Rose of No Man's Land

by Michelle Tea

  Listen, I said. Do You Think Amber’s…I tried to think of the word.

  A bitch? Rose asked.

  Unethical. That was the word.

  Oh, yeah! Rose said. But only an unethical tattoo artist would give us tattoos. So just be happy she doesn’t have any morals or whatever. The lines were perfect, sparkly stripes on the back of the can. Rose looked at me. My whole body pulsed in her direction.

  I Feel Crazy, I told her.

  You just need more speed, she told me. You’ll be fine. She paused. We looked at each other. Maybe I was staring. She started to talk and then began chewing on the inside of her mouth instead. She was thinking. I think you’re tripping out, she said. Are you tripping out?

  Maybe, I confessed.

  Cut it out, she said simply. Don’t think so much. You’ll fuck everything up.

  You Think I’m Thinking Too Much? I asked her.

  I don’t fucking know. I’m not in your brain. But I think you might be. You kind of seem like maybe you’re thinking too much.

  Okay, I said. All Right. It was good to have someone sort of observing me, letting me know how or how not to be. I didn’t know. Everything felt looped, like it went out of control a long, long time ago. I’ll Stop Thinking, I said to Rose. Was it even possible to stop thinking? That question was a thought in itself. I had to stop thinking about thinking. Stop thinking about thinking and about Rose and about Marty. Stop thinking about Amber’s morals. Just snort some more drugs and get a tattoo.

  I bet the tattoo will knock the thinking right out of you, Rose said. It’s gonna hurt. She grinned, like this was a great thing, my future pain. She looked like a little ghoul, her bony head grinning, her shredded dress. Don’t think about Rose looking creepy, I told myself. Just snort the line. I loved Rose. There it was. The pileup of every thought and kiss and grab had built a love for her inside me. Even if she looked creepy. I looked down at the floor, at my naked red toes, so as not to think about her. Looked at the bandage taped neatly to my foot. Soon it would be gray and shredded with the filth of the streets but for now it was crisp and hospital-ish. The painful pulse of the wound was softer, like the cushion of bandage was muffling it. Rose’s hand reached out for my shoulder. Hey, she said. Her voice was nicer. You’re really freaking out, huh?

  I’m Trying Not To Think, I snapped. So Don’t Ask Me If I’m Freaking Out Because Then I Have To Think. Great. Now I’m Thinking About Freaking Out. Maybe I’m Just Freaking Out Because You Suggested It And Now I’m Thinking About It.

  If Amber knows you’re freaking out she won’t tattoo you, Rose whispered. Get it together.

  I’m Not Freaking Out, I spat defensively. I’m Just Thinking About Freaking Out.

  Stop thinking, Rose repeated.

  Maybe Just Stop Talking To Me, I said. Rose looked hurt. Less creepy. Good, I thought. See how you like it. The door cranked open and Amber came inside the bathroom. She had her hands over her eyes but her fingers were cracked open, like she was peeking.

  Put your clothes back on, lezzies, she said. I don’t want to see any lesbian kiddie porn happening in my bathroom!

  This is your bathroom? Rose asked. You own this place?

  Amber shook her head. Nah, I just work here. This guy Tony owns it.

  Do You Even Do Tattoos? I asked her. I was honestly trying not to think, but suspicious thoughts about Amber kept cropping up inside my brain.

  Of course I do! she said. Getting second thoughts? Getting a little scared?

  No, I told her. Not if I didn’t think about it.

  I’m an apprentice, she said. This is a great shop. They don’t let just anyone apprentice. Especially if you’re a girl. You’ve got to be really, really good or else none of the guys take you seriously.

  That’s Not Fair, I said. Was that a thought?

  No shit, said Amber. Okay, where’s the go-fast?

  Go-fast? Amber sounded like some weird grown-up trying to talk like younger people. Thought! I scolded myself. Thought! But that was a thought too. It seemed fucking impossible to not think. It was like in order to not think you had to think about not thinking and that’s a thought so what the fuck. It was making me crazy. I wanted to talk to Rose about it but then she would know I was thinking. Rose I guess was somehow managing to not think. Rose seemed mostly okay, though her eyeballs seemed to be growing as the night wore on, taking up too much space on her face. She was bumming a bill off Amber so we could all do the lines patiently sparkling for us on the back of the toilet.

