27
Riverdales Stomp baby, Let’s go
Riverdales Stomp baby, Let’s go
Riverdales Stomp baby, Let’s go
The guitar comes in, the part I know so well, and I jam to it, air playing along. “I fuckin love these guys!” I shout to no one in particular, unbelievably happy despite the idiot in front of me trying to get into the left turn lane while simultaneously blocking me. Right now, my favorite band is on; nothing can get me down.
Further down the road, I drive by a shack no bigger than my fuckin cubicle at work; a buzzing neon sign shouts TATTOO on the side of it, despite it still being light out. Feeling crazy and spontaneous, I hook a U-turn and turn into the parking lot entrance beside it. I park, and walk inside; the place is dark, cramped and air hangs, heavy with mood. A girl with short black hair and sleeves of fairies and Disney animals sits at the counter on a stool, leafing through a tired looking magazine, adorned in close-ups of people’s inked skin.
“Hello?” I ask tentatively; already I feel nervous. I guess I expected people working here would be happier, but the sour humidity strangles me as waves of death come off this girl, despite her cheery tattoos.
She looks up, her eyes surrounded in black eyeliner smudge, her eyes such a bright blue, they have to be contacts. “I was wondering if I could get a tattoo today.” I’m afraid I sound so meek, she’ll bite my head off.
“Okay,” she sounds like she’s chewing gum, but she’s not. “Do you know what you want?” She stares right past me, and I look behind myself to make sure I’m the one she’s talking to.
“Yeah,” I say as I pull out the red Phase Three CD case in my pocket. I lay it down on the counter, and outline the circle on the cover. “I want this symbol, the circle with the 27 in it.” She makes no sign of recognition, just nods. “What color, you want black? White is no good, it would barely show up.”
“Oh I know,” I say, “Black is fine.”
“Where do you want it and how big?” she asks. I pull my arm towards me so that my elbow is slightly pointed in her direction, the flattest part of my arm smooth in front of her. “Right here,” I touch the part of my arm, smooth down the hairs. “Probably centered, like here,” and I cup my hand where I want it to start and end. She nods again. “Let me go check with Erick, he’s the one who’s gonna do it.” She walks through the door behind her, and I wait. I examine the counter we’ve been leaning on, scratched glass and rusted metal. The whole place feels like its falling apart, and I wonder how much business they actually get.
She walks back through the door, slowly, and sits back down on her stool. “He said $125, is that cool?” I think about it, think of how much I want the tattoo. “Let’s do it,” I finally say, and she rolls her eyes.
“Alright, calm down. I need you to sign some shit first.”
After I pay, and sign forms guaranteeing I won’t sue if they kill me, she walks me through a different back entrance, and sits me down on a ripped chair on wheels inside a small room, similar to a doctor’s office. “Erick will be with you in a minute,” she says, and it reminds me of what the nurse says when you wait for your doctor. I felt like I was in the hospital for the damned. Erick walks in a few minutes later, a tall skinny guy with long dark hair and covered in tattoos. “Has anyone ever told you that you look a lot like Melvin from NOFX?” I ask, and he grunts. “That faggot?”
He sits down in a stool that matches the cracked tan plastic of my chair. I watch his busy hands as he collects inks, puts together needle guns, and gathers supplies into a messy pile on the counter, right beside him. “Shanna said you wanted a 21 in a circle?” he half asks, half tells. I’m still reverberating from the faggot remark. “Uh ya. I mean, no no, I want a 27. Here, like this,” I say, and pull out the CD again. He looks it over, squinting. The heat has swelled his face up to this pink shiny balloon, skin stretched tight over his rough features. “Got it,” he says, and I truly believe him, tucking the CD back into my pocket.
He puts together a stencil, traces it out on my arm and shows it to me with a handheld mirror, pink plastic from the bargain bin at CVS. “Look good?” he asks me, and I look at it. “Yah,” I say, relaxed that it’s beginning to happen. “Now don’t move,” he warns, and turns on the gun.
Whirring the needles into my skin, he concentrates ferociously. Needle, needle, wipe, wipe. I’m biting my lips, squeezing my eyes shut, biting my tongue, anything to not think of the pain. To not imagine the needle going in and out of my arm, touching bone. I feel like centuries pass, and I am still in this room, waiting for it to be over. “Almost done,” Erick says, almost reading my mind. I smile, keeping my arm still. “I can’t wait to see it!”
Finally, it’s all over. Erick turns off the needle gun and places it on the counter, then wipes my skin again. He pours some thick, soapy looking liquid into a new towel, wipes my fresh tattoo with it. “Check it out man,” he says, and holds up the mirror again. Staring back at me is a motherfuckin 21.
