Tats (17 page)

“My spirit has been smothered by humiliation.” To prove my point, I plop down on the bed and cover my face with my arm.

“Get up,” she says, throwing a pillow at me. “You can do this. It’s simple.”

“I don’t wanna,” I mumble into my arm.

“Listen, if I can teach stupid Sue Anne, I can teach you. On your feet.”

“Okay, okay,” I sigh and get back up.

“Just clap your thighs when I do. Watch.” Vivian makes her arms rigid and slaps the outside of her thighs, saying, “Ready. Okay.”

I give it a try. “Ready. Okay.”

“Do it like you mean it,” she instructs. “With me.”

“Ready. Okay,” we say, slapping our thighs.

“Again,” she drills. “Do it
with
me.”

Again. “Ready. Okay.”

Vivian sighs. “By
with
me, I meant at the same time as me. Not after me. Not before me. Try it again.”

I really try this time. I give it my all. “Ready. Okay.”

By the look of her disgusted face, I guess I didn’t do so good.

She grabs my pom-poms from me. “You don’t deserve these,” she says, tossing them into the corner.

“Cheerleading’s harder than I thought,” I say in a half-hearted effort to cheer her up.

She perks up again. “Wanna play Barbies?”

“You wouldn’t like how I play Barbies,” I answer. “I shave their heads. Bury them in the backyard up to their necks and pour syrup on them.”

“We can do that later,” she says and tosses me an old used Barbie. She grabs another Barbie, one much prettier than mine, I notice, but decline to comment.

Vivian sits on the floor Indian-style and pats the space across from her. I sit where she wants, but don’t have the slightest idea what to do. “I’ve never done this before,” I admit.

“Just follow my lead and do what comes naturally.”

She holds her Barbie up in the air by its legs and speaks for the doll, “What do you want to do tonight, Midge?”

“I can see your lips moving,” I retort.

Vivian glares at me and through clenched teeth snarls, “Play along or I won’t show you my tits.”

Feeling oh-so-stupid, I hold my doll up in the air by its legs and pretend she’s speaking in a little high voice, “Can you believe it’s been fifteen years since high school, Barbie? Seems like only yesterday when we were cheerleaders. I wonder if I can still do the splits?”

Barbie deadpans, “Looks like you’ve had a few
banana
splits.”

“Yeah. Now I’d probably be at the bottom of the pyramid.”

“You would be the pyramid.”

“You’re so hateful,” Midge says. “And I know why. It’s because you can’t bend your arms. If you could bend your arms and pleasure yourself once in awhile then you wouldn’t be so hateful all the time.”

“No, my problem is that Ken has no genitalia. That would make any girl grumpy,” Barbie reasons.

Midge responds, “We should complain to Mattel. Grab a pen, Barbie, write this down. ‘Dear Mattel, as our creator, you must know that I have lived for thirty-two years without a belly button, nipples or any girlie parts. Could you please reconsider your stance on this very important issue?’”

“Also,” Barbie writes, “I would prefer to be paired with the manly and bearded G.I. Joe doll as Ken is a eunuch.”

“And instead of pink high heels,” Midge interjects, “can I have some flip-flops? Water retention and bunions are killing me.”

“And a pink feathered merkin,” Barbie adds. Vivian looks at me and says in an aside, “What the hell, the squeaky wheel gets the grease, right?”

“And P.S.,” Barbie continues, “can you make my arms bendable? I’m awfully cranky. Sincerely, Midge and Barbie.”

“P.S.S,” I add, “while you’re at it, can you give my best friend Skipper bigger tits?”

Vivian whops me in the arm with her Barbie, laughing.

“Now show me your tits,” Midge says to Barbie.

Barbie strips off her blouse and sexy dances in front of Midge.

“You’re a dirty girl, Barbie. A dirty, dirty girl,” Midge says.

Hours go by in minutes and seconds tick on for days. That’s the miracle of whiskey and Xanax. By now we’re both back under the tent. I’m in just an old T-shirt of Vivian’s and my boxers and she wears some cute little baby-doll pajamas. How long we’ve been under here I have no idea, but it feels like centuries. In a good kinda way. We’re both really sleepy, but like little kids we want to stay awake just one more minute.

“So what do you do, anyway?” Vivian asks, sleepily, “just live off all the women who throw themselves at you?”

“I’ve never had a woman throw herself at me. I’ve had them throw shit at
me.”

“C’mon...all the women stare at you. Everywhere we go. You think I haven’t noticed?”

