Pictorial: Six Tattoos

There’s nothing particularly attractive about Ohio–its northeast quadrant, specifically–beyond its small town charm. One road truncates ten towns and only the changes in their Welcome To signage demarcates their differences.

Glass storefronts adorn the idyllic Main Street of politicians’ lore, with barbershops and eateries promising barbecue, with antique shops showcasing grandfather clocks and first edition books no one ever read, middle-aged women walking with teenaged sons, young couples sitting on cement stoops plotting escape, and the leering eyes of homegrown folk following a car with out-of-state plates as it trundles through their neighborhood.

Whenever I travel, I make it a point to visit a town’s tattoo parlors. Somewhere in my mind, there’s a hint of exoticism involved: coming into a strange land, seeking out its painted, talented freaks, thinking of a way to further desecrate my body. Tattoos are like that in general; each one feels brand new, like hearing a song on the radio–a song once long forgotten, but the familiar beat creeps across your skin–and with eyes closed and mind cleared, you sing.

But there’s something about getting inked while on the road, away from the prying eyes of home. Not everyone approves of tattoos and everybody has a question. Why? Home invites inquiries upon change, whereas you’re reborn as a stranger, a visitor, a mere passerby during a vacation or weekend getaway. There, no one cares if you have tattoos; there, no one asks a question; there, they merely stare.

***

My skin is a blank page; I approach it without forethought or promise to stick to the plot. I never know what I’m going to get until minutes–hours at best–beforehand. I treat my body like a piece of notebook paper–fine, Moleskine quality tinted brown and baked to the color of tea underneath the May sun–and I’m always nervous before I scribble. I want to get it right.

It is the perfection of a writer moments before the opening salvo of his first draft. He sits down with hopes of a masterpiece–or something honest–although somewhere in his mind, somewhere near the exoticism of being a traveling tattooed human, he understand it won’t be perfect. Revision will be necessary.

But there is no revisionism when it comes to skin; what ends up on the paper is a true, unfettered and permanent document of his mind at a specific period of time. Sans revisionism, the risk for regret arises, as does the possible joy of association–attaching a tattoo to a beautiful moment, one which comes back in full-throated harmony like a forgotten song.

***

No matter what I’m doing–pumping gas at a rest stop or unloading our luggage from the trunk–I see the tattoo from the corner of my eye. Tabula Rasa in typewriter font streaks across my right forearm. Blank slate. It’s a mysterious tattoo: I remember getting it; I remember the needle, the burn; and yet, I’m trying to puzzle its meaning to me as opposed to knowing, to previously assigning a meaning or, better yet, a justification.

Meaning explains away the presence of a tattoo; a die-hard tattoo hater will understand angel wings for a dead grandmother or a robin’s shadow in memory of an unborn child. Meaning deflects; meaning is a reminder. What is the meaning of a blank slate?

Despite tattoos’ ubiquity these days, getting one is still an act of rebellion. Of what depends on the individual. My first three tattoos rebelled against the notion of permanence. It’s ironic, but getting a tattoo helped me understand and embrace change, alteration: who I am today does not automatically define who I will be tomorrow.

As a twenty-five year old depressive on the precipice of divorce, the difference between today and tomorrow was tantamount to survival, to reclamation. I rarely explain to people what my first three tattoos mean–or what they mean to me–though sometimes, the best answer I give them is this: I needed to remember.

***

While my wife is under the needle, I browse the tattoo parlor in search for inspiration. We are about 500 miles away from New Jersey, maybe a few blocks from the football hall of fame, entertaining my sister-in-law and her boyfriend. I’m feeling more and more nervous as the idea approaches, as I flip through pages of artwork, determined to alter myself for the sixth time.

A funny word: alteration. Is a notebook page something entirely different once it becomes soaked with ink? Or is it still fundamentally a piece of paper with a simple addition? Ink and paper combine to make–what? Art? Nonsense? Architectural schematics? The answer to an open-ended essay question?

Does the combination create infinite definition, endless meaning, a space as wide and deep as the universe for any and all association and exotic harmony?

The combination sings–a screech or a smooth, goosebump-inducing bellow–it sings and sings, stretches out long-limbed and languid, touching, pawing, pinching and fondling something beyond the simplicity of ink and paper as separate entities. Combined, the complexity escapes definition. The combination creates, in effect, something new. Ink and paper, ink and skin: I’m not leaving the tattoo parlor until I become something new.

Thomas DeMary, whose fiction has appeared in Up The Staircase, Monkeybicycleand is forthcoming in 4’33”, Used Furniture Review and PANK Magazine, currently lives in southern New Jersey. Visit him atwww.thomasdemary.com or @thomasdemary.