“What?” I ask, and I almost can’t believe my eyes. I feel like this is a trick, that he didn’t really just tattoo the wrong thing on my arm. Any minute, he’ll start laughing, peel off the skin colored sticker that made that 7 look like a 1. But he doesn’t; he just stares at me expectantly, waiting for a reaction. I can’t help it; I’m about to go over the edge. “Man, what the fuck?” I say, “you fuckin showed me a 27, how come this is a 21?” He looks at the tattoo, confused. “Oh shit,” he finally says, “For some reason I kept thinking 21, so when I saw 27 I thought I just did the wrong stencil. Dude, my bad.”
My bad??? I have a meaningless number permanently attached to my skin, and that’s all this guy can say? “I’m not paying for this,” I say, and that’s when Erick stands up, shows me just how tall he is. “Now wait,” he starts, his voice no longer tinged with calm, “You need to fuckin pay for ink, as well as my time. You’ll get a discount, but you ain’t getting off totally free man.” I roll my eyes; I’m so pissed and I know that I’ll only get a little redemption. I won’t get an apology, I won’t get it fixed, and I’ll still have to pay for it. “Fuckin whatever man,” I say, stand up and walk out, down the hall to the front. Shanna is exactly where she was when I walked in, except now she’s drawing in the margin of the magazine. “Done?” she asks, her voice low with boredom.
“Dude,” Erick shouts, and then appears into the front room. “You get this shit to put on your tattoo. Shanna, give him one of those sheets.” He hands me a small plastic bottle, white and pink. Johnson & Johnson Unscented Lotion. Shanna hands me a folded sheet of paper, and I open it to find varying schedules for how to clean your latest body mutilation. “Have a nice day,” she says in her blank voice, and I say, “No. I need my money back.” She looks up, surprised. Erick takes a step closer to me. “Hey man, remember, not all of it.” Shanna turns to him, curious look on her face. “Wrong number,” he shrugs, and it’s the first time I’ve seen her crack a smile. “Oh, shit, man. That sucks.” She looks at me apologetically and it’s the first time I notice how pretty she is.
“So how much off?” she asks Erick and he looks up, like he’s doing math in his head. “How about…we give him back -“ He takes a long pause, counting on his fingers. “Give him back $85,” he says, and Shannna nods, ringing it up on their ancient cash register. “Gimme your card,” she says sharply, and I hand it over. She slides it, pushes buttons, and a receipt spurts out. “Sorry for the mix up” she offers, but it doesn’t mean shit. “Whatever,” I say, my anger coating my skin and my words.
I drive home, go up to my bedroom and lie on my bed, face down in my pillow. I can’t believe I have a tattoo now. I can’t believe it’s the wrong tattoo. I feel stressed and angry still, so I call my friend Duncan.
“Dude, what are you up to?” I say once he answers the phone.
“O man, not much. Just watching tv at my house.”
I nod even though he can’t see me. “Okay, mind if I come over?” I ask.
“Not at all,” he says, “I could use the company.”
Duncan lives two houses down, so I walk down the sidewalk to his house, letting myself in. He sits, sprawled out on his couch, remote resting in his lap. Punch Drunk Love plays on his tv screen, the sound on mute.
“What’s with no sound?” I ask, taking a seat in an armchair, catty corner to the couch. He sits up, slightly, and smiles sheepishly. “I wanted to focus on the shots, the composition. I didn’t want to be distracted by story or dialogue.” I nod; makes sense to me. I stretch so that my elbows point in the air, and before I can realize it, before I can hide the mistake on my arm, Duncan sits up completely, wide-eyed. “Dude, what the fuck? How could you not know it’s supposed to be a 27, not a 21?”
“I did fuckin know!” I explode, and he raises an eyebrow. “The fuckin guy was fucked up or something, he got it wrong.”
Duncan nods, “Shit man…did you pay for it?” Already I can see how many times I’m going to have to go through this. “Yah, but I got most of my money back.” Duncan shrugs. “What can you do?” He goes back to watching Adam Sandler run around in his bright blue suit.
Later, Sherie comes over, another friend who lives nearby. She’s wearing a jean skirt and patterned stockings; her legs go on for miles. As soon as she walks in, she shouts, “I am going to fuckin kill ALL OF THEM.” Recently Sherie had to move back in with her family, including her mom, dad, and three younger brothers. Complaining about them is a theme of hers.
“Seriously, Duncan, how much would it be to pay rent here? If I don’t move out soon, I’m going to spend my extra money on a gun.” She sits across from me, in another armchair, crosses her legs. “Oh shit, hey,” she starts. I’m not paying attention, and she kicks my leg. “Hey, is that a Riverdales tattoo?” I smile, “Yeah, it is.” She squints, quizzically. “I thought it was supposed to be a 27?” I can feel Duncan’s snicker; my blood is boiling. “I KNOW,” I boom at her, and she leans back, scared for a second. She realizes her fear, puts a bitchy face on to mask it.
