by Michelle Tea
Hey! the lady snapped. What are you doing! Don’t be a bitch! Why be a bitch? But she sounded more tired than mad.
No, look, Rose said. She held the sheet to her face. I’m sorry, but look. Look. That’s me, I’m Rose. Look. She bounded over to where I lay sprawled and wounded on the leatherette chair. Look, Trisha, it’s me.
On the sheet chaotic with skulls and anchors and even a red little donkey with the words kiss my ass etched around its prominent butthole, I saw what Rose was talking about. It was a girl wearing some hat that was half nurse’s cap and half the veily thing nuns wore on their heads. It had a big red cross like the first aid lunchbox. But it was the face that was creepy. The girl’s hair fell in waves to right where Rose’s hair fell on her own face. The face was gaunt and spooky but also pretty. Her cheeks were pink and her big eyes looked like they could see the future and the future was both interesting and sad. It looked just like Rose. It had her tiny mouth. She turned to the lady.
Her name is Rose? The plasticky sheet sounded like a rainstorm when she shook it.
They call her Rose of No Man’s Land, the tattoo lady said. Her hand was jammed onto her hip like she was holding the skeleton of her body together. It’s from World War One. That’s what the nurses looked like, they wore those long habits and helped the men wounded on the battlefield. If they lived they would get these nurses tattooed on them. The nurses saved their life.
I know someone in the war now, Rose said. She’s a nurse. Or she helps the nurses.
The lady got back down to wounded-foot-level and cracked open the first aid lunchbox. I could smell the powdery makeup smell of her face. I don’t think it’s the same thing anymore, she said. It’s a different time. It’s not that kind of war.
There’s no more Rose of No Man’s Lands?
The woman smiled. Just you, I think.
It really does look like me, right? I’m not crazy?
It looks like you. But yes, you’re also crazy. What are you girls on? She didn’t look at us. She had torn open a little foil packet with an alcoholc wipe squared inside it. She dabbed and pressed the thing onto my cut and a new, watery sting sharpened up and into my foot.
Ow, I said.
Sorry, babe. Gotta do it. You can take it. She tipped my foot out and tried to wring alcohol from the wipe into the cut. She was clearing away blood and grime. You’ve got glass in there, she told me.
Let me see, Rose crouched down, still clutching the tattoo poster.
Right there.
Oooooh, Rose made a puckered face, like she was sucking on a sour. Poor Trisha, she looked at me and I felt a charge that crowded out the stinging foot pain. My heart continued to slam. The lady clattered her hand around inside the lunchbox.
You’re Rose and you’re Trisha, she stated. We nodded. I’m Amber.
Amber, we said in unison. She was holding a pair of tweezers, they glinted in the overhead light.
Rose of No Man’s Land? She held the tweezers out to Rose. Do you want to do the honors?
Yeah, she said, clutching at the silver. I’m wicked good at shit like this. She looked up at me. Okay? It’s okay? I nodded. It seemed seriously right that Rose remove the glass from my foot. It felt like becoming blood sisters or something, something momentous and bonding. I flashed on the Chinese bathroom. It was another part of my body for Rose to visit. Here, she said, and thrust the poster at me. Hold this. I gazed at the drawing, tried to distract myself from the terrible feeling of the tweezers nudging into the cut. There were flowers with curling leaves. A giant man-eating rose with a pair of dice stuck in the center blossom. The words sworn to fun, loyal to none twined around a giant martini glass. Another design showed a banner curled around a sword. It read fortune honors bravery. That was deep. That was Rose.
Rose, You Should Get This One, I told her, pointing at the weapon. Only Tweezers Instead Of A Sword. Think About It. The tattoo lady smiled.
No, I should get Rose, she said. Her breath rolled off my toes. My heel stuck to her bare knee.
No Way, I said. I Should Get Rose. I rolled up the sleeve of my T-shirt and looked at my bare arm reflected in the mirror on the wall. Right There. A sharp, splitting feeling ran hot through my whole foot. I sunk my chewed-up nails so deep into the plump of my arm that I dented little curves into the skin. Rose brandished the tweezers, waving them in the air like a wand. A sliver of glass shone beneath smears of blood.
Buried treasure, she said. I was overwhelmed with gratitude. I couldn’t believe I had walked around on that.
You’re My Nurse, I said. I Get Rose.
Really? Rose asked. She looked so happy. You would get me? I nodded.
Like hell, said Amber. I don’t tattoo cracked-out shoeless teenage girls.
