He smiles as he's making his final touches with the pen, “It's about expression, man. It's like . . . imagine you could say things to the whole world without having to actually say anything. It's like, once you see me, all those bullshit questions have already been answered. Enough said, you know. Expression.”
Geez. That's a lot of expression.
“Well, I have a lot to get off my chest. And besides, we live in one of those societies where it's only now beginning to be socially accepted to express yourself. Everybody is a closet something, hiding behind their clothes, and their clever words, and their jobs and shit. You know . . . just peeping out, judging everyone else, while secretly being the same. You, you're taking a huge step with this art. You're making a profound statement.”
“Oh, no,” I tell him. “This is not a statement. It's work related.”
He snorts, “What, you work at a carnival?”
“No, not like that. I'm not an exhibitionist or anything. I'm doing it for . . . ” and then I realize that any explanation will compromise his perception of my sanity.
“It's religious in nature,” Ricky says, yelling from across the tattoo parlor, where he and a bunch of other twenty-somethings with way too many piercings are playing X-Box 360.
Chuck nods a few times, squinting at something on my stomach, “That's cool. Hey, you know you got a little scar there. What's that from?”
I pin my chin to my chest looking down at my stomach. There is a small circular scar, about the size of a penny. I look at it, then up at him, my shoulders lifting, “Don't remember.”
“I'd remember that, man.” And then he went back to putting on his finishing touches. A minute later he seems satisfied. “I think we're ready to ink these puppies.”
And I don't know why, maybe to quell my nervousness. but I ask him, “So what's the history of tattooing?”
As he's preparing the tattoo gun, the ink, and a second set of surgical gloves, he says, “Glad you asked.” Then he pushed my head forward a bit, steadying himself behind me as I partially swiveled on a black vinyl stool. “This may hurt a bit.”
As he began to chop my skin into hamburger meat he told me how humans, since about 3,300 BC have been using tattoos to mark a person's rank or status among groups. People believed that the wearer of a tattoo had some magical protection against sickness or misfortune.
It feels like a bee is stinging me a thousand times a second.
“Tattoos have been found on Egyptian and Nubian mummies dating from about 2000 BC. Their use mentioned by classical authors in relation to the Thracians, Gauls, Germans, Britons, and Romans.”
“In fact,” he said as he glided across my shoulder blades, “the Romans tattooed criminals and slaves.”
My whole body is vibrating, and I feel like he's just using a hot knife, or a soldering iron to make the outlines.
“After the advent of Christianity, tattooing was forbidden in Europe, but it persisted in the Middle East as well as other parts of the world. In America, Indian tribes customarily tattooed their bodies and faces. The technique was simple pricking, but some other tribes, like in California, introduced color into scratches.”
Every time he moves to a different area, I can feel blood and pain burning where he was. Like hot little footprints I'll never be able to see directly.
“This is going to be intense,” he said as he continued my history lesson. “Arctic and Subarctic Eskimos, and some people of eastern Siberia made needle punctures through which a thread, coated with pigment—usually soot—was drawn underneath the skin.”
Just when my body starts to get numb to the pain, he up and starts somewhere else. He's getting my shoulders and arms. My back and chest. Ink mixed with blood is beading up, starting to run down my back. I can feel sweat intermingling with my blood.
This is unpleasant.
I hope my Cerebral Arteriosclerosis wipes these memories out, too.
“ . . . in Polynesia, Micronesia, and parts of Malaysia, pigment was pricked into the skin by tapping on an implement shaped like a miniature rake.”
My head hurts from my teeth chattering.
Ricky barks, “Your pass coverage is uglier than your girlfriend.” The crowd around him is in a near state of frenzy.
“ . . . in New Zealand, shallow colored grooves in complex curving designs were produced on the face by striking a small bone adze into the skin. That probably hurts something aweful.”
My lower back is aching due to me having to stay still, and try not to flinch.
