Chain Bridge? Too late, I was in the wrong lane. Nobody was going forty-five, the speed limit, but me, so no wonder. Now a long, long, long, long stretch with nowhere to get off. Well, the CIA, but I wasn’t going to get off at the CIA, no way. Finally—495, Maryland. Fine, Maryland. Virginia kept screwing me, why not try Maryland. I couldn’t tell if it was hunger or nerves that was making my hands shake. Once I got on the Beltway, I’d take the first exit, find a gas station, and buy a candy bar. And look at the goddamn map.
I’d never parked in an underground lot before. I had a heart attack driving under some low pipes, thinking they’d shear off the top of the car, but they didn’t even hit the antenna. On purpose I found a place about three miles from the elevator, so nobody was around and I could forward and reverse, forward and reverse, as long as it took to get the Chevy perfectly straight between two gigantic concrete pillars. When I turned the key and the engine hacked and coughed and finally died, it was like washing up on some island after you’ve been shipwrecked and swimming in the shark-infested ocean for a week.
At least now I knew how to get to Georgetown: you took the Beltway to River Road and then you got on Wisconsin Avenue and just went straight. It was longer, especially if you got in the left lane for Massachusetts Avenue by accident and had to turn around at the Naval Observatory, which was not allowed, but in theory it was a straight shot, and then you just turned right into Georgetown Park’s parking lot and there you were. And it was only four o’clock in the afternoon.
I sort of knew where to go now. Back in March with Gram, we’d walked by the cutest tattoo parlor on one of the side streets off M Street, and I was pretty sure I could find it. At least I was on foot. Sunday afternoon. The rain had stopped, and it was like everybody in the whole city was out for a walk on M Street. God, walking around Georgetown by yourself, not with your grandmother, that’s like nine and a half on the scale of coolness, maybe even ten. No, ten would be walking around with your boyfriend.
Maybe I should eat something before getting tattooed. There weren’t any cheap restaurants, though. That place, the Purple Dog, where Gram and I ate before—it was gone, if I was remembering right; now it was the Black Cloak Inn, and the prices on the menu outside looked outrageous. Eight dollars for a little salad! On Wisconsin, I stopped at an open-air grocery and bought an apple and an orange, and ate both of them on my way to the tattoo place.
Karma Chameleon—thank God it was still there. The outside was painted neon green and yellow, and it looked like a happy place, psychedelic instead of biker. I wanted to look at the pictures and read the signs in the window, soak up the atmosphere, get the lay of the land, but a couple coming out of the door saw me and the guy held the door for me, so I had to go in.
Wow, oh wow, this place was awesome. It was like an art gallery. It even had a bunch of couches and easy chairs around a coffee table littered with tattoo magazines and photo albums. Tasteful gray walls, gray carpet on the floor. That was Georgetown for you. The only way you’d know you were in a tattoo parlor was the clerk behind the counter, and behind him the big framed blowups of the most amazing tattoos I had ever seen. A bunch of Georgetown University kids—you could tell by their sweatshirts—were sitting in the chairs, talking and laughing, looking at picture albums. I wandered over to the side, to a low table covered with big portfolio books chained to the wall, like the yellow pages in a phone booth. I opened one called Tattootek and started leafing through it. Whoa. These weren’t like any tattoos I’d ever seen before. Rainbow colors, the truest reds and greens, I didn’t even know they could do that on skin. Every page was like an explosion of colors in your face, and bold, wild shapes, sometimes you couldn’t even tell what the picture was, high-tech designs like in an art museum, like that guy Léger. Well, I didn’t want that, I was thinking more along the lines of a flower or something, and smaller, I didn’t want anything covering my whole back, not that I could afford it even if I did.
The next book was completely skulls and bones, unbelievable, some of them were absolutely beautiful, just exquisite, until it hit you that you were looking at, basically, death. Why would you want death printed on your arm? Or your butt—here was a guy with a little coffin on his ass, and on the other cheek two skeletons with their arms around each other. Weird.
Lots of medieval stuff, the whole dungeons and dragons thing, and devils, demons, vampires, witches, a lot of fiery swords. Two whole books of religious tattoos, including one of Jesus on somebody’s arm that looked like a black-and-white photograph, it was so real.
