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{body art} christian rose The needle’s like a bee buzzing too close to my ear as this tat-covered biker named Albert starts in on the whiteness where my left collarbone meets my neck. My head is cocked to the right, stretching the skin out nice and tight for him to work on. I’m seated in what looks like an old dentist’s chair. Shirtless, my back sticks to the vinyl, awakening countless layers of dried sweat. The wall I’m staring at is hand-smear yellow with small meandering cracks running down beneath Polaroids of Albert’s work. The cracks link the photos like a family tree. To the left is a full body mirror. I see Albert’s body in it. He sees me looking at him and smiles at me. His dead tooth is like a black kernel in a yellow cob. I turn back to the photos as he leans into me with the needle. His breath runs across my chest in a wheezing rhythm. He smells like rotting meat. My eyes scan the photos on the wall: a thick bicep, a hairy hand pulling up a sleeve to expose a dragon’s head that breathes fire like tentacles around a nude woman. They’re all big men with the look of prison in their eyes: crucifixes on forearms, skulls on backs, snakes slithering around thighs. Their bodies are covered with green ink like houses overtaken by ivy. When I was a boy my father told me that ivy pulls at the mortar between bricks, weakens walls. One of my jobs each summer was to tend the ivy growing up the walls of our house. The leafy green strands held themselves to the red bricks with a million little suction cups. It reminded me of veins. The smallest tendrils clung to the bricks like capillaries woven into flesh. I imagined my home as a person turned inside out. In my mind the ivy was pumping blood up the sides of the house to feed the family within. I wrapped my hands around the green stalks and tore at them. Life inside my parents’ house was all ritual and repetition and rules. Each night my mother cooked dinner for my father and I. I can still picture her standing over the stove with her white wine. Her legs hurt her, so standing was a chore. Pregnancy had taken a toll on her body. I had given her horrible varicose veins. They were green and twisted, bulging like over-stuffed sausages in her thighs. She stood silently as she cooked. She was a prisoner like me. We all were. The house itself was our prison. I didn’t know how to save her any more than I knew how to save myself. Tattoos do the opposite of ivy, they strengthen walls. I can feel the power pouring into my neck as the needle pierces it. Albert wipes away excess ink and blood with a piece of gauze in his left hand. The pain is dulled by its persistence. Soon it will be a permanent part of me. I look back to the wall of photos. Three’s one of a teenage girl. She looks out of place here among all these hairy men. I can’t help feeling nervous for her. She’s showing off a sun that’s tattooed around her belly button. Her hands are palms-up on either side as if she’s presenting an offering. Doesn’t she know that most men would only take advantage? Men don’t care about her new tattoo, her sun. Albert or whoever took the photo made sure to get her crotch in the shot. Her jeans are cut off short. Too short. The denim between her legs is skin tight. You can’t see her face, whoever took the photo cut her off at the neck. A little bit of curly blond hair hangs down over both shoulders. I wonder if Albert cut her head off on purpose. I wonder if she’s trying to distract men from an ugly face with that tattoo. What does this girl think she needs to change? What does she want? Moth’s scare off predators with markings like giant eyes on the backs of their wings. This girl isn’t trying to scare anyone, but somehow she’s like a moth to me. A caterpillar sprouting tits and tattoos. She’s waiting for her wings. She pictures herself flying someplace far away from here, someplace where the sun shines more often. I bet she’s got a butterfly tattoo on the small of her back. Surrounded by photos of men like these, I can only hope for her. What brought her into this filthy place? I don’t want to imagine, but I can’t help it. I close my eyes, breath, reopen them. I feel sick. Something about this girl’s posture, the way she’s offering up the sun so innocently – absentmindedly even, makes me think of the first girl that I loved. It takes me what seems like a long time to remember her name…Britney Conklin. A horrible wave of nausea bubbles in my chest. I want to pull the tattoo needle from Albert’s hand and slam it into his eye. I want to hold it there until the socket bubbles over with black ink like a tar-pit. He’s the one who put the Sun-Girl her here on display. This girl is like Britney was. Like I was. He is the one keeping her captive among these other photos. I have to stop thinking about all this ugliness. I need to clean my mind, tear these thoughts loose. I try to remember Britney but the wave of emotions hits again. I’m grinding my jaw, my fingers clamped tight on the sticky vinyl arm of the seat. I need something else. Something safe. I close my eyes and breath slowly. I taste the sweat on my lips. Voices flow through my memory like wind through a windowless home. An abandoned home. And then Albert taps my shoulder and tells me my tattoo is done. I pull myself out of the seat and stand before the mirror. The muscles ripple as I flex out of habit. There’s blood trickling down from the tattoo and the skin around it is bright pink. I stare at myself in the mirror. I look different. The outside’s a little closer to matching the inside. My lips close and I stare into my own eyes, ice-blue. I’m chasing thoughts that scatter like roaches in the light. Am I like the moth, trying to confuse or distract with this marking? Albert takes a photo. I don’t care. I belong here. I breathe deep and concentrate on the pain radiating in through the tattoo. I look back to the photo of the Sun Girl. Albert’s waving the Polaroid in the air, his back is turned. I grab the Sun Girl’s picture from the wall and put it in my pocket. He can add me to his wall, but I’m getting her out of here. |