  You gave me all your money? Amber asked. You don’t even have, like, a dollar for yourselves? Rose shook her head. Her big, big eyes seemed to slide across and swallow her bony head. Shit. Well, I’ll give you back a twenty. What if you need gas or something?

  We don’t drive, Rose told her.

  How did you get out here?

  We hitchhiked, Rose told her.

  Oh my god, Amber shook her head, scandalized. She bent over the back of the toilet so her sparkled ass was in my face, and huffed some crystal. She stood up and bent her head back, huffing and huffing up her nose. Whoa, she said. She looked at us straight on. Her face had gone pink and teary from the drugs. Hitchhiking. Jesus. Well, I don’t need to tell you nothing, right, ladies? ’Cause you know it all already.

  Exactly, Rose grinned. She took the bill from Amber and dived over the drug runway. Her face swooped back up and she reached across the cramped room to flick on the faucet and wet her fingers. She stuck her wet fingers up her nose.

  Classy, Amber said. The bill was on the back of the toilet, slowly unrolling. I grabbed it and tightened it up, hit the line and then wet my own fingers. I snorted the water off them and then rustled in my pack for the last Yikes.

  The Last Yikes, I said solemnly. The crystal worked so quickly. I felt brighter. My perspective, I realized, had really darkened for a moment there. Wow, I said. I looked at Rose. Who cared if she was a lesbian or not? It was all a bunch of words, a bunch of boxes. Who cared. Who cared about Marty? Was Rose running around doing drugs and getting tattooed with Marty? No way. Clearly I was the winner here.

  Feel better? Rose asked. I nodded.

  I Was Really In A Bad Mood For A Minute There, I confessed.

  Yeah, what was your problem? Rose asked. We both cracked up.

  Can I have a sip of that? Amber motioned to the Yikes. I am so ready to tattoo you.

  We’re going to need more of this, Rose said. Rose was so wise. We’re out of everything, she said. Cigarettes, Yikes. We’re out of money. She gave Amber a look.

  It’s getting claustrophobic in here, Amber said, and flung the bathroom door open.

  Twenty-five

  The shop was filled with smoke like the skanky public bathrooms at the back of the mall, but at least I knew where all the smoke had come from. It was being cycled through the lungs of me, Amber, and Rose. Bottle caps wrenched from the necks of bottle after bottle of Amber-purchased Yikes were working as tiny ashtrays, the charred gray dust spilling out of them, butts smoked to the filter and crushed into bent accordion smokestacks. The Yikes bottles were piling up. Burps were bubbling out of our throats. Amber’s proximity to me was terrible. Mostly she had a cigarette dangling out the corner of her mouth the whole time, squinting through the smoke like some lady Clint Eastwood, peering with watering eyes down at the tattoo she was fixing into my arm. The smoke drifted straight into my face and I would cough and my body would jiggle and my arm with its partial tattoo would bounce a bit and Amber would grunt, Shit and Keep still. The butt of the cigarette was clamped between her front teeth. She kept her lipsticked lips pulled back off it, showing her teeth in a crazy smile. When she wanted a drag her lips would sink around it and pull. Smoke streamed out from her nostrils. She was a smoke factory. I figured it was best to smoke my own cigarette. Then Amber’s smoke was just more smoke, and smoke was something I was already involved with. Rose smoked too, looming over Amber’s shoulder, watching her aim the tiny gun, the insanely vibrating contraption, a we
ird machine with a bare, stripped-down look, like it was missing a crucial piece. It seemed to be doing its job, though. A mass of color was now located on my formerly bare arm. It hurt terribly. It felt like a raw scrape, an awful gutting of my skin there. Not a needle on the end of the machine but a cigarette sinking third-degree burns into my poor fleshy arm. My weakling, muscle-less arm. Rose watched intently, occasionally tilting her head away for a drag of her cigarette. I watched her face. It was absorbed, then confused. I didn’t like when it looked confused. When Amber wasn’t smoking with her cigarette crushed between her teeth she was taking slug after slug from her bottle of Yikes, then burping. The burp-wind blew right into my face. I looked forward to the whole thing being over. Amber bitched a lot about the state of my blood; the drugs and Yikes had made it thin, and it drained out of me worse than all the thin-blooded shamrock hooligans from the bar next door.