We don’t smoke crack! Rose said, offended. It’s crystal. It’s really good quality. I bet you’d like some.
Hmph, Amber grunted. She retrieved a tube of something gloopy and glopped it onto the hole in my foot. It felt cool and soothing. I bet I would too, she said. But also I don’t take drugs from cracked-out shoeless teenage girls.
Because You Like Them To Have All Their Drugs For Themselves? I asked. Rose laughed. She dropped the bit of glass into the biohazard bin with a plink you could hear. That fucker was big.
I am helping you kids, Amber said. Don’t fuck with me. She took the tweezers back.
How are we fucking with you? Rose demanded. She unzipped the backpack and pulled out the roll of money. The quarters had made it wet. Rose shook it off, started peeling individual bills from the murky green bundle. Look, we got money. We’re paying customers.
Where’d you steal that from? Amber said, glancing at the dough. She was gently placing squares of real gauze on top of my gloopy wound, sticking them into place with strips of white tape.
God, maybe I earned it. I’m a working person. I work at the mall. She waggled the damp money. It’s like two hundred dollars almost. How much for Trisha to get the Rose of Nowhereland tattoo?
No Man’s Land.
That’s Even Better, I said. No Man’s Land Is Better Than Nowhereland.
It would be a full two hundred dollars, Amber said. She snapped the lunchbox shut. At least. If I tattooed teenagers, which I don’t. She looked down at my padded foot. Where the fuck are your shoes?
A Waitress At The Chinese Restaurant Took Them, I said.
At Weyloon’s? she asked. I nodded. I bet she had no reason, she said. I bet she stole them right off your feet.
I shrugged. I Left Them In The Bathroom.
Amber shook her head. You girls are trouble. She looked down at Rose counting out piles of wet quarters onto the floor. The front door tinkled open.
Wooo yeah! a guy crowed into the shop. His long legs took him up to the counter in two giant steps. He slapped his meaty hands down onto a stack of black books. Hey sweetheart. He was talking to Amber. The tattoo artist in? I want to get a four-leaf clover. A shamrock?
His friend was in the door behind him, chiming in. Sweet! Sham-rock! The smell of yeasty beer gushed out on hot breath and made me remember we had one Yikes left. I thought about going into the tattoo parlor bathroom with Rose and pounding it. That thought made me want a cigarette. Maybe there was a window we could smoke out of. Then we could do more crystal. We could leave Amber to tattoo shamrocks on the losers from Seamus O’Maniac’s and she could come fetch us from the bathroom when she was done. Was it even legal for us to be in the tattoo shop? Were they like bars where you had to be an adult? Some of the art on the walls was wicked pornographic. Bunches of big, rosy boobs and cranked-open legs. Some weird ones with ladies getting their head chopped off, and even a flag with a Nazi sign on it. The place felt a little creepy. The two dudes from the bar didn’t cheer it up.
No, the artist is gone for the day, Amber said. We were just closing up.
Aw, you’re shittin’ me, the guy said. His voice was thick with slurred disappointment. What you got the light on for? That’s false advertising.
So
rry guys. Amber swung out the tiny saloon door and moved across the room to the entrance. She swept the glass door open with a chime. The men sludged toward her. They were wasted.
Just a shamrock, sweetheart. How much a shamrock cost? When’s the dude in?
Try tomorrow, Amber said. She leaned against the open door and sighed. Come on, guys.
Come on, guys, the tattoo-dude’s friend said in a fake girl voice. He sort of swished himself out the door. Drunk dudes always love to pretend they’re girls. Amber swung the door shut and switched the lock. She unraveled a long shade, blocking the view of the parking lot and the still-teetering, guys. They were woo-ing again. We could hear them outside, like we were in some sort of naturey cabin and there were packs of crazy animals prowling outside, howling. Amber hit a light switch, and the blue neon glow in the front window went cold.
I just don’t have it in me to give another shamrock tattoo, Amber said, almost sadly. She sunk her blunt fingers into the dry mop of her hair and scratched her scalp wildly, shaking white-yellow clumps of hair to attention all over her head.
You Give A Lot Of Shamrock Tattoos? I asked her. She nodded. Her crazy hair bobbed on her head like bird feathers.
All those guys, they get wasted and want shamrocks. Just little, teeny shamrocks, on their arms or on their ankles. They’re pussies, she said. They’re too drunk and they bleed all over the place and they smell awful.
Fuck them! Rose chimed in, standing up from the floor. You like us though, right? You wouldn’t have fixed Trisha’s foot if you didn’t like us.
