Dorothy Parker's Elbow

by Kim Addonizio

  I cried then, begged for my life. For my child.

  An unspoken Western code governs honor among outlaws, which is why I didn’t press charges. That, and fear. Breaking up, though, seemed like a very good idea. I had hoped I’d heard the last of him, but he disappoints me once again.

  “I didn’t call to yell at you or nothing,” he says. This time, it’s empty promises, professed remorse, and thinly veiled demands. He and I and the baby are going to be a family, he says.

  “Hey,” I say. “October is National Domestic Violence Awareness Month. You going to beat up anyone special?”

  He yells a few obscenities and splutters about the way he is going to kill me. He’s to the part where he describes the place he plans to hide my body when I realize that I don’t have to listen to this. He’s making me dig my own grave when I hang up, sit down, and close my eyes. The person I once loved more than anything has turned into a monster.

  My baby hooks its feet into my ribs and bounces gaily off my bladder. I soothe it with both hands. It’s getting bigger every day, and already I know what true love is really all about. “What has Wyoming come to,” I ask the baby, “when tattoos have lost all meaning, and outlaws turn out to be just bad men?”

  “I got my tattoo at a time of

  great upheaval…”

  DARCEY STEINKE

  I got my tattoo at a time of great upheaval and change in my life. I wanted to demarcate this transformation and by marking myself this urge was realized. My tattoo was designed by the stained-glass artist Judith Schaechter. I wanted a sacred heart with flowers and flames but not a cartoon heart like most depictions of the sacred heart. I wanted an anatomically correct heart with veins and ventricles, filled with blood, spouting fire.

  “I’d wanted to get one for years…”

  RICK MOODY

  I’d wanted to get one for years, and I used to troll around a tattoo shop in Chicago, on the north side, looking at designs. But my partner, Amy, hated tattoos and attempted to curtail this ambition whenever it came up. A year or so later (1996, or thereabouts), I was in Providence at a conference on contemporary fiction with a couple of friends. I’d gone to undergraduate school there, and it was all pretty nostalgic, the three of us back for this conference as prodigal children. Only problem was, everybody seemed really unhappy with us. The whole vibe was poisonous and unfriendly. We decided to skip a cocktail party after a reading on the first night. Instead we went driving downtown, looking for trouble. Eventually, up on the Italian side of town, Atwells Avenue, we came upon this ghetto of tattooing parlors. A whole sequence of them. I yelled, Stop the car!, jumped out of the rental vehicle. Apparently, the decision had made itself, after years of waffling. I picked old-fashioned Christian imagery, namely a crucifix, and it was supposed to be in purple, in honor of my book, Purple America, but it sort of came out reddish. The site was (and still is) my right bicep. My friends stood outside the surgical chamber trying to talk me out of it. Have you thought about hepatitis? Don’t you think this is a little juvenile? There was a moment right before the needle first hit skin when I entertained some anxieties. What if it really hurts? But in the end the discomfort was minimal, nothing like root canal. Actually, I kind of liked it. I wanted to get another one almost immediately. Which I haven’t done yet. Amy wept when she saw the crucifix. She was really mad. But I think she sort of likes it now.

  Tattoo Pantoum

  DENISE DUHAMEL

  Best remembered for playing Tattoo,

  Ricardo Montalban’s chirpy sidekick on Fantasy Island,

  Herve Villechaize was a French dwarf

  who studied art in Paris before becoming an actor.

  Ricardo Montalban’s chirpy sidekick on Fantasy Island

  stopped growing taller after hitting 3′9″

  and studied art in Paris before becoming an actor.

  Herve’s own fantasy was to be a modern-day Toulouse

  Lautrec—

  who also stopped growing taller after hitting 3′9″

  and who was notorious when it came to women.

  Herve’s own fantasy was to be a modern-day Toulouse Lautrec,

  but instead he was the evil dwarf in The Man with the Golden

  Gun.