Some guy playing beside Ricky chides, “ Three and out! ”
Ricky laughs to himself, “You fags don't even know what you're looking at. My game far exceeds your ability to comprehend it. Bring me your finest meats and cheeses.”
Chuck giggles as he continues, “ . . . in Japan, needles set in a wooden handle are used to tattoo very elaborate multicolored designs that cover much of the body.”
I don't think it would be too much to say, searing pain. I'm holding my breath most of the time, gritting my teeth to fight back the discomfort. I'm glad that the other people here are consumed with playing Madden '09 , so they don't watch me nearly whimpering.
Ricky screams out, “Eat my ass, bitches! You come down to Pittsburgh and we'll sort your ass out.” He stands, his arms extended outwards, a controller cord dangling from his left hand. “You dicks are sitting in the shadow of greatness. Pay homage to your lord and savior.”
Ricky can be a bit outrageous at times. And he loves to win, and let you know he won.
Chuck has come around to my chest, now, doing some touch-ups.
“ . . . in Burma tattooing is done with a brass pen-like tool that has a slit point and a weight on the upper end. Sometimes pigment is rubbed into knife slashes, like in Tunisia, and among the Ainu of Japan, or the Igbo of Nigeria.”
He takes stock of his work. “Outlines are done. The coloring goes much quicker.”
Now he has to go back and fill in all of the symbols and markings that are supposed to ward off evil. Truth be told, I don't know how much these things are going to help me, other than to guarantee that everyone thinks I'm some kind of psycho Indian, or aggravated felon.
Chuck fixes his gun, changing needles from an outline needle, to one that is a bundle of needles. More holes is more surface area colored. That means more needles. More pain. More sweating.
1:55 pm . . .
An hour later, or two hours later, I've lost track of time. My entire body is numb and aching at the same time. Ricky has laid the smack down on just about everybody over the age of 12, and called them all kinds of bitches and hoes and queers and sallies . His mouth rivals his driving skills in the dirty department.
I don't really like to curse too much because I read that intelligent people don't rely on such vulgarities. I'd like to think of myself as intelligent. I tell Ricky this.
“Where'd you read that, The Ambiguously Gay Times? ” he says as a few guys laugh. “Dude, profanity is as American as apple pie. Besides, I've got a hundred sixty-seven I.Q, and I cuss like a sailor.”
He has a point.
It's a personal choice, I tell him.
Chuck giggles, “Man, being a vegetarian, that's a personal choice. Dating strippers, that's a personal choice. Not cursing . . . that's just being anal.”
He goes back to work coloring in my pain. And about fifteen minutes later he is giving me the final touches, moving the gun in little circles where he sees inconsistencies.
“ . . . the Pima Indians of Arizona puncture the skin with thorns and add ink to the wounds.” And then he stands back, Ricky beside him. They both seem pleased with the work.
Ricky is looking at several pages of sketches of the symbols that Ms. Josephine did for him. Apparently, it isn't just the markings, but the order and placement as well.
“Spin him,” Ricky says to Darth Chuck as I'm twisted around on my stool.
“Nice, very nice.”
And then I feel this cool mist cover
ing my back and arms. Chuck is spraying disinfectant, giving me the safety instructions, “Don't expose the work to sunlight for at least two days. Try and keep lotion or Bacitracin on your skin. And under no circumstances should you scratch. Because it will itch, man. Give it a little slap. But no scratching.”
“What do I owe you, Chuck?” Ricky asked.
Chuck crossed his arms, “Nothin' Ricky. You helped my brother out, man. I still owe you.”
They shook hands and gave each other a kind of tough-guy hug, and I wondered what they were talking about; how guys like this knew each other. Again, some things are better unasked.
“Jack,” Chuck said, “you ever need anything, man, you just find me. Any brother of Ricky's is a brother of mine.”
Thanks, I said. And good luck fighting against the Jedi knights .
“What?” he said, and then seemed to get it, grinning, “ . . . ooh, yeah. Right. Thanks, man.”