“Well then, why the fuck did you get a 21 then, assHOLE?”
I stand up out of the chair immediately and turn to Duncan. “I gotta get out of here man.” Duncan looks up, surprised. “Dude, don’t worry about it. Sherie’s just being a bitch.” Sherie smiles and smacks Duncan on his knee. “Forget it man, I’m suffocating,” I say, and walk out the door.
I walk home, go back to laying in my bed, feeling sorry for myself. Eventually, I hear my mom in the kitchen, smell the smells of her cooking as she yells, “Dinner!” I pad downstairs, sock on carpet. “What are we having?” I ask. My mom is spooning rice on plates. “Chicken, asparagus, rice,” she lists, “Could you set the table?” I sigh and walk over to the silverware drawer, start collecting forks and knives. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see my mom watching me, noticing the new mark on my arm. “What is that?” she asks, and I turn to face her. “What is what?” I say it harsh, like I’m challenging her. “That,” and she points to the arm. “It’s a tattoo,” I mumble and her eyes light up. “Oh, cool, let me see!” I show her reluctantly; she fingers the circle, whirling around the tattoo. “What’s it supposed to be?” she asks, and I take out the CD case, still in my pocket. She nods, looking between the two, then stops. “Oh no, honey, the number is wrong.”
My eyes flash of fire and hatred, and I grab one of the steak knives from the knife block on the counter. “Is it, mom? Is it a little off? Thanks for fuckin noticing, because I sure didn’t. No, I had no fuckin clue that the guy fuckin PERMANENTLY TATTOOED the WRONG number on my skin. Thanks for the heads up!” I am a quivering sack of sarcasm and crazy. “Baby, we can get it fixed,” my mother’s voice is soft and shaky, her eyes never leaving the knife. “Please put the knife down.” I shake my head. “Too fuckin expensive,” I murmur, and then cut right into my arm, right around the circle. Sawing through the skin, I want to remove this tattoo once and for all. “Oh my God!” my mom screams, and looks away, closes her eyes tight. “Stop, stop! You’re acting crazy, just stop!”
I can’t stop. This tattoo has gone too far in ruining my life and I won’t let it get any further. The knife rips through my skin and it hurts almost as much as the tattoo did. However, the pain is justified; I make it, and so I enjoy it. I start to slice instead of stab, peeling the ink-stained skin off my body. I am bleeding heavily, but the tattoo is gone. “It’s gone!” I cry, “It’s finally gone!” I throw the knife in the sink, and start jumping, swinging my arms; I’m in celebratory mode. Immediately, I get dizzy as the blood pours out of me. “It’s gone, mom,” I whisper, and my mom shakes her head, horrified and empathetic. “Let’s go to the emergency room you psycho,” she says, and she hands me a ton of wadded up paper towels to hold on the cutaway skin. She leads me outside, and we walk to her car. Sherie is walking by on the sidewalk, waves to me. “Are you okay?” she asks, worry in her voice.
“I’m great,” I say, sharp as a blade, removing the paper towels and holding up my bloody arm for her to see. “I removed it. It’s finally gone.” Her face twists grotesquely, and she covers her mouth like she’s saving herself from puking all over the sidewalk. “Dude, what the fuck?” she sputters, and my mom is already sitting in the car, pulling me in. “Let’s go now,” she hisses in my direction, and I smile devilishly at Sherie as I get inside the car.
My mom pulls out of the parking spot and peels out of the cul de sac, not even bothering to stop at the stop sign as she turns onto the main road. “Mom, I’m not dying here!” I yell, holding on to the dashboard. “Keep paper towels on that thing!” she screeches, making a sharp right turn. I push the paper towels into the wound, and the pressure hurts so I pull them back a bit. The blood is still pouring out, fast, and it drips on to the floor.
“God damnit, the blood!” my mom roars, and the car swerves. I look up, and I realize she’s driving in the middle of the road, oncoming traffic trying to avoid her. I grab my seat belt behind me; the whole car is shaking and my arm is bleeding so the whole thing is rather hard to do. My hand shakes as I try to bring it over to my left side, and the seat belt slips out of my hand. “Stop driving like a maniac!” I scream, and my mom stops short so suddenly, after going so fast, that I fly right through the windshield.
That moment, when I hit the glass and am in the air, barreling towards my end, I think about how it took death to give me this moment of freedom, flying and touching nothing but air. I think about my disbelief in god, how all I’m heading for is decomposition. I think about my mom, how she’ll always live with this guilt, blaming herself into an early grave. A smile creeps over my face, though, as I realize that evil tattoo is gone. It might’ve ruined my life before taking it completely, but I don’t have to deal with it any longer; I don’t have to die with it on my body. I’m positively giddy as I realize that I truly rid myself of that horrible mistake. And then my face smashes into the pavement.