  James Bond was notorious when it came to women,

  but not Herve who was in Airplane II: The Sequel

  and the evil dwarf in The Man with the Golden Gun.

  Tattoo himself had no tattoos

  not even when he played a “novelty” role in Airplane II:

  The Sequel.

  Barbie has tattoos, but they’re temporary.

  Tattoo himself had no tattoos

  and certainly never owned a Barbie® Totally Tattoos™

  CD-ROM.

  Barbie has tattoos, but they’re temporary

  using “hundreds of cool graphics and special effects”

  that you can make on Barbie® Totally Tattoos™

  CD-ROM.

  Barbie’s makers are concerned about the safety of “real”

  tattoos.

  Using hundreds of cool graphics and special effects,

  tattoo artists are more popular than ever.

  Alabama lawmakers are concerned about the safety of real

  tattoos

  saying “no one with a skin infection, including a pimple,

  can get a tattoo.”

  Tattoo artists are more popular than ever.

  Einstein, a tattoo artist in Harker Heights, TX

  says “everyone, including pimply kids, should get tattoos”

  Evidence of tattooing dates back to the ice age.

  Einstein, a tattoo artist in Harker Heights, TX

  has skulls and snakes on his Web site.

  Evidence of tattooing dates back to the ice age

  when brave warriors tattooed their faces.

  A man with skulls and snakes on his bicep

  still inspires confidence and machismo, reminding us of

  when brave warriors tattooed their faces.

  Some women get their makeup and eyebrows tattooed on

  to inspire confidence when they’re swimming or playing

  tennis.

  This way they look great when they first get out of bed.

  Some women get their makeup and eyebrows tattooed on

  if they have shaky hands or bad eyesight.

  This way they look great when they first get out of bed

  and don’t have to worry about smudges and mirrors.

  Some women get their makeup and eyebrows tattooed on

  even though they’d never sport a “real” tattoo.

  They don’t have to worry about smudges and mirrors

  or looking tired and drawn out in hospital beds—

  even though they’d never sport a “real” tattoo.

  Even Jews can order Star of David temporary tattoos

  on-line.

  One man who landed in a hospital bed

  in a coma could be identified only by his tattoos.

  Jews who order Star of David temporary tattoos on-line

  may wonder if Jews with real tattoos can be buried in

  Jewish cemeteries.

  A man in a coma identified only by his tattoos

  was an Irishman hurt hiking in Peru.

  Jews with real tattoos can be buried in Jewish cemeteries

  according to Rabbi Bruce L. Gottlieb.

  The Irishman hurt hiking in Peru

  may have been saved by his tattoos, but Judaism teaches,

  according to Rabbi Bruce L. Gottlieb,

  our bodies are on loan to us.

  Mutilation, scarring, and tattoos, as Judaism teaches,

  are crimes against nature, as is plastic surgery.

  Our bodies are on loan to us

  which is why permanent lipstick and areola repigmentation

  are, like plastic surgery, crimes against nature,

  but not as bad a crime as suicide—

  permanent lipstick
and areola repigmentation

  are nothing compared to shooting yourself or being married

  three times.

  Fantasy Island knew of sadness, especially a star’s suicide.

  Herve Villechaize was a French dwarf

  who in 1993 fatally shot himself. Married three times,

  he’s best remembered for playing Tattoo.

  It Only Hurts a Little

  SETH MNOOKIN

  A little over a year ago—last June—I got my first tattoo. I went to Artistic Tattooing in Providence, on my friend Dave’s recommendation.

  At that time, however, I had not yet discovered my fascination with, and appreciation for, pain. I was scared. As I walked into Artistic Tattooing, I tried to force an expression of indifference onto my face, hoping that no one would notice my badly shaking hands. I was fighting a losing battle: The quiet drone of the electric needle made me queasy, and I could hear my voice tremble as I asked Rusty, AT’s master craftsman, if there was anything to which I could compare the sensation of getting a tattoo.