“Let's get something to eat, Jack,” Ricky said. “I'm feeling like a Somali hooker.”
10
Barnes & Noble, North Dallas.
Wednesday evening . . .
I'm wearing a black t-shirt, cruising the self-help section of the book store that Ricky always goes to for coffee. He likes the Mochas, and I like the smell of coffee mixed with books. Why I'm wearing a black t-shirt is because the blood from my tattoos would surely stain anything else. Black is salvageable.
Why I'm at the self-help section is because I am in one of those self-improvement moods. I cleaned my room, and rearranged the refrigerator at the loft. My shoes are lined-up in neat parallel rows under my bed. The sink is spotless clean, and my aromatherapy soaps are clean and free of dried bubbles and whatnot.
I need to make myself better. To become what Uriel thinks I am. There is a big deficit between peoples' expectations of me, and what I can deliver. And I know that this will be my undoing eventually. So I want to read the kinds of things that might make me a better . . . whatever it is I am.
Right now I'm looking at the sixth version of Tomato Soup for the Soul. As I thumb through it I notice somebody kind of beside and behind me. I figure it's Ricky so I say something he'll respond too, “This is a book written by fags, for fags.”
And this girl laughs behind me.
Whoops.
“It's not that bad,” this girl says as I turn to see her. She's wearing a green polo shirt, with a name tag that says, Angela . “It's just that these kind of themes are geared towards people who need a softer, less brazen approach to spiritual improvement. Injured people, you know.”
She's got big brown curious eyes, and light brown skin. Her hair is black, with little bits of red at the tips. She is thin like a model, or a college student with unpaid loans living off of dry noodles and bubble gum. And she is shorter than me by a couple of inches.
Oh, and she is fairly attractive. She's that bridled, secret, librarian attractive. The kind of girl you could introduce your parents to, if you knew who they were.
“Are you searching for a specific topic?” she said, her voice as smooth and soft as silk. She sounds like a girl. Like a girl is supposed to sound. And there's no pretense to the way she's looking at me. She's not looking at me like I'm a lunatic. Or at least, she's good at concealing it.
I put the tomato book back on the shelf. “I don't know where to start.”
“What's your problem?” she asked politely, but getting right to the point as if she's my shrink. She smiles, realizing that what she said might have seemed crass. “What I mean is, what kind of issues are you trying to resolve?”
If we had all day and all night I couldn't answer that question to satisfaction. I look at her, trying to figure out if she sees I'm some kind of different human . “I want to be better than I am.”
“Better how?” she says, cocking her head to the side a bit, as if she really wants to know what I'm talking about. Sensing my hesitation she adds, “I work here part time, but I'm studying psychology at the University of Dallas. That's why this is my section. I mean, I help out with this section,” she said, her eyes looking around as she fumbles for words. “You know what I mean.”
Then she extended her hand, “I'm . . . ” she pointed to the name tag, “Angela.”
Gently I shook her hand. Her palm and fingers were small and warm, and it felt good to touch her. Not that giving Ricky high-fives isn't cool. Just that, it's different being around a girl. Good different.
I'm Jack, I say.
She smiled, “Okay, Jack. What can we do to help you be better than you are?”
I'm broken.
“You don't look broken.”
I find myself wanting to smile, but not wanting to look like some goon. My eyes dart from her to the books so that I don't stare. She's more than just a little pretty. I know she's just being socially nice to me.
Ricky told me all about chicks that work at bars and restaurants and book stores. He said they'll seem like they're coming on to you when they aren't. And then you'll say something monumentally stupid, and she'll file a restraining order. And I don't want that to happen because I like this store.
I clear my throat, “I have problems with my past. You know, my history?”
She blinked a few times, and kind of squinted her eyes at me, “Alright.” She kneeled down, looking for some book that must have been at shin level.
And just for a split fraction of a second I glanced down at her. She's wearing these khaki pants that are tight enough to let you know she is in great shape. She must be in her early or mid-twenties.
