June 26, 2019

The Tattoo

Don’t think I can’t see you staring behind your mirror sunglasses. Yeah, I’m talking to you. Pretending to read the New York Times literary supplement here on the beach. C’mon, who are you trying to kid? I saw you take that first hurried glance when I took off my shirt. What are you trying to say? That you’ve never seen a tattoo before?

That’s right. A tattoo.

Tee a double tee double o.

Tattoo.

You want to come take a closer look? Sure. What do I care. C’mon, don’t be shy, it won’t bite.

See. What did I tell you.

Never mind what it says. What’s with all the questions.

You want to touch it? Go ahead and touch it.

I don’t look like the type of guy to have a tattoo?

Typical, just typical. What? Just because I didn’t ride up here on a Harley? Jesus, you’re so, so, so provincial. That’s right, provincial. It means narrow-minded. It’s time to ease into the 90s, buddy. You should see the class of people wearing tattoos these days. You got your lawyers, your doctors, all your professional types.

Never mind what it means. I’ll get to that. Let me tell you something about this tattoo.

It saved my life.

That’s right. Saved my life.

Interested? Thought that you might be. Here, sit down, get out of the sun. The story starts with a girl. Don’t they always.

“You’re too straight,” she said, bounding out of bed and skipping to the bathroom after our Sunday morning ritual.

I sat up and peered across her reflection in the mirror. She never shuts the door. She would perform her toiletries in front of a captive audience but only recently consented to sex with the lights on.

“What ever happened to, ‘Oh, Honey, that was great?’” I said with a smile.

“What?” she yelled over the sound of running water.

“I said what ever happened to…”

“Why are you shouting?” she asked as she stepped back into the bedroom.

I slipped out of bed and crawled on all fours to look for my underwear.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Trying out a new position for next time.” I pulled my white 100% cotton Jockeys out from under the bed. “What do you think?”

“I think you should get dressed.”

“No, really. Should we try handcuffs, whips, and exotic oils?”

“Oh, David,” she sighed angrily, “it’s not just the sex… it’s life… it’s everything.”

I stared at her quizzically. It wasn’t just the sex. Now that was a relief.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not now. I’m too hungry. How about you take me out for breakfast?”

What was that? Oh. My name. That’s right, David. Very good. You’re paying attention. Look, you don’t have to shake my… yeah, yeah, yeah, pleased to meet you, too. What does it matter what her name … okay, okay… Marty… short for Martha. Now can I get back to the story?

“Oh, mother, I don’t know what’s wrong. Well, it’s David. He’s so regimented, so predictable. I know how he will react to everything. Just once, I wish he would do something surprising. Something out of character. No, mother, it’s not just the sex.”

Talk about regimented. Every Sunday afternoon at 4:00, she called her mother in Philadelphia. It didn’t matter if they had already spoken 10 times that week.

How did I manage to…?

I was listening in on the extension in the den. See, if you pick it up just at the right moment, the click is so faint that it’s hardly noticeable. It’s a trick I learned by accident one time. Never used it before. Alright, maybe just one other time. But it was an accident. Sort of.

Don’t give me that look! I know it was wrong. I’m not pretending that it wasn’t.

Look, I don’t need a morality lecture from you. You do what you got to do. If you don’t like it, you can take your sunglasses, your New York Times literary supplement, and your high and mighty attitude back to your towel.

No, c’mon back. Don’t be that way. I’m sorry for yelling at you. It’s this tattoo. It makes me act crazy.

I left Marty on the phone with her mom and went for a walk. I marched down Broadway looking for something to do that was out of character. The Upper West Side did not offer much in the way of vice. I could go really crazy and buy a hardcover instead of a paperback at Shakespeare and Co. Or maybe get the extra fat cream cheese at Zabar’s. Really load up on cholesterol.