Nature stuff—some of these tattoos I could go for. I especially liked a beautifully drawn blue jay surrounded by pink and green flowers, and a moon-sun design right above somebody’s collarbone. Now that was classy. Yikes—this lady had thick black Chinese writing on both breasts, plus her nipples were pierced with spikes. Not little thin rings, spikes, maybe a quarter of an inch thick!
“That’s gotta hurt,” said a woman standing next to me. She smiled on one side of her mouth, the side that wasn’t pierced with a little silver paper clip. “I’ve done my tongue and my belly button, my septum, this one”—pointing to the paper clip—“but I gotta draw the line at nipples. I mean.”
“Yeah, really,” I said.
“But that’s just me.”
“Me, too.”
“I don’t care what anybody else does, pierce your brain for all I care.”
“I was actually looking more for a tattoo,” I said.
“That’s all they do here, no piercings. I got this done.” The woman had black hair shaved to a stubble, so it was hard to tell how old she was, she could’ve been twenty or she could’ve been thirty. She pulled the sleeve of her T-shirt up over her shoulder to reveal an Egyptian woman, like a goddess, in gorgeous pinks and oranges.
“Wow, fabulous. You got that here?”
“Like it?Ask for Stella if this is the kind of work you want. She’s a genius. She did this, too.” She pulled up her shirt.
“Oh my God!” It was like a pen-and-ink anatomy drawing over her whole front, all the internal organs drawn to scale in the correct places, labeled in old-fashioned script, LIVER, GALL BLADDER, SPLEEN. “That’s awesome,” I breathed.
“Isn’t it great?”
“Was it expensive?”
“Oh, God. Because they charge by the hour and this is complicated. This is no Sailor Jerry flash, know what I mean?”
“Really.”
“So now I’m thinking biceps, and I’m thinking either phoenix or Pegasus, the whole myth thing, or else something zodiacal. Just not sure I want a crab on my arm for all eternity, know what I mean?”
“Ha, right.”
“So what are you getting?” She rested her hip on the counter and folded her arms. Her head looked bluish under the whiskery stubble, and fragile somehow, you could see the veins over her ears and the bones in her skull. Maybe she’d get her head done someday, little labeled drawings of the cerebral cortex, the medulla. “This your first tattoo?” she asked, eyeing my naked arms.
“Yeah. I haven’t quite decided what to get. So—what happens if you get something and then you don’t like it?”
“Laser.”
“Oh, right.”
“But it’s expensive, about a thousand bucks even for a small tat, and your insurance won’t even look at it.”
“Oh.”
“So you have to be really sure.”
“Yeah.”
“You have to pick something that totally expresses your inner self, your personal spirituality. Your body is a temple and you decorate it according to its unique nature.”
“Right.”
“Tattooing’s an artistic way of declaring who you are, you know? What you believe in. So people can see what you are on the inside from the outside.”
“Right, sure.” I turned back to the book lying open on the counter. My hand fluttered over the picture of two sea horses, another of a howling coyote, an Indian chief, a unicorn, crawling bumblebees
. Did any of them express my inner self? “It’s kind of like picking out wallpaper.” The woman raised her eyebrows and didn’t smile, and I added quickly, “The books, I mean, big and heavy, you know, like at the wallpaper store.”
“Yeah. So have you got I.D.?”
“Pardon me?”
“They don’t do minors here.” She gestured over her shoulder.
“Oh.” I saw the small sign right behind the computer on the big counter: MUST BE 18—WE I.D.“Oh, yeah.” Shit.
“I think sometimes they’ll do it if you have a guardian, though, like your mother or something.”
I smiled weakly. “That’ll happen.”
The woman shrugged, sympathetic. “Let’s go ask Tony.” And she turned and walked over to the counter.
I followed.
“Hey, Tone.”
“Fay, what’s happening.”
“I’m looking at your Celtic custom, you’ve got some wicked stuff. Listen, this lady—”
“Ruth,” I said politely.
“Ruth might have a little problem with her age.”