She pulled out a book with green and white words on the jacket. “This is about dealing with our parents, and the baggage they've left us.”
“Oh, no,” I stop her. “Not that kind of history.” This is complicated enough without having to beat around the bushes. “I mean, like . . . my past . . . transgressions.” That's a good word. A 10-dollar word.
She puts the book under her arm and stares at me again. And now, it's like she's really studying me. And I know this sounds stupid, but I think she's really looking at me. Not as a customer. Not as a guy in the self-help section. But as a person.
But even though she's a part-time clerk at a book store, and I'm living in a five-thousand dollar a month loft, I know that she's way out of my league.
“You have innocent eyes,” she says.
My heart is thumping more than when Ricky almost gets us killed every time we drive.
“Unique,” she says. “What is your ethnicity, if you don't mind me asking?”
I shrug. I tell her, “I'm not sure. I don't know a lot about myself. That's why I'm here talking to you, Angela.”
She looks like she's considering something. “You're different.”
Oh, shit. Can everyone in the universe see something I can't? Do I have a sign on my head that says, Wacko who walks among the dead?
And just as she's about to say something, Ricky interrupts our comfortable silence.
“What's up, Jack? You find anything worth keeping?”
Yes, I answer. And both her and I know I'm not talking about books. But neither of us say anything. She just hands me the book, and almost smiles at me.
Ricky notices us kind of looking at each other, and I think he thinks a restraining order with a 200-meter boundary is just moments away. “We gotta go, brother.”
I nod. “Thanks, Angela,” I say. “It was very nice to meet you. Thanks for the,” I look down and read the title, “ Dealing with Your Parents Laundry .” I realize that I have said thanks twice, and that I look like a complete goober, so I make my way uncomfortably out of the isle, with Ricky in tow.
As I turn towards the registers I notice Ricky stop and turn back to her. He's probably apologizing for me, making sure I'm not hauled in tonight by the local police. He looks out for me on stuff like that.
After I pay for the book, Ricky and I head to his Porsche SUV—which, itself, is a rolling contradiction—and he slides the keys into the ignition, looking over a
t me.
What ? I say, putting on my seatbelt.
He grins, his lips closed and flat.
What?
“You were flirting with that girl.”
No, I wasn't. She was helping me with a book. She was doing her job as a sales representative, helping a customer find what he was looking for. She's probably like that with everyone.
“She's cute,” he said as his eyebrows danced up and down a few times.
I smiled, “Well, sure, but . . . “
“But nothing, dude. That chick was flirting with you, too. She was looking at you, for real.”
“No she wasn't. That was just professional courtesy. You're reading too much into it,” I say, and even as the words to the contrary pour out of my mouth, I'm hoping he's right.
“For a guy who can see the dead, you sure are blind.”
We pulled out into evening traffic, heading to the ALG office.
A few minutes later I ask, “Do you really think she was hitting on me?”
Ricky smiled, “My man, Jack, has a crush. That's cute.”
I sigh, wondering why I even asked him.
“Who knows, dude, maybe you'll see her again.”
If it's in the cards.
11
Beltline Drive.
2 minutes later . . .
Trailers, semi-trailers, and pole-trailers with a gross weight of 4,500 pounds or less are exempt from brake requirements.
I'm reading about brake requirements in my yellow book, page 15-12.
Ricky's got this half smirk on his face, probably thinking about that girl who sold me the book I don't need.
Trailers, semi-trailers, and pole-trailers with a gross weight in excess of 4,500 pounds and which do not exceed 15,000 pounds and operated at speeds of 30 miles per hour, or less, are not required to be equipped with brakes.
I look up from my book, “Hey, can this Porsche haul a trailer?”
“I have a removable hitch,” he answers, glancing up at the rearview mirror.
The idea of a Porsche hauling a trailer leaves me conflicted. It doesn't fit. I tell him, I thought Porsches were sports cars. Like Mercedes , or Lamborghini .
See Jack Hunt (See Jack Die) Page 5