  Rusty was not sympathetic. After more than twenty years in the business, he was no longer interested in soothing some virgin punk’s jangled nerves. He looked up at me through the blue haze of his cigarette smoke and murmured with a sadistic glint in his eye and a slight leer on his lips, “Ever get hit by a car?”

  No, in fact, I hadn’t, and I quickly scurried into the street, seeking out a quiet corner in which to vomit. Ten minutes later, I was back, shaken but ready. “All right,” I shouted as I walked back in. The sound of my voice alarmed me; whereas before I could discern the tremble on my breath, now I seemed to be shouting in an effort to muster up all the machismo I could. “Do it. Smack that little whale right on my ankle.”

  It was over before I could really start whimpering, although at one point, when my leg began to shake, Rusty reminded me that “every time you move, it stays with you for the rest of your life.” As I lay there, sweat pouring down my face, I kept repeating a twisted mantra over and over to myself. This is my choice. No one is making me do this. I remembered that Dave had said that when he got his tattoo—a sun on his ankle—Rusty had paused in the middle of the process and leaned in close to Dave.

  “So, how’s it feel?” Rusty asked.

  “Well, uh, it kind of hurts,” Dave answered.

  Rusty leaned in a little closer, and, almost whispering, asked:

  “Feels kind of good, doesn’t it…?”

  This exchange served as an epiphany for Dave into the appeal of tattooing. It hurts, but you’re choosing the pain. This realization is intoxicating. And pain isn’t always a bad thing. Getting a tattoo feels pretty much like what you’d expect having a needle jammed into your skin hundreds of times a minute would feel like. Worse than a flu shot, but not as bad as getting your arm broken. And, because it’s not unbearable, it does almost feel good.

  So as I limped into the street, I felt no small sense of accomplishment. Damn straight, I got a tattoo. And Rusty said the ankle hurts more than most places—more bone for the needle to dig into.

  On my next two trips to Artistic Tattooing, I liked to think that Rusty and I bonded. Maybe we did… probably not, though. I sure as hell was damn more excited about knowing Rusty’s name than he was about knowing mine.

  But Rusty didn’t fit into my plans one Thursday night. Days before classes were set to begin, I had been assigned to write a piece about tattooing for Fifteen Minutes, the weekly magazine of The Harvard Crimson, and the burly, almost mute inker seemed too guarded to be the subject of some serious writing. Dan, Dave, Nick, and I met at the Carpenter Center. As we drove off, my head was clear and I was full of hubris and energy. I could march into any tattoo parlor around and say exactly what I wanted and get it. I decided to go to Electric Ink Tattooing, in East Providence, just to prove my fearlessness. Everything was good. Or so I thought.

  Looking back, as soon as I walked into Electric Ink I should have known something was wrong. There was no one there but the tattoo artists; no line of waiting customers, like at Artistic Tattoing. And Electric Ink was at the end of a dimly lit street, no other stores in sight. Three men were in the shop, eating pizza and looking hungry for some fresh meat. There was a strange glint in their eyes. Artistic Tattooing was much more professional—Rusty didn’t like any fucking around. That did not seem to be the case here.

  The guys who worked at Electric Ink were friendly—too friendly, in retrospect. Nervous-friendly. They felt compelled to joke with me as much as I did with them. This was bad. I might have had something to prove, but they certainly shouldn’t have. This was their territory. No matter how much tattooists need the business, they always act (or should) like you need them, while they couldn’t give a shit if you dropped dead or not.