“If she’s not eighteen, she’s got a problem.” Tony’s whole face and neck were pierced, silver rings and spikes and clips stuck through his nostrils, eyebrows, cheeks, lips, ears, jaw, forehead, throat. I didn’t want to stare, but how could you not? “So how old are you?” he asked me.
“Um, not quite eighteen. Almost.”
“You got a driver’s license?”
“I left it at home.”
Tony and Fay smiled. After a second, I had to smile, too, to show them I knew they knew I was lying. Well, that was the end of that.
Tony had heavy silver rings through the webbing between his thumbs and forefingers. His left arm had twenty or thirty tiny tassels puncturing the skin in a straight line, wrist to elbow, like a fringed leather jacket, except he had a fringed silver arm. “What are you looking for,” he asked, “flash or custom?”
“Um…”
“How much money have you got?”
“Oh. About a hundred dollars.” All my savings that I hadn’t banked, plus an advance from Krystal on my next paycheck.
“Flash,” said Tony.
“Yeah.” Okay, I was looking for flash.
“She could go to Southeast,” Fay suggested.
“Yeah. The Navy Yard, you got scratchers around there, they’d probably do you,” Tony said.
“Southeast?”
“Or Anacostia.”
“Yeah, more scratchers on Good Hope Road, in that area. I mean, if all you want is flash.”
“You could try Tex’s,” Tony said doubtfully. “Really watch the needles, though, don’t let him slide any used by you.”
I didn’t like the sound of Tex’s. Plus I’d have to get back on 295, I’d have to go across the river again. “Isn’t there anyplace else in D.C.?”
Tony and Fay narrowed their eyes in thought, then shook their heads. “Nah. Pretty much in D.C., you need I.D.”
“Okay. Well, thanks. I’ll try Southeast, I guess.”
“Just be sure to pick an image that mirrors your inner self,” Fay reminded me. “You know, something that’s the real you.”
“Right,” I said. “I will.”
The real me, I mulled on the sidewalk. Some of the religious tattoos—tats—were really beautiful, but I wasn’t that religious. An animal, maybe; I liked wildlife. Or flowers. Flowers might be dippy though. Karen Angleman got a rose on her shoulder blade in ninth grade, and already it was kind of stale. Hm. The true Ruth…How about a giant question mark on my forehead?
“’Scuse me. Say, ’scuse me.”
I turned around. A man was hurrying after me along the brick sidewalk. His face looked so friendly, I thought I must know him. He stopped in front of me and we said, “Hi,” together.
“Hi,” he repeated, “how are you doing?”
“Fine, thank you.” No, I didn’t know him. I was sure.
“So you’d like to get a nice tattoo, huh?”
He must’ve been in the store—funny I hadn’t noticed him. “Yeah.” He looked old, forty at least, and he was dressed like a nerd in a yellow short-sleeved dress shirt tucked into too-small green pants, and a black belt pulled very tight around his waist. “I could help you,” he said in a soft voice, smiling. “I know a place you could go that’s not too far from here. I’m familiar with them, I’m sure they’d do it.”
“Um, well, I was going to go to Good Hope Road.”
“Oh, Ruth, you don’t want to be going there,” he said, pursing his lips, trying to look sad, which wasn’t easy, because he had one of those faces that always smile, that can’t not smile. He started walking while I was talking, so I had to walk along with him. “Good Hope Road’s no place for a young girl. A young white girl,” he lowered his voice to say. “It’s not a good neighborhood, Ruth. Believe me, you don’t want to be going there by yourself. There’s a place on Georgia Avenue I could take you to. They know me there. I could help you.”
“Um…” I was trying to think fast. It was a little creepy that he knew my name.
“Georgia Avenue is near here?”
“Pretty near. A car ride, though.”
“Oh, I’ve got a car.”
He looked surprised. When he raised his eyebrows, his whole forehead went up an inch. He had curly, wavy hair the color of tobacco. It didn’t look quite natural. “My car’s right here.” He waved his hand toward the street.
“Um…”
“To get a tattoo, if you’re underage, you have to have a ‘guardian.’” He laughed, making little quotation marks in the air with his fingers. “We could tell them I’m your brother.”