“Everyone stares at freaks,” I respond. “It’s human nature.”

“Self-deprecation is not a lovely quality,” says Vivian. “What do you do for money?”

“You mean before you threw yourself at me and started paying my way?”

“Exactly.”

“I buy old motorcycles. Fix ’em up. Sell ’em.”

“There a lot of money in that?” she asks.

“Not much. I really want to start my own motorcycle repair shop, though.”

She perks up. “Really?”

“Yeah, I think I’d be pretty good at it.”

“Does it hurt to get a tattoo?” she asks, tracing one finger lightly over my sleeve.

“Not really. A little. You want one? I could make a tattoo gun, I know how. I could give you a butterfly or something.”

“I think not,” she yawns. “But if you ever learn to do breast implants let me know.” Then she closes her eyes and promptly falls asleep.

I watch her still face for a moment before I whisper, “Are you asleep?”

She doesn’t answer, so I guess she is.

“If you don’t wake up, I’m going to peek at your tits,” I whisper lightly.

“Leave my tits alone. Tell me a bedtime story so I can go to sleep.”

“Okay...a bedtime story. This is the story of our adventure. Once upon a time, in the not-so-distant future, there is a pandemic flu that wipes out most of mankind. Only the lowliest, the scourge of the planet are left. Which means me, of course. I steal a Harley and ride across the scorched earth. I sleep in Walmarts at night. I live on pork rinds and Oreos. I answer to no one. I only change my clothes once a week and I find great comfort in my own smell. My hair dreads naturally. I never shave my armpits or my legs ever again. And when I find you trying to walk across the desert in your fancy Choos, I give you a ride. We wear surgical masks as we ride through the desert sandstorm. We eat canned beans and laugh at our own farts. We raid pharmacies and count ourselves as lucky to still be alive days later. I defend your womanhood from the lowly scavengers by using aerosol hairspray and a Bic lighter. I paint my surgical mask to show flames coming out of my mouth. I am known to all as FireBreather. And one bright moon-filled night, you awaken from your drug-induced slumber. You walk out to the Walmart parking lot and find me in a compromising position with Queen Latifah. She’s taking me from behind by brute force and I don’t look like I’m enjoying it. You pull a bow and arrow out of your big, red bag and harpoon Queen in her fleshy buttocks. She screams like a little girl and limps away. I am most grateful for your defense of my
womanhood. To show my undying adoration, I self-tattoo a picture of you with only one breast, aiming your bow and arrow. On my left calf. Forever after you are known as Amazonia. You are highly feared by all. FireBreather and Amazonia rule the earth. Such as it may be. There is no money on this new earth. The only currency we have is your womanly flower which we use to barter for gasoline. And I like to ride my bike a lot, so get ready.”

Vivian sighs, “Oh, I just adore happily ever after.” Then she’s off to sleep for good.

I crawl out of the tent and find my ugly Midge doll. I strip her down naked and carefully dress her in Ken’s jeans and turquoise wife-beater. Somehow this small act comforts me. I crawl back inside the tent and lay down beside Vivian with Midge clasped tightly in my fist.

I pose aloud the question that’s been bugging me lately, “If I never have sex again, am I still a lesbian?”  With this question echoing in my soggy brain, I nestle up next to Vivian and fall into a deep, deep sleep.

I wake up to a nightmare. Vivian’s face is hanging upside down just inches from my own. Why is her hair suddenly orange? Her upside down mouth moves—she’s yelling and talking non-stop—oh my God. That’s not Vivian, it’s her mother. Her mother has pulled up a tent flap and is looking in at us. I just manage to catch the last bit of what Mom is saying: “—Are you pregnant?!”

Vivian props herself up on both elbows and shouts back to her mother, “I’m not pregnant and stop yelling! I’m not deaf either!”

But that doesn’t faze Mom. “Well, then you better stop stuffing your face with Daddy’s cupcakes because you look pregnant! And what in God’s good name is with your hair? Did you cut it that way on purpose?! Get ready, I’m going to take you to my beautician! She can fix that mess! She does wonders with overprocessed hair! I’ve been wanting you to meet her!”

Mom rips the bedspread off us and whips it back on the bed, shouting the whole while, “She’s the prettiest little thing! Though Lord knows she wasn’t always so little! She’s lost a whole bunch of weight, but she always did have such a pretty face! Her name is Cindi and she married a Negra man and has three kids! Those Negras don’t seem to mind a big tookus on a woman, but she lost it anyway, thank the good Lord!”

