Part Five
The first tattoo place I came to on the dark corner of 132nd and Jefferson, with the streetlight burned out probably three years now (I left a small postit on the light post, “Fix me, I need light” in a catchy Arial Bold fourteen), I hobbled back out of as soon as I had stepped in because of the stench – something between cat piss and compost. I left my mark, “stinkhole” written in a broad twenty-two point bold gothic across the glass of the front door. Normally I wouldn’t have minded a stench like that, but I thought it better to avoid the germs associated with such a smell. I needed a nice, clean tattoo place.
By midnight or one, I had passed up several tattoo places without bothering to go in, being able to see the offensive odor before I neared a door enough to smell it, each shop near another burned out streetlight on which I wrote every time: Fix Me, I need light. I eventually came across a curious little shop that had ceramic angels on display by the thousands in the window, each with a tattoo on its slender shoulder or cherubic cheek. And each of the angel’s tattoos was different -- miniaturized flash it seemed.
I studied many of the angels through the glass, searching for a tattoo that would suit my needs, but scanning over the angels for something to catch my eye proved difficult, and I felt a deep tortuous spasm in my neck every time I tried to lean forward to peer more closely through the glass. I focused on the interior of the shop, past the array of angels that obscured my view, and noticed for the first time a clean, well-lighted and sterile-looking place within. I was sold, and I went around the corner to the front door.
I was equally surprised by entering this hospital-like and idyllic atmosphere where the lights were so concentrated and bright that I felt I must have walked through the wrong door and stepped instead through the gates of heaven, to find a young man sitting behind the counter reading Nietzsche. He looked every bit the part of the typical college kid – essentially clean-cut, nearly clean-shaven, stout and dressed in khakis and a button down shirt. Not even his sleeves were rolled up.
“Hello,” he said.
“Hello,” I replied, my voice croaking from lack of use.
“Been in an accident?”
“I think I accidentally stepped through the wrong door.”
“It’s possible. Did you want a tattoo? You seemed to be eyeing the angels pretty closely.”
“They’re interesting whether a guy is getting a tattoo or not,” I said.
The young man did not lay down his book, but instead kept it propped up as if he were about to go right back to reading it. “It’s possible,” he said. He went back to reading his book.
I limped up closer to the counter. “Good book?”
“I haven’t decided yet.” He kept reading. I stared at him. “Let me know when you see one you want,” he said without looking up.
“I don’t think you have the flash for what I want,” I said after a few more minutes of looking at the angels from the rear.
Now he looked up from his book, On Truth and Lies from the look of it, with a tired, dispassionate gaze. I gathered in that singular moment when I locked eyes with him -- my eyes filled with a crazy, wanton desperation to get on with my new performance in this life and his glazed over, almost jaundiced -- that he had too often looked up expecting some kind of fantastic new idea in tattooing, only to be disappointed by yet another request for some lover’s name or some variation on a heart. He no longer believed in love, having tattooed it so often on the arms and chests and asses of those destined to have their hearts torn in two. “What are you thinking?” he asked after a moment had passed between us.
“I need one of these,” I indicated my postit pad, “on each shoulder.”
He neatly dog-eared his book and laid it on the counter. “Interesting,” he said, rubbing his chin. “You want a note on the postit?”
I started limping toward the chair behind the curtain to my left. “I’ll tell you what. You get started on the postits, and I’ll see if I can’t come up with something to put on them.”
He moved over to the curtain and held it back for me.
By midnight or one, I had passed up several tattoo places without bothering to go in, being able to see the offensive odor before I neared a door enough to smell it, each shop near another burned out streetlight on which I wrote every time: Fix Me, I need light. I eventually came across a curious little shop that had ceramic angels on display by the thousands in the window, each with a tattoo on its slender shoulder or cherubic cheek. And each of the angel’s tattoos was different -- miniaturized flash it seemed.
I studied many of the angels through the glass, searching for a tattoo that would suit my needs, but scanning over the angels for something to catch my eye proved difficult, and I felt a deep tortuous spasm in my neck every time I tried to lean forward to peer more closely through the glass. I focused on the interior of the shop, past the array of angels that obscured my view, and noticed for the first time a clean, well-lighted and sterile-looking place within. I was sold, and I went around the corner to the front door.
I was equally surprised by entering this hospital-like and idyllic atmosphere where the lights were so concentrated and bright that I felt I must have walked through the wrong door and stepped instead through the gates of heaven, to find a young man sitting behind the counter reading Nietzsche. He looked every bit the part of the typical college kid – essentially clean-cut, nearly clean-shaven, stout and dressed in khakis and a button down shirt. Not even his sleeves were rolled up.
“Hello,” he said.
“Hello,” I replied, my voice croaking from lack of use.
“Been in an accident?”
“I think I accidentally stepped through the wrong door.”
“It’s possible. Did you want a tattoo? You seemed to be eyeing the angels pretty closely.”
“They’re interesting whether a guy is getting a tattoo or not,” I said.
The young man did not lay down his book, but instead kept it propped up as if he were about to go right back to reading it. “It’s possible,” he said. He went back to reading his book.
I limped up closer to the counter. “Good book?”
“I haven’t decided yet.” He kept reading. I stared at him. “Let me know when you see one you want,” he said without looking up.
“I don’t think you have the flash for what I want,” I said after a few more minutes of looking at the angels from the rear.
Now he looked up from his book, On Truth and Lies from the look of it, with a tired, dispassionate gaze. I gathered in that singular moment when I locked eyes with him -- my eyes filled with a crazy, wanton desperation to get on with my new performance in this life and his glazed over, almost jaundiced -- that he had too often looked up expecting some kind of fantastic new idea in tattooing, only to be disappointed by yet another request for some lover’s name or some variation on a heart. He no longer believed in love, having tattooed it so often on the arms and chests and asses of those destined to have their hearts torn in two. “What are you thinking?” he asked after a moment had passed between us.
“I need one of these,” I indicated my postit pad, “on each shoulder.”
He neatly dog-eared his book and laid it on the counter. “Interesting,” he said, rubbing his chin. “You want a note on the postit?”
I started limping toward the chair behind the curtain to my left. “I’ll tell you what. You get started on the postits, and I’ll see if I can’t come up with something to put on them.”
He moved over to the curtain and held it back for me.
© 2006Labelman
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home