Some people get numbers. Numbers on their backs. On their calves. On their arms. Dates. Anniversaries. Death dates. The day their cancers went into remission. Jersey numbers. One or two digits they can wear throughout life, remembering their best play. Touchdown. Home runs. The benches they kept warm in their most formative of teen years. Bones they broke. Muscles pulled to sprains. Scars from ancient cuts through polyester uniforms.
But it’s the scars they get here that they remember. They touch them and they smell the grass. Run their fingers across the slight raised skin and they feel the dotted texture of pigskin. The stitches running the round of a baseball. They don’t need mirrors. Just touch it. Feel the tattoo. Remember the pain of a thousand stabs in each stroke of ink. These are the scars they will remember. These scars tell the story that they’re too sad to admit they’re already forgetting. Already forgotten. The happy moments.
Nick keeps himself busy cleaning the stations. The itchy feeling of waiting for an appointment to show up, he cleans the ink-guns, sorts the containers of colors. The iPod is plugged in and the surround doles out random songs. Britney before The Proclaimers. Kings of Leon begets Smokey Robinson. He sweeps the floors. They don’t really get dirty or dusty. All to keep himself busy. To stop him from watching his wristwatch. Springsteen follows The Killers. Ok Go opens for Carole King.The phone rings. Nick drops the broom and counts his steps and the rings. Three. Three is enough.
“Hello?” He grabs the planner next to the desk. The pages flip open, most of the dates and names scrawled in Audrey’s handwriting.
“I got you down for half an hour from now.” There are doodles on the sides of the most recent pages. He smiles. ‘She’s doodling again.’
The surround gets more random. Al Green then Dream Theater. Poison takes the mic from Howie Day.
“I can push you back another half hour, but that’s all.” The front door swings open. A man in a good suit. Nick notices the shoes first. Faraway leather, shiny as the sea it must have crossed to get to this guy’s feet.
“That’s fine.” The man on the phone and the man standing in his shop have the same voice. Nick puts the receiver down.
Looking up from the shoes, the gray suit pants pressed stiff, the suit jacket falling an appropriate length from the modest belt buckle. The tie tip right above the buckle hiding the buttons running the length of the cotton polyester blend white dress shirt. The cellphone coming away from his ear. The sunglasses brought to his jacket pocket. The nose that looks like it just healed from a break.
“Henry.”
“I lied about my name when I made the appointment. Sorry.”
“You’re not the first. It’s a new trend.”
Some people get names. Their grandparents. Their mothers. They’re family people. Their brothers etched on their shoulders. Their sisters on their wrists. You can never let go of your family. So they etch their names on their bodies to carry with them forever. Decomposing. Decaying. But never alone.
Their lovers. All kinds of names. All kinds of spellings. Expecting parents should throw away the books and consult tattoo artists. These names are loaded with history and emotions. Marissa the blue-eyed siren of Pearl District. Robert the wise submissive of Gresham Old Town
Tattoo artists see patterns. Reincarnations. They can tell you what your kid will become if you name her Wendy—she’ll seduce men with her chicken potpie, mother’s recipe, then cling like Elmer’s—or name him Luke—hopeless romantic, will write a love song with generic lyrics so he can insert a new name each time he gets dumped. Janes have abandonment issues laced with repressed feelings for their fathers; modern day Elektras. Zachs want what they can’t have then don’t want it when they finally get it.
Tattoo artists. Historians and seers.
“Is this a business meeting? Or do you actually want something?” Nick watches Henry slip off his suit jacket and lay it on the sofa. The sofa where he was with Audrey just a week ago.
“I lied about my name, but I do want a new tattoo.” Henry unknots his tie and drops it on the jacket. He fingers the cufflinks open in his French cuff sleeves and plucks them out. These he puts in his pants pockets. The right in the right. The left in the left.
“Relax, Nick.” Henry taps on his watch. “We have plenty of time now.”
Nick looks at his own watch. He makes an hour for each appointment and with Henry’s pushed back half an hour, they have plenty of time for whatever reason Henry came here. He looks back at Henry, his top half undressed to a white Jockey’s t-shirt.
“This is about Audrey.”
“Yes. This is about all three of us. You know Herbie?” Henry walks towards Nick and stops when they can smell each other’s aftershave.
“Chloe’s assistant. I inked him last week.” Nick’s fists start to close.
“You did. He’s a friend of mine, used to be my boss’ secretary a long time ago. I introduced him to Chloe.”