Mom smooths out the wrinkles on the bedspread and stands back with her hands on her narrow hips to admire her handiwork. “Those kids of hers are all such a pretty color!”

She looks over at me still lying on the floor and wrinkles her nose in disgust. She whispers loudly to Vivian like I’m not even in the room, “What have I told you about bringing strange men into this house?”

Vivian giggles and shouts back, “He’s not that strange, Mom!”

Mom spins on her pointy high-heeled shoes, shouting through the doorway, “R.J! She’s back!! And she brought home a tattooed sailor this time!”

Mom exits the bedroom with a bounce and a flourish, taking most of the oxygen with her.

Vivian and I stare at each other, unblinking, for a solid minute.

“She’ll calm down after her morning pills kick in,” Vivian states.

I fetch my jeans and boots and jacket out of the car while Vivian takes a shower. I go through her closet and find a really cool old Chargers T-shirt. I jump in the shower after her and scrub all the makeup off my face and let my dreads down. I’ve never felt so good to be just myself.

By the time Vivian and I make our appearance in the kitchen, Dottie (Vivian told me her mom’s name is Dottie) is flipping the pancakes off the griddle. Vivian’s dad, R.J., is pouring a gallon of syrup over his stack of pancakes.

R.J. is a pretty good-looking man. Kinda skinny, but in a good wiry kinda way. Strong chin and bright blue eyes. His hair’s all gray, but he has lots of it. And the man’s not afraid to eat.

Vivian beelines straight up to him and plants a kiss on his cheek. He doesn’t say anything, but his eyes light up.

Dottie points her spatula at Vivian like it’s a weapon (and maybe it is for all I know). “Aren’t you even going to introduce us to your young man?” she asks.

Vivian laughs, cups her hand around her mother’s ear and whispers. Dottie’s eyes open wide and she looks me up and down.

“Well...” Dottie starts, “does your
lady
friend want some pancakes?!”

“Yes, ma’am, please,” I say, taking the chair across from Vivian.

I feel the urgent need to fill the conversation void so I steer to friendly territory. “I see where Marie Osmond has another fan. Besides me, I mean.”

Vivian throws me a look like I’ve lost my mind, but Dottie brightens and gives me a huge smile. “Oh, do you like Marie also?” she asks.

“Who doesn’t,” I say. “You know her career has spanned forty years now. That right there is a testament to her God-given talent,” I lie profusely, “...if you ask me, that is.”

And that’s all it takes. Dottie is off and running. “Marie has eight children, you know! And she still finds time to run her doll business, write books and even do shows in Las Vegas with Donny, that adorable brother of hers! She’s lost a lot of weight, too! She’s on a commercial for that diet lady! Jenny Craig? No, I think it’s Nutrisystem! She says she’s lost forty-one pounds! But I think they’re lying! It looks to me just like they fluffed her hair higher and had her stand at an angle!” She leans down and whispers, “Poor thing. Her son killed himself, you know.”

Vivian and her dad and I grin at each other over our pancakes.

I volunteer to wash the breakfast dishes like a good Eddie Haskell and as I dry and stack, I listen to Vivian and Dottie yelling at each other in the back part of the house. “You’re not supposed to take three ibuprofen all at the same time, Vivian! The directions say to just take one tablet every four hours!”

“I’m taking a whole day’s worth!” Vivian shouts back. “Besides, those are suggestions, not directions. The more pills you take, the happier you feel!”

“You take this lightly and you die!” Dottie shouts again.

“Well, I wish someone would put me out of my fucking misery!”

A door slams from somewhere deep within the bowels of the house.

Then, thank God, I hear the siren call of an engine in distress.

I walk out to the backyard and see R.J. sitting on a brand-new riding lawnmower. He’s red in the face and sweating in the hot sun. He’s giving ’er hell, turning the key and pumping the gas, but the engine only catches hold for a few seconds before petering out. He’s tried to turn it over so many times the battery’s damn near dead. I watch him for a moment in silence. I know better than to tell a man anything about engines.

He catches sight of me and one side of his mouth turns up in a self-conscious smile. “Must’ve flooded it,” he says.

“No, sir,” I say. “Sounds like you got some condensation in the fuel line. Happens a lot round here with all the humidity in the air.”

“You think?” he asks, his tone neutral.

I take his response as an invitation to proceed, so I do. I locate the gas tank and follow the fuel line to the in-line filter. I unclip the filter, drain it, and wave it around in the air, drying it out. After a while I blow on it just to make sure.