  Trisha’s no pussy, though, Rose defended my honor. Right? Look how tough she’s being. It’s true that I was not crying, was not even moaning or saying ouch or anything. I just tried to breathe, listened to the nonstop rock of my heart inside my body, worked on not thinking.

  You’re a tough one, Amber smiled. You’re doing a great job. You’re a great customer. And your skin loves ink. It takes right to it.

  Skin could love ink? I liked the thought of my skin having the ability to love, selecting its loves without any input from me. Skin plus Ink equals True Love Forever. Finally Amber put down the machine and it wasn’t to light another cigarette. She was done. She took a big spray bottle of something and misted my arm with it again and again. It felt lovely. It felt cool and refreshing. My arm burned like a thousand sunburns. You’re gonna take care of this, right? she asked, like she was giving me a puppy. I nodded and shrugged. She mopped up my arm gently with a bulk of paper towels, then spritzed me again. I felt like a window she was washing down. Voila, she said, crumpling the towels in her fist. Rose hopped up and down. She clapped her hands together. She was wicked excited. Get up and take a look, what’re you waiting for? It was hard to pull myself off the recliner. My body had molded itself into the shape of the slumping chair and cramped there. I felt like an eighty-year-old man must feel. I thought about Harry Chester, hunched on his couch in Revere. He seemed like a long, long time ago.

  The new searing pain in my arm had obliterated the wound in my foot, was outshining even the good hurt of Rose breaking into my privates. All of my body’s sensation had pooled into this new sheet of color on my arm. It glistened wet and beaded with blood. It was as if Amber had peeled off layers of skin and found this treasure beneath, like it had always been there, a miniature Rose looking cool and spooky in an old-timey nurse’s hat, her messy hair neater, her eyes even bigger and her mouth super-red and pouty, the way it looked after we’d made out, like I’d gnawed her a fat lip. I brought my hand up to touch it. It looked like paint, like I could bring my hand across it and smear all the colors into a slick blur down my arm. Amber stopped my hand. Don’t touch! she shrieked. I don’t know where your hands have been! That’s an open wound. Do you understand that? My gun — she motioned toward the machine; was it really held together with rubber bands? — put like a thousand holes in your skin and filled them with color. Think of it that way. You’re wounded.

  It Looks Just Like Her, I said. I pushed closer to the full-length mirror on the wall. The girl in the tattoo wore an old-fashioned white shirt, like a sailor. Yellowy light spilled out behind her like she was in heaven. The closer I got to the mirror, the more I noticed stuff. Like how her eyes were sort of lopsided. The way the red of the cross on her weird nurse-veil went outside the lines. Perhaps her lips were too big. Who cared, though. It was good enough, it was a tattoo, I had a tattoo, and it was Rose and now she would be in my skin forever. I angled myself toward her.

  Wow, she said. She looked up at Amber. I can’t believe you can do that. I want to do that.

  You should, Amber said simply. It’s a good career. You make good money, you can travel around and work anywhere.

  Wow, Rose repeated. Her eyes were running back and forth between the tattoo and Amber. I was starting to feel like a wall the painting was hung on. I flexed my arm and posed in the mirror,

  It looks good, kid, Amber grinned. I wish I could take a picture of it for my book, but I can’t. I can’t risk it. If you ever come back in here, I’ve never seen you. Got it? I will lie to your cute little lesbian faces. She turned back to Rose. You start the cleanup while I bandage her up.

  Amber globbed a bunch of gooey gel onto my arm, smearing it around with a Popsicle stick. She pressed a bandage over my whole shoulder, roping it into place with stretches of tape. I was starting to feel like a mummy. Like the survivor of a car wreck. Like I’d gotten my ass kicked. Blood and bandages. Amber was talking to me but I was zoning out. You’re not even listening to me, she accused and I shrugged. My mind was shutting off.