Before the period can close his last sentence, Henry slams a punch into Nick’s side, dropping Nick onto the desk. Nick tries to push himself up but the ache running the length of his torso and Henry’s heavy palm on his back keep him face down on the desk.
“Herbie’s a decent guy. He told me Audrey left this shop that morning. Something about you wiping her lipstick from your mouth.” Henry lifts Nick by his shirt a foot above the desk then slams him back down.
“This is good, Nick. You deserve this.”
“I kissed her. We didn’t do anything after that.” Nick groans, propping himself up with his forearms. Henry pulls him to his feet. Toe to toe, the swelling soreness keeps Nick looking at Henry’s shoes, shiny as floor-tiles in a hospital lobby. The surround plays on. The soundtrack for his beating. Ray Charles loses to The Yeah Yeah Yeahs. Tom Petty triumphs over Lilly Allen.
“I believe you Nick. But we still have a lot of time left.” Henry digs into Nick’s gut, collapsing him at the waist.
Holding him up by his shoulders, Henry plows a knee into the fresh bruise. A cufflink falls out of his pocket. He releases Nick onto the fresh swept floor.
“So Nick, why do you think people get tattoos?” Henry bends down and retrieves the cufflink. The two H’s flash in Nick’s eyes. Henry Hurt.
“Hurt,” Nick groans from the floor.
“That’s right. The cheerleaders used to chant, ‘Henry Bring The Hurt!’.”
“And I’m guessing you brought it.” Nick pushes a choked laugh from his burning lungs. His side burns. His gut burns. His nose burns from breathing to close to a dust pile he swept together before the phone rang. ‘I should have picked it up before I answered,’ he thought in his dizzy head.
“I did. I miss college…” Henry helps Nick up to his feet and leans him against the desk. Nick sits down on the edge holding himself up by his knees. In front of him, Henry stands arms crossed and head slanted and bowed slightly. His eyes watch Nick from under his great brow.
“It’s so hard to forget pain but it’s even harder to remember sweetness.” Nick steadies his breathing. He tries not to wince with each inhale.
“Concussion?” Henry tilts Nick’s head back and scans his pupils.
“No. I’m answering your question about the tattoos.”
“Hmm. Very poetic.”
“It’s a quote from this book that Chloe’s reading. It’s called Diary. It’s by Chuck Pah—” Henry interrupts him with another fist to his gut. He catches him, stops him from falling forward, and steadies him back on the desk before letting go.
“Sorry. I’ve been angry about the Chloe thing. But now I think I can move on.” Henry laughs loudly, reminding Nick that he remains healthy and upright. Nick responds with a few heaving coughs.
“It’s so hard to forget pain but it’s even harder to remember sweetness.” Nick looks at Henry, at his fists.
“I won’t hit you again. Promise. Go on.”
“People get tattoos because of the pain. We remember pain and what caused it. The sweetness? The good times? We forget those easy. We remember that they were good and that we were happy. But we forget the details.” He coughs some more.
“It makes sense.”
“Pain. We remember the details. The moment the bone breaks under your skin. The skin stretching as the broken bone pushes against it like a tent. The tearing as the bone digs out. The scars stay. But we don’t even need them. We won’t forget.”
“So the pain helps. We hide the sweet memories in the tattoo. Remembering the pain of getting the tattoo reminds us why we got it. Good answer! You believe it?”
“I do.”
Henry nods at Nick as he rolls up his sleeves to the elbows.
“I told Audrey that she can cheat on me. With you.”
“…”
“Audrey wasn’t over last night. She wasn’t at her place either.” Henry stands bladed, his shoulder facing Nick.
“I was alone last night.” Nick struggles through a deep breath.
“So no Chloe to give you an alibi.”
“No, but believe—”
“It doesn’t matter. I came here to give you my blessing.”
“I’m not—”
“You will. I know. She will too. It’s alright. I’ve got two on the side. This’ll keep it fair. Honest.” Henry rubs his knuckles slow. The way he’s standing, Nick can only see one of his eyes. The other he has to imagine.
“I don’t understand.”
“You don’t have to. Just take my blessing. Shake my hand. Then the tattoo.” Henry’s one eye glares at him serious. Waiting for a response.
“Alright.” Nick sits up straight holding his hand out to Henry. Henry swipes it away.
“The blessing first.”
