finger of her left hand–the second left, I suppose. This was the de-fingered hand Dave spoke of and I could easily see the stumps of amputation above the first digits of her pinky and ring finger. When the fingers were ready, she fit a sleeve over them–on top of which rested a coil tattoo machine.

  The nudity made sense to me. Anika wasn't an exhibitionist, she was uninhibited. If she wasn't going to let two fingers violate her path, she certainly wasn't going to wear a bra, blouse, or vest.

  When she had her electric pen in place and her inks lined up, she dropped her three free arms back and asked me simply, "Are you ready?"

  With a near gasp I said, "Yes."

  I don't know that I've ever seen a woman of such innocence and beauty. Intently, she directed her attention to my chest. Her head bobbled gently side to side, and then, birdlike, her head spun to her tray. She pulled some ink and returned to my chest.

  With the electric buzz of a bee and a burn of my flesh, the ballet began. At different points, one of her free hands would press against my flesh to wipe away excess blood and ink, and another hand would position my body so that my form would contort, reveal itself, and with her de-fingered hand she fluttered the electric coil machine.

  Adrenalin anointed the burn, and my flesh rapidly became numb, with exception of my areola, where the needle closed in on my nipple, there was no special place to hide from the agony.

  By the time she finished my chest I was drunk with the pain.

  She gave me water, and then the needle dance resumed up my shoulder, a burn and a tickle, a tickle and a burn.

  At first I'd veered away, to hide, now I watched her, and the effortless flow of her mystical hand as it glided the hills and valleys of my muscle tone. When the needle touched my clavicle, another wave of intense pain washed through me. My head jolted up and I looked over Anika to the Giger. The image in the drawing was moving, alive, slowly hovering away from the wall, yet still behind the glass.

  A bead of sweat formed on my forehead and then another and Anika mopped them away, and then the multi-armed creature in the picture was woman, and the woman was Anika, and that made sense, too.

  Hours passed, and I was exhausted.

  She must've been too.

  When she finished, I was laden in sweat and so was she. Her breasts glistened, as did her cheeks, forehead, her eyes, and her arms—all four.

  Absent the buzz of the coil tattoo machine, the silence in the room amplified and threatened to drown out the radio altogether.

  Anika sniffled and grinned.

  As she cleaned my new wound, she spoke in Hungarian, or in some other tongue. She didn't speak to me, nor to herself. I think it was a prayer, or a summons, because a wave of euphoric r
elief wafted through me. It seemed to ebb from my core and out through the images she'd inked onto my shoulder and chest.

  From the corner of my eye, they appeared to writhe, as the visions in shadow, the dancer in the rain, the echoing trails behind her flowing arms weren't echoes at all.

  "When you're ready," she said. "There is a mirror in the back."

  I nodded in compliance, and then raised myself from the chair. The world was tactile in a way it hadn't been before, and not just on my shoulder. My entire body, from my scalp to my toes, was a buzz.

  When I rose to my feet, the breath of air I took in was sweeter than any other I'd taken before. I stood taller. The anxiety that'd plagued me was gone, replaced by calm.

  I walked to the back of the studio and slowly turned toward the full mirror on the backside of the open bathroom door. The entire upper left quadrant of my body was red raw. If a truck had dragged me a mile, my flesh may've appeared the same. On my chest was a sky blue lotus, and like the Kiwi's coiling fern, the lotus was blooming. And on my shoulder, something I can only describe as a living extension of myself, a dozen curling, black vines lashing and intertwining above my flesh.

  "Amazing," I said, turning back to face her. She was already putting her vest back on, transforming back into a mere beautiful woman. Astounded by her creation I asked, "How did you ––", but before I could finish she said, "It was always there. I drew it out from the inside."

  Those were the words of Kiwi Dave. She drew it out from the inside.

  No longer burdened by petty fears of social formality, I asked, "What happened to the finger?"

  Her statement was quick and matter of fact, vindicating that all of the anxiety I'd built up previously was unnecessary, part of my antiquated self. "That was art for myself. You are now complete through your metamorphosis. Yours was drawn out. My metamorphosis was different, I had to remove something to feel complete."

  "Ah," I said, and pondered her choice. "And what did you do with them? The fingers I mean?"

  She gave me a face that I was so unsure of, a look that I've continued to question since. Playful, sarcastic, the plain truth, I don't know. "I ground them up," she said, "and used the powder to make my ink." Then she blinked both eyes, and it may've been the light, but I'm sure that for a split second, her orbs went black.