It’s got nothing to do with that, Amber said sternly. I’m not going to let some kid with a huge gash in her foot hobble around Route 1 all bloody. It has nothing to do with liking you.
But you like us, Rose insisted. She smiled. Her hands were filled with money. One grubby little fist clutched the wad of cash, her other paw dripped coins. They spilled from her grip, spinning shiny on the linoleum.
I don’t know if “like” is the right word, Amber said. What, did you rob a bank?
The River At Weyloon’s, I told her. We Robbed The River.
Trouble, Amber repeated. That’s what you girls are.
That would be a good tattoo, huh? Rose asked. She tugged down the front of her nightgown, showing off her bony sternum. Every time she moved her hands money fell out of them. Silver shine slid down her body, beneath her shredded nightgown and onto the floor, like she was peeing quarters. Trouble, she said, moving her hands across her bare skin. I could imagine it, in thick looping script, or those unreadable gang boy letters.
No way, Amber said. Final answer. I’m not dealing with your crazy cracked-out moms coming here to kill me in the morning ’cause I tattooed their babies. Or your crazy drunk dads with shotguns or whatever.
Whoa, I said. I got up from my luxurious recliner. It had felt nice, but my body was way too zingy to keep still. You Think We’re, Like, From A Talk Show Or Something? Like Jerry Springer? Like From Florida?
Amber laughed and shook her head. She went for the red cross lunchbox and packed up the first aid supplies. I just never seen more fucked-up looking girls in my life, she laughed. I am not tattooing you.
Our Moms Don’t Care, I told her. My Mom Won’t Ever Come Here. She Just Stays On The Couch, She’s Sick.
What’s wrong with her?
A Bunch Of Things. Mostly Hypochondria. And Rose’s Mom Is A Lesbian, So She’s Not Going To Care About A Tattoo.
Amber turned to Rose. It looked like a Doberman had eaten the bottom half of her dress. You’re mom is a lesbian? Amber asked her. Rose nodded. Hmmmm. Amber went thoughtful. I wondered if she was racist against lesbian people. So, are you a lesbian too? Are you guys lesbians together? Her hand shot out and waggled in the air between me and Rose. I was bursting with glee, a maniacal glee. I wanted to tell Amber, this stranger, all about kissing Rose at the golf course, about what she had done to me in the Weyloon’s bathroom, about what she was doing to me still, my body vibrating with crazy memory. I didn’t even care if it made me a lesbian. It’s not like I was going to lose any popularity with the world. The world pretty much didn’t give a shit about me before I lezzed out with Rose, and I gave no shit about it, either, so fuck it all is what I figured. I was on the verge of a too-much-info confession session with cranky Amber. And then Rose fucking ruined it.
I’m not a lesbian, she said. She said it in that weird way. She could have been any rotten girl from any lousy high school. We could have been in the girl’s bathroom, regulation pink from the walls rosing up our faces. Rose sounded like she was looking at a toilet stall door that had ROSE WHATEVER THE FUCK HER LAST NAME IS IS A GODDAMN LESBIAN JUST LIKE HER LESBIAN MOM scratched into the flaking layers of paint. She sounded grossed out. I stared at her. I could still feel her in my downstairs parts. What if she’d messed me up down there for good.
You’re Not? I asked her. I guess I sounded challenging. Amber’s eyebrows went up. So did the corners of her mouth, just a little. I could tell Amber thought she knew everything that was up with us and was kind of amused by it. I hated her for thinking she knew anything and I hated her for getting it right.
No, Rose snapped at me. I’m not a lesbian. Do you even know any lesbians? She was weirdly accusational.
No, I said.
If you knew any lesbians then you would know I’m not a lesbian.
You have a boyfriend? Amber asked. She had this fake innocent voice on.
I mess around with a guy at work, Rose said. She didn’t sound too proud of it. Her eyes were cast down at the coins that had fallen from her grip. She crouched down to fetch them.
Marty? I asked. It sounded like I was spitting or something. Hucking a loogie, a loogie named Marty. Fuck Marty, I said. A bold statement. It seemed like the hour for bold statements. It seemed like a showdown here at the 777 tattoo parlor.
Yeah, right, Rose laughed. Rose was trying to make a joke.
Are you in love with Marty? Amber asked, tauntingly. Who the fuck was Amber anyway. We were now her evening’s entertainment. She owed us both free tattoos, I thought. We weren’t a fucking reality show.
No, Rose scoffed. He’s just a guy.
I felt a surge of something hopeful puff up inside me. Does Marty Have Tattoos? I asked her. She thought about it.