That wasn’t going to do the trick. Armed robbery was a possibility. I had even picked out a target—that bastard on the corner who once sold me a head of lettuce for six bucks, claiming frost in Florida—but ruled it out by the time I hit Lincoln Centre. I could probably locate a gun, this was New York City after all, but where the hell was I going to find a ski mask? For a few blocks, I considered defacing a Picasso at the MoMA, make the front page of The Post. Had even narrowed it down to red spray paint when I reached Times Square.

“Want to party?” She was six feet tall with a blond wig and a purple leather mini skirt.

“Party?” I replied, a little startled.

“Yeah, sugar, you and me.”

“I have a girlfriend.”

“Bring her along, baby. I’ll be Barney the Dinosaur and you can use your imagination.”

I smiled nervously and walked away. Even thinking of a threesome gave me performance anxiety.

On the street, the merchants were offering various forms of controlled substances. I couldn’t decide between crack or Prozac.

In the end, I did the predictable thing.

I went into a bar.

Vodka and grapefruit juice.

By the fifth drink, I was sharing my predicament with a new friend.

Bill, his name was. He told me he was a longshoreman.

He looked like two longshoremen.

“For five grand, I can find a guy to take care of your problem.” I swear this is what he said.

I bought him another drink and explained that it would be hard to impress my girlfriend if she were dead. He nodded his head, took a long swig from his beer, and then rolled up his sleeve.

His arm was bigger than my leg. Above his elbow was a tattoo.

It was, if you can believe it, a fire-breathing dragon.

“A tattoo,” I exclaimed.

“You got it, sport. Works like a charm. You wanna shake her up, this is just the ticket.”

A tattoo.

I had another drink and tried to picture Marty’s face as I too rolled up my sleeve, gingerly revealing my new adornment. It would be priceless. Of course, I wouldn’t go for a dragon. That was a little too strong. Something more subtle. Something with a little imagination.

“I know a place in Chinatown,” said Bill. “Billy Wong. Runs a real clean shop. His needles are brand spanking new.”

Needles.

Nobody said anything about needles.

Maybe a tattoo wasn’t such a good idea.

There was no way, however, that I was going to show any fear in front of Bill.

“Too bad the place is closed on Sunday nights,” I cried, motioning for another drink for me and my pal, “or else I’d go do it right now.”

Alright, big shot, so it was a stupid thing to say. How the hell was I supposed to know that Billy Wong was only open on Sunday nights?

We weaved our way through the narrow back alleys of Chinatown before finally stopping in front of a shop that advertised itself as a dry cleaners. ‘Alterations done on the spot’ proclaimed a sign on the window.

“Why are we stopping here?” I asked. Maybe Bill had to pick up his longshoreman uniform for work the next day.

“Back room,” he slurred, as he tugged on the unlocked door. “Billy Wong is in the back room.”

Sure enough, after negotiating through the darkened laundry shop, we ran into a door that said ‘Dragons to Go.’ Inside, the walls were covered with pictures of dragons. Of every colour, size, and ferocity imaginable. Bill scanned the wall and proudly pointed out the dragon that had been tattooed on his arm.

“Billy threw in the fire breath for free,” he said.

“That Billy,” I said, “what a guy.” Just then, an old Chinese man emerged, almost magically, from behind a curtain.

“Hey, Billy,” cried Bill, “I brought you a customer.”

“You pick dragon?” He eyed me suspiciously.

“I don’t want a dragon,” I replied.

“No dragon?” said Bill the longshoreman.

“No dragon?” said Billy Wong.

“No. No dragon,” I said. “I want a special tattoo.”

“All tattoos special,” stated Billy Wong.

“I want two words,” I replied. “Here.” I took off my shirt and pointed to a spot just below my right shoulder. “Two words… Carpe Diem.”

“Carpet them.”

“Carpe Diem. It’s Latin. It means ‘seize the day.’ Carpe Diem. It’s the exact sentiment I’m looking for.” I felt triumphant. And a little drunk. In fact, I was drunkenly triumphant.

“You write,” said Billy Wong, thrusting pen and paper towards me, “Billy Wong can do anything.”