My father, more like. He kept smiling, smiling. He looked at my face instead of my body—that reassured me. We’d stopped beside a gray car, some nondescript sedan. I looked at him covertly, noticing how his rosy cheeks stood out in his pale, freckled face. I couldn’t see any tattoos on his arms. Pudgy arms; he was really bulging out of his clothes.
“Listen,” he said, “this isn’t a pickup. To tell you the truth, the guys who run this shop I’m talking about are friends of mine. They’d appreciate the business.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, it’s really just me trying to do them a favor. And you too while I’m at it.”
“Oh, I see.” I had to smile back, I had to, you couldn’t not respond to a smile that insistent. “Well, and Georgia Avenue, um, where on Georgia Avenue is this place?”
“Hm? Oh, up toward Silver Spring, but not that far. Missouri Avenue, in that area.”
I’d have to look at my map. “Well…”
“It’s not that they don’t do good work. This one guy’s an artist, a genius—but he’s just starting out, not many customers yet. I bet he’d cut you a deal.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, sure, a discount on some really fine work, probably as big as you wanted. And you should see the colors these guys work with. Incredible stuff. That place—”He jerked his thumb back at the Karma Chameleon and gave his head a quick shake, grinning.
Wow. Way, way cool. If this guy was being straight, wouldn’t that be something? A large, beautiful tattoo, something really special, and at a price I could pay.
He dug a key from his pocket and unlocked the passenger door to the gray car. “So what do you think? Want to try it?” He kept his hand on the door handle but didn’t open it. “Huh? No harm in trying, you figure, right?”
I folded my arms, pressing my pocketbook to my stomach. I looked over his shoulder, wishing he would stop smiling. “How about if I follow you? I’ll come out of the parking lot where I am and pull up right behind you, then you go and I’ll follow. That way I’ll have my car and you won’t have to bring me back here.”
He never stopped smiling, but his eyes got darker, it was almost as if they stopped seeing me. He licked his lips. “Sure. Yeah, okay, that’ll work. What’re you driving?”
“White LeBaron. Convertible, but the top’s up.”
He nodded, watching me. “Nice car.”
“Yeah, my dad gave it to me. Sweet sixteen.” I smiled back, lying through my teeth and liking it. A kind of rush went through me—it was the best I’d felt all day. “Okay,” I said, “sit tight. I’ll swing right around behind you, shouldn’t take more than five minutes. I’ll give a toot in case you’re asleep.” I laughed, and the man stared at me hard before giving a quick, uncertain laugh in reply. “Thanks a lot, hey, this is really nice of you.” I started backing up.
“No problem.”
“Wow, a cheap tattoo—I can hardly wait. Okay, I’ll see you!” I waved, pivoted, and strode off down the sidewalk. I didn’t turn around, not even at the crosswalk on Wisconsin, because if I turned around he’d know. The powerful feeling was already gone. I felt breathless, panicky, like that time Lisa Cromarty and I, my best friend in Chicago, thought a creepy guy from the bowling alley was following us home. In the dim underground parking lot, I kept walking fast, trying to look innocent and determined and empty-headed, but at the elevator I finally had to turn around to look behind me. No guy.
Unless he was hiding behind a car, looking at me through the dark windshield. A lady rolled a baby carriage around the corner. The elevator came, and I held the door for her. We rode down in silence; the baby was fast asleep with its mouth open, bare legs curled like commas. For a few seconds I felt safe, until the doors opened and the lady rolled her baby in the opposite direction from my car.
There it was, alone in the middle of nothing except dusty concrete. The last thirty yards felt like walking across a minefield, or like waiting for a sniper to shoot you in the back. I got my key out way ahead of time, but my hand was slick and shaky, it took two tries to get it in the lock. The door wouldn’t close, I had to slam it three times, and then I banged the lock down with my thumb so hard I tore the nail. Then the car wouldn’t start. On the fourth try it growled to life, and I put my forehead on the steering wheel, my heart pounding. Shifting into reverse, I stepped on the gas and crashed into the pillar beside the right rear bumper.
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