With a half-cocked grin Henry drives his fist into Nick’s eye, shattering skin around it. Blood on his knuckles. Nick falls off the desk, dropping onto his hands and knees.
“Now shake my hand.” Henry pulls him up and takes his limp hand. He shakes it slow.
“Alright,” Nick whispers through the loudness of his pain.
Henry helps him back to the desk. His body loose and weak, he stares at the shoes, shining and sharp like knives in a drawer. A red spot on one of them. A dull ruby on black sands.
“I read that book. I lent it to Chloe months ago. She can keep it.” Henry wipes his painted knuckles with a handkerchief. Two letters flash before Nick’s eyes: a black H and a red H. He wipes his wounded eye with the back of his hand. The red H turns black.
“Why did you come here to kick my ass? What the fuck did this solve?” Nick watches Henry fold the stained handkerchief and return it to his pocket.
“We have no scar to show for happiness. We learn so little from peace.” A low single laugh.
“A line from the book.” Nick tries on a crooked smile. The pain chases it away.
“I think we’ve learned a lot this morning.” Henry takes in a long clean breath.
“You should clean yourself up before we get started. You’re bleeding.”
Nick stands up wobbly and searches for the bathroom. The surround still going. The ringing in his ears and the wash of painful numb all over him. He can no longer hear the transitions. The randomness. Just one concert now. One stinging symphony. Bonnie Raitt’s deep song backed by The Polyphonic Spree. John Legend and The Strokes waiting their turns to jam with Miles Davis. Nick finds the bathroom and closes the door behind him.
With his shirt off, Henry closes his eyes and runs his fingers across his tattoos. Evelyn. His hometown. He sees his house in the black distance of his eyelids. The high school appears beyond it. Goalposts and grass. Poles of lights towering like metal trees. The warmth beneath. The field where he played. Where he earned his football scholarship that brought him to Eugene
He reaches over his shoulders and feels the tattoo south of his neck. Sine Qua Non.
“What is it?” Nick is standing outside the open bathroom door, watching Henry reach behind to his subconscious.
“What?” Henry, a little embarrassed, lowers his arm and puts his hands in his pockets.
“Sine Qua Non. Without which not. What is it? That which, without it, you are not?”
“Let’s get started.”
Nick points Henry to one of the stations. He obliges and sits on a chair, his chest pressing against its back. Gloved, Nick pulls up a stool and sits behind Henry.
“What and where.” Nick opens packets of alcohol swabs.
“Right under. The same font and color. Audrey.”
Nick sweeps his skin with the swabs. He readies a tiny cup of black and adjusts the gun, playing with the dial on the box it’s plugged into and testing the pedal at his feet.
He pulls a remote from his pocket and mutes the surround. No more randomness. Just the hum of the needle. White noise. The one note lullaby. He sets the needle to Henry’s skin and begins.
“So, Candy Moore?” Henry chuckles above the buzzing.“She told you.” Nick paints strokes of black, a thousand stabs in each one.
“She’s a great lay. She’s great in the office too.”
“You gave her a job. That’s good.”
“Yeah, I got her working for my assistant manager. Loves her. She’s on top of everything.”
“Yeah.”
“We could be great friends, Nick. We fuck the same girls. Read the same books.” Henry laughs through the pain sticking his spine.
“Yeah.”
“Too bad we can’t.”
“Too bad we can’t.”
“Because of her.”
“Because of her.” Nick’s foot massages the pedal, feeding power to the gun. The tattoo artist. Skin to write on. Needle to write with. Historian. Seer.
This is only the second time he’s recorded an Audrey. And they’re the same person. No pattern yet. What she will become is still a mystery.
“You’re a funny guy, Nick.”
“So you’ve said. What’s funny this time?”
“Candy.”
“…”
Henry bites down hard, the needle sending sharp painful vibrations the whole length of his spine. Nick struggles breathing, his body aching tremendous. The burning swell. The stinging soreness. His eye squinting through broken bloated skin. These scars they will remember.
“Candy, she smells just like her. Doesn’t she?” Henry starts to laugh. Nick digs the needle in deeper fuller strokes; filling in the outline. Henry withdraws the laugh. It hurts too much.
“She does.”
photo1:http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1383/1218105375_d7e833dd76.jpg
photo2:http://farm1.static.flickr.com/184/372512244_b5228e9a36.jpg
photo3:http://farm1.static.flickr.com/167/372511937_0fdd2acc13.jpg