  What Time Is It? I asked her. The bar next door was closing, sending the drinkers out into the night, howling in the parking lot, climbing drunk into their cars to zoom down Route 1.

  If you don’t listen to me and take care of this tattoo you could get an infection, you know that? Not to mention destroy my beautiful work. She thrust a piece of paper at me. It was instructions.

  Oh, Good, I said. She handed me a few plastic packets. They looked like ketchup packets from McDonald’s but they were filled with tattoo goop. I folded them into the instructions and tossed the package into my backpack. I looked at myself again in the mirror. I looked tough with the tattoo. Tougher. There was no argument about that. I shook my hair into my face. I hunched my shoulders. I could be a guy. I could be Marty. My body was stiff and shaky and my bladder full of Yikes. I stepped into the bathroom to pee. I studied myself in the mirror. My face was suddenly full of pores. I mean, I knew they had always been there but suddenly they were making themselves known. My skin was blotchy and riddled with pores. I was perhaps looking at it too closely. Maybe the mirror was a magnifying one, or else the speed had given me supernatural eyesight. I sat on the can and tinkled. There was a slight sprinkle of blood in the crotch of my underwear.

  When I came out of the bathroom Rose and Amber were finishing the last of the crystal, inhaling squat lines laid out right on the counter. The smoke hung low in the room. The bottle cap ashtrays and sticky Yikes bottles were everywhere. The place was trashed. What About Me? I asked, and Amber laughed.

  You do not need any more of this stuff, she said, like she was somebody’s fucking mother.

  And You Guys Do? I asked. That Was Mine Too!

  Not technically, Rose said. Technically I bought it with my money. Technically I had to get naked for it. Remember?

  I nodded. I knew that. I just had become attached to the speed. I felt like it was our speed. Didn’t my carrying it all around in the backpack count for anything?

  Amber was rubbing her nose so roughly I thought she was going to snap the cartilage. She wasn’t sleepy anymore, that’s for sure. She was wide awake and ruining my life. Naked? she asked. Her eyes were big but that might have just been the drug. What, are you drug whores? Why were you naked?

  It’s a long story, Rose smiled. But she went into the bag, the backpack, and came out with her picture. The Polaroid of her mocking the dancing girl that had lived on Monster’s dresser. I wondered briefly if Monster Paulie had already forgotten about us. It seemed like a dream I’d had a long time ago. Only patches of the memory came to me — the quick wind of Rose pulling off her nightgown; Harry Chester exhaling blue into the television screen. Rose showed the Polaroid to Amber.

  Dude! Amber shook her head, laughing, holding the picture away from her like it was diseased or evil. Dude, that is sick! I don’t even want to know about you two. You two are the baddest news I’ve heard all day. Rose beamed brightly. Fucking fuck Amber. So she could tattoo. So what. We had already given her all the money plus the quarters that really were mine, of all the stuff handed over to Amber like a pirate
’s booty those fucking quarters were mine, those waitresses had almost kicked my ass over them, I lost my flops, my favorite flops, and sliced my foot open because of them, I could have been arrested, and I gave it all to Amber. Plus we shared the speed with her. She had enough, why did she get the rest? Something shifted while I was in the bathroom pondering the bloodstains Rose had put into my underwear. Something had flipped. The filthy tattoo shop was some sort of bad bizarro world. Rose liked Amber. She liked her in that way. She liked her in that lesbian way. She can say Marty this and Marty that and as far as I’m concerned who cares about fucking Marty, who knows if Marty even exists, all I know is Rose is a fucking lesbo and now she’s making lesbo-faces at Amber, Amber who is totally gross and whatever, Amber who is cheesy, who is embarrassing the way a parent might be embarrassing, and now something has happened and all the air in the room, all the energy in the room, it’s for her, it’s flowing psychically in her direction. I felt a trembling terribleness. The tattoo on my arm throbbed like a punch, like a car had crashed into the skin there. It was Rose on my arm, each throb was her inhaling, exhaling, inhaling, exhaling, the pulse of her heart inside her chest inside my skin.