I wrote out CARPE DIEM carefully on a piece of paper. I think it was a laundry receipt.

“You sure you don’t want a dragon?” asked Bill.

“No,” I replied dreamily, “this is exactly what I want.”

I can see you staring again. Boy, you really have no class. Alright, go ahead, take a look. Yeah, I know. So it’s missing a few letters. What does it say? What does it look like? CAPE DEM. Look, I was drunk. Really drunk. And Billy Wong, well, Billy Wong is great with dragons. Letters just aren’t his forte. I’ll tell you one thing. He runs a clean shop. Not a trace of infection. What did Marty think? Marty was not impressed. Turns out she really wasn’t interested in being shocked.

“A tattoo!” she shrieked. “A tattoo.”

“It’s very small,” I argued. “You can hardly see it. My shirt covers it up anyway. See.”

“I can see it. I see it all the time. What got into you?”

“I thought I would surprise you. Do something different for a change. You’re always complaining that I’m so predictable.”

“I was thinking of a trip. You know, Costa Rica or something. Not a tattoo. Do you know what people are going to say?”

“I was drunk,” I said softly.

“Can’t you get it removed? Erase it?”

“I don’t want to. I like it.”

“But it doesn’t even make sense. CAPE DEM. What the hell does that mean?”

“It was supposed to say CARPE DIEM. You know, ‘seize the day.’ Like in that Robin Williams movie.”

“I don’t care. Either the tattoo goes, or I go.”

Yeah, I know. She really said that. Who ever heard of such an ultimatum, right? As you can see, the tattoo is still here. Life is strange. What can I tell you. So, you want to know how it saved my life. I was getting to that. It happened the following Friday. I was picking up some bread to bring to my parents for dinner. Every Friday at 6:00, I go into the same bakery to buy bread. It’s a habit.

I was standing alone, trying to figure out how I was going to explain to my parents about Marty, when a man walked in with a gun. When he pressed it to my head, I realized that he hadn’t come in for the pumpernickel.

“Get on the floor and don’t move,” he ordered. I lay down on the floor. I was very good with instructions.

To Silverman, the baker, he said, “Open the cash register and fill up this bag.” Only Silverman was a little hard of hearing. He shook his head, which is what he did when he didn’t hear something properly. But the robber took it as a no and shot him in the left arm. Silverman went down and I got up.

“Jesus,” I cried.

“Get down.”

“He’ll bleed to death,” I argued. “We have to do something.” He dragged me to the other side of the counter where Silverman lay wincing. He wasn’t badly hurt, but he was bleeding profusely. I took a look at his arm while the robber filled his bag. Then we heard the sirens. He put the gun to my head once again.

“Cops come in here and you’re a dead man.”

I didn’t tell him that my girlfriend had left me on Monday morning. Having packed all her possessions, and most of mine, in record time. Instead, I took off my shirt in order to use it as a tourniquet for Silverman’s arm. It was then he noticed my tattoo.

“You were in Nam?” he asked softly.

I was 13 when the final American troops left that southeast Asian country. I looked up at the face of the robber and saw that he was a kid of no more than 18 or 19. I took a shot.

“23rd Airborne. Two tours.”

“Heavy shit went down in Cape Dem.”

“The heaviest.”

“You there?”

I rubbed my tattoo of five days affectionately, like one would a magic bottle in search of a genie. “What do you think?”

“My old man was in Dem. Never came back.”

He then handed me the gun and closed his eyes. I heard him say ‘heavy shit’ over and over to himself before the cops came to take him away.

Look, I know what you’re thinking. I checked it out myself on Monday morning. Cape Dem was the American name of a town near the Cambodian border. Supposed to have been some of the heaviest fighting in the war. I had never heard of it. What can I tell you, the tattoo saved my life. Anyway, that was six months ago. I can see that you’re a little distracted. Can’t say I blame you. That is a very attractive woman. Stick around and I’ll introduce you. She’s my new girlfriend. Do me a favour though. Try not to stare at the dragon tattoo on her left breast.

The end.