(Started writing a short story about my younger brother and his battle with addiction. This is a story about him, about me, and about our entire family. It is a short story that works to illuminate the beauty that can be found in any situation, and how humor can be a means of coping with life's hardships.)
I duck under the garage door, which has been pulled down so
that it’s half closed, or half open, for all those optimists out there. My eyes
take a minute to adjust to the dim lighting and I am greeted with a light oily
smell. Half the garage was given as a space to work on the old classic
motorcycles my friend had, and the other half was his brand new tattoo shop, if
you could call it that. He had bought the supplies you needed, as well as a
tattoo reclining chair, and had started tattooing friends and relatives from
his garage. I always told myself that I would never get a tattoo from a friend,
or in a setting similar to this, but as I was getting ready to move abroad
money was tight and you know how it goes. Often we find ourselves going back on
the things we said we’d never do.
My friend is seated in the tattoo corner, and he is cleaning
the supplies he will use on me. Sterilizing, they like to call it, but
realistically it’s just dousing it in rubbing alcohol. Getting a tattoo
requires a lot of trust in the other person. Not only must you trust them with
the permanent artwork, you must also trust them to clean the art supplies
properly, meaning that you’re the first one to dip your brush in the ink, and
you get a new brush each time.
As I walk over to him, he looks up at me and gives me a
grizzly, “Hello.”
“How you doin’ girl? Fuck, it’s been a long time huh? You
never come around anymore.” He gets up and gives me a friendly hug, patting me
on the back. He was once a close friend of someone I dated years ago, and it
had been a long time since we had seen one another. I certainly never imagined
I would be going to him for a tattoo.
From my purse I pull out two Blue Moons, but he refuses my
offer, and so I open the one for myself. The next half hour or so is spent
catching up on lost time, and exchanging stories of what we’ve been up to, and
how we’ve been passing the time. Finally he cuts the chatter and gets down to
business.
“Ok, lets get this ink into your arm. Whatta say?” He puts
out his cigarette and walks over to the sink to wash off his hands. I watch
him from behind and see the spider web tattoo he has between the back of his ear and his hairline, and it
makes me think of the inverted cross I have in the same location. Tattoos are
reflective of who we are in a particular moment, and what values and opinions
we hold, as much as they are just pieces of body art.
As soon as his foot connects with the tattoo gun pedal the
motor is kicked into life, and the familiar buzz of the gun fills the room. The
first connection of the needle to the skin reminds me of the many hours I have
spent in a tattoo chair, working on an unfinished rib piece, and the burning
sensation that is necessary to endure in order to have a tattoo. I watch the
needle shred its way through my flesh, as a trail of ink is left below the top
layer of skin.
Some people will tell you they like the way getting tattooed
feels, that it even feels good. Those people are called liars. It is far from
what I would describe as “good,” but there is a certain charm to the sensation
it triggers. For me, it’s the process and entire experience of getting one
which I am attracted to. There is a distinct high that I undergo, each time I
do this.
It begins coincidentally, at the beginning. When I first
make the decision to add another piece of art to my skin. It’s the act of
drawing what I want, finding a shop, making the appointment, driving to the
parlor for the big day, walking in and being greeted by the music of some punk band I can’t
name, sitting down and laying there like a willing victim, waiting to endure
pain from the hand of another person.
The anticipation grows as I watch him unwrap the tools, wipe
the cold wet cloth over my skin, press the paper sketch onto my skin,
transferring the ink outline he will follow. He buzzes the needle and my nerves
jump and my brain is flooded with a swell of endorphins, creating a state of
euphoria within my body. He dips the needle in the ink and advances toward me.
The florescent lights glow above my head and I am dizzy, fading into another
place, waiting for the heat that will sear through my skin, comparable to a
lighter being held inches away, as a friend moves it back and forth. The needle
kisses my arm, and sparkling shocks are sent through my nerves, telling my
brain that my body is feeling pain, but there is a whirlwind of glitter in my
head.
The initial burst of the needle to skin is fading and I am
returning to earth. The first connection is what pushes me far above the
clouds, and now that I have hit my head on the ceiling of the sky, I am
floating back down at a steady pace. Like a falling leaf, drifting from side to
side, until I gentle settle on the ground. My five senses are heightened and
are each battling for dominance in a way that blurs them into one. I watch the
needle waltz across my skin with incredible elegance, leaving behind it a trail
of ink, Vaseline and blood. In the low lighting I see his steady hand trace the
outline, the capital C finished, as he moves on complete the word. I let my
eyes lose focus and my mind drift back into another place. A different reality.
The needle has worked its way into the center of the crook of my arm, the
inside of where the elbow bends. It hums over my blue veins, which lay just
below the surface of my porcelain skin. I can hear my own breathing, in a loud,
echoed sort of way. Like when you’re in the ocean floating on your back, with
your face to the sun, but your ears below the water. The entire world has been
muted except for the sound of you. The inhale and exhale that reminds you that
even in this silent world, you’re still alive. I am drifting out to sea, pulled
from the tide of the warm wave gun.
No comments:
Post a Comment