No, she said. No and I don’t want to talk about fucking Marty, why are we talking all about me, why don’t you ask Trisha if she’s a lesbian or if she has a boyfriend. Leave me alone. Everyone always wants to know about me because of my fucking mom.
Amber looked at me. Are you a lesbo? she asked. I looked at Rose. I’d be one if she was, but now if she wasn’t I didn’t know what was up with me. Maybe I was just on a lot of drugs. Maybe crystal makes you lez. I shrugged.
I Don’t Know, I said. I’d Never Considered It Before Tonight, I said. Before Rose fucked me in a Chinese restaurant, I wanted to say but amazingly managed to keep my mouth shut.
Amber was looking me up and down with that face of hers. I don’t think I liked her much. Why was everyone so hateful? You’re a lesbian, she told me. For sure. I didn’t know what to say to that. It wasn’t like some joker on the street calling me a lezzie. It was a rather calm adult informing me I was a lesbian.
Oh, Really? I said. What Do You Know?
Come on, Rose said. Cut this shit out. Who cares. Are you going to give Trisha the tattoo or what? She moved forward with her heaps of dough and plonked it all on the table. We’ll even give you the quarters. For laundry and parking meters and whatnot.
Amber quietly considered the cash. It would be nice, she said, not to do another fucking shamrock.
No way! Rose said, excited. Trisha wouldn’t ever get a pussy tattoo like that. You’d give her this — she dashed for the poster that held the original Rose. She brandished it. Where? she turned to me. Where did you say? She was next to me, tugging the sleeve of my T-shirt up, showing my naked arm to Amber. When her fingers hit me my whole body was jolted with Rose-energy. My bo
dy hopped up on its hind legs and started slobbering. Jesus. I looked at her. What about fucking Marty, I wanted to ask her. Who the fuck is Marty, what is up, who am I, what is fucking up with me, what is going on? Marty. I imagined some greasy little fry-man, with frizzy hair poofing out under a hairnet. Red-faced and zitty with one giant eyebrow, a pimply teenage clown, no, not teenage, worse than that, one of those guys who graduated a few years ago but is stunted at the same dating age, always hanging out with high schoolers, buying them beer. Marty. But maybe not. Maybe he was some lean and muscly kid with a scrawny mustache and one earring glinting in an earlobe, the not-gay earlobe. Maybe he worked the fryers with his shirt off, tucked into the back pockets of his baggy baggy pants, the waistband of his man-panties sticking out, the word TROUBLE tattooed across his chest in gang letters. Maybe even a gold chain or two. Fuck Marty. Would Marty get a picture of Rose tattooed onto him? I didn’t think so. Did Marty understand Rose, did he know that she was the Rose of No Man’s Land, the spooky ghost-nurse of nighttime Route 1. Marty didn’t know shit. Fuck Marty.
Right There, I said. I flexed my left arm, like there was some sort of muscle under there. C’mon, I said to Amber. You’ll Get To Keep Hanging Out With Us. We’ll Give You Crystal Too.
Oh, fuck, Amber sighed. Fuck you guys. She prodded the pile of money with a finger. All right. I’ll set it up in here and you set it up in there. She pointed to the bathroom. You know I could get arrested. You know that, right? You get it? I’m making a big exception for you girls.
Yeeeeah! Rose leaped into the air. She snatched up the backpack and loped off in the direction of the bathroom. I followed her.
Stay out of each others’ pants in there, you little lesbos! Amber laughed. She loved that we were little lesbos. I think I hated Amber. But in a homey way, like hating Kristy or even Donnie.
In the bathroom I was quiet and looked around at all the posters on the walls, more tattoo shit, ads for tattoo conventions and big posters of skulls with snakes crawling through the empty eyeholes. A little plastic shelf piled with a jumble of crusty dusty makeup and hairbrushes furry with hairballs. A box of tampons and a gleaming pink metal can of hair spray. Grab me a few tampons, Rose said, looking at the mess. I plonked a handful into the backpack. I threw the hair spray in as well, just for fun. Later I would impress Rose with giant fireballs. It would be our own raw laser light show. Rose was efficiently laying out the drugs on the smooth white back of the toilet. She was scraping the powder into lines using the edge of one of the naked Polaroids. Amber’s got all the money now, she said. We’ve got nothing to snort it with. That was stupid, huh? Do you think that was stupid? I should have kept some for us. She looked at me. Are you scared? About the tattoo? I thought about it. I felt scared, but not about the tattoo. I just felt scared. I tried to figure out what was scaring me.