  And once you’re in, you do need them. They hold your ticket to change. After you get a tattoo, you will never be exactly the same. You carry away more than just some ink injected into your fat. Because of this, tattoo artists wield a power not totally unlike that of doctors. If they’re good, they can make you better (or at least make you look better). But if they fuck up, it’s still your body. This realization breeds a certain cockiness on the artist’s, as well as the customer’s, part, a forced nonchalance, an affected disregard for the body and flesh. No one is supposed to care too much, but no one better make a mistake. So when the long-haired, bearded man behind the desk at Electric Ink joked that “you can always tell a Harvard man, but you can’t tell him much,” and they laughed a little too quickly and loudly, I felt my stomach tighten. At the time, I associated this with pre-ink jitters—I had decided that instead of an inkless FM logo, I was going to get a snake wrapped around my ankle, covering my whale.

  There was no need to be nervous, I thought, in an unsuccessful effort to calm myself. Electric Ink was pretty much what I had come to expect at tattoo parlors. Lots of big black binders offering the parlor’s options, full of naked women and mythic beasts, some tribal stuff, and a couple of flowers and birds, “for the chicks,” the guy behind the desk explained. “And lots of frat guys like Tasmanian Devils on their asses.” And this parlor, like others, was brightly lit. The artists, after all, need the light.

  Indeed, Electric Ink seemed pretty standard, as far as tattoo parlors go. Except I had this nagging thought in the back of my mind that Electric Ink’s artists seemed overly friendly. Thinking back to my last time at Artistic Tattooing, I realized how different this place was. Rusty was never big on jokes; in fact, he didn’t seem to be too keen on conversation in general. When I had gotten my tangoers, I had tried in vain to make some small talk with Rusty to keep my mind off of the needle.

  “So, how many customers you get a day?” I had asked.

  “Depends”

  “Business usually pretty good?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “How long have you been tattooing?”

  At this point, Rusty had stopped, turned off his needle, and looked me in the eye. He leaned in a little, and, in a tone that was barely audible, asked:

  “What are you, writing a book?”

  Nothing else was said. I never asked about the picture of him with Willie Nelson on the wall.

  But at Electric Ink, things were different. One of the guys asked me if I knew a local tattoo artist who works underground, out of Cambridge. I did. They asked me who had done my other tattoos. Rusty, I said. They knew him. They seemed impressed. This wasn’t good. And when they quoted me a price of one hundred dollars for an hour’s work—cheap by tattoo standards—I couldn’t help thinking of a sign Rusty had on the wall in Artistic Tattooing: “We’re not cheap but we’re good. Other shops charge less, but they know what their work is worth.”

  The more things progressed, the more the vibe spun out of control. As Scott, my artist, began to explain to me that his first tattoo was of a velociraptor from Jurassic Park, I did some quick calculations. Jurassic Park came out in June. Not much time had passed since then for him to perfect his craft.<
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  Still, I had already bought my ticket; now I had to take the ride. Scott began to shave my ankle, and before he was halfway around, had sliced me three times. Another guy who worked there joked about Scott’s famed “velvety touch.” Haha. Blood was dripping down my ankle, and Dan seemed to be getting nervous. He came up next to me and muttered something about leaving to take a walk.

  Great. Now our car was gone, and we were stranded on a quiet street in East Providence. I had known that Dan was the wild card, but I hadn’t counted on his deserting us. By this time, Scott had added another slice into my ankle and was liberally applying rubbing alcohol to my open wounds.

  Desperate to regain control of the situation, I began talking with the guy who seemed to know some people in Cambridge. He said something about having been in Boston over the weekend to get tickets for a Bad Religion concert, but I couldn’t quite make out what it was he was trying to say. But I wasn’t really listening; I was too busy watching Scott flub his first attempt at applying a stencil of the snake to my ankle. “Oh, really?” I mumbled absentmindedly, vaguely recalling that Bad Religion was some horrendous hard-core band.

  Apparently, this was the wrong response. “Yeah, really, huh,” the guy barked back at me. Great. Now there was one goon up front, one freak making a mess out of my ankle, and one combative dude, pissed that I had apparently misheard him. My sweat was growing stale, and my leg had started to shake a little. Dave looked over at me, apparently trying to figure out if everything was okay. And Scott was still fumbling with the now tattered stencil.