I wouldn’t call myself a paranormal freak. I don’t believe in conspiracies or aliens. I like to think that the government isn’t using us as guinea pigs. I’m a pretty spiritual person, actually. I like to “dabble” in religions. I believe in things like karmic retribution and that being good in this life brings happiness in another. I believe in God and miracles, but I don’t believe in organized religion; the hypocrisy of it all makes me sick. I believe in the right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. And I believe in fate. Oh, do I believe in fate. I believe everyone is put on this Earth to fulfill a certain destiny. I believe we all have a calling and a purpose in life. I believe in predetermination; you have a path you’re set forth on. But I also believe that the path from one life alerting event to another is not straight and clean cut. I think we screw up the directions and get lost many, many times along the way.
I was in the midst of one of those lost times when I took that visit to see my friend Beck. She lived in Long Beach and I was suffering from a horrendous break-up that February. Long Beach was far enough away so that I wouldn’t run into my ex (or his mistress) but close enough to home that I could drive. I left San Diego at first light. I wanted to be out of town before the city knew what I was up to. Driving along the coast with the wind in my face was invigorating. My little pick-up truck rattled up the freeway, music blaring from its speakers, whisking me away from my pain and humiliation. I sang at the top of my lungs to a poppy Christina Aguilera song, bopping my head along with the beat.
The roads were nearly empty—an amazing feat for anywhere in Southern California on any day of the week. I ran my fingers through my long brown hair. God I hated it. It was stick straight, exactly how my ex had liked it. Long and straight, and completely boring. Just like him. I grimaced. I was not looking forward to delving into the story with Beck, but I knew it would be therapeutic. Plus I didn’t want to spend the whole weekend saying, “Yeah…my ex was such an asshole.” She’d know it from the get-go and we could just enjoy ourselves. But he was such an asshole.
Two wasted years. That’s what I committed to that—well, I’d say asshole, but the term is being used a lot now, isn’t it? We were engaged, living together, working together. And somehow in the midst of all that, he was carrying on an affair. And the girl had the worst name ever. Myrna. It’s not even a name you can say without making a horrible face. The long, drawn out break-up began in December and had finally ended a few weeks ago with the last of my things being moved out of our apartment. He had initiated it (ever-so-thoughtfully) on Christmas day. I was putting the finishing touches on our gifts when he came out of our bedroom. He looked down at me and said, “I don’t think it’s working. I think you should move back in with your parents.” Merry-fucking-Christmas to me. Bastard.
“Oh my God. What an asshole!” Beck said disbelievingly.
I nodded my head, and brought up my shoulders in a shrug. “I know!”
We were sitting in her room, which she shared with her housemate, Meg. They shared the apartment with two guys who went to the local college. I had woken Beck up when I got there; she wasn’t expecting me at her door before eight that morning. She was sitting on her bed in her jammies, coffee mug in hand; her face make-up smeared from the night before. My clothes were already scattered about her half of the room. It looked as if my suitcase had thrown up.
“Anyways, I’m here now and this weekend is the first weekend of my new life,” I declared. “And I want to pierce something, get a tattoo, and party!”
Beck laughed. “That’s what you said on the phone. I’ve found a few places we can go. They’re in Hollywood mostly, but it’s not that far from here.”
“You’re going to get one too, right?” There’s something strangely comforting about mutilating your body with a friend.
“I think so…but I haven’t decided what yet. I was thinking two barrel-of-monkey monkeys.” I raised my eyebrow. “You know, two little monkeys with their hands hooked together.” She demonstrated by hooking her index fingers with one another.
“I’m getting this,” I said, whipping out a picture. I had pieced together a blue butterfly and some bare, leafless branches that looked twisted and unforgiving. I knew it was wrong to get permanent ink reflecting your anger—but rationality wasn’t really my main concern. Besides, the premise was something beautiful in the midst of something tortured, and that felt sacred to me.
Beck walked around her room, picking up odds and ends of clothing. I watched her, transfixed, as she took a couple articles of dime-store garments and made them into a chic outfit. She wore a black camisole top under a soft pink and white sweater who’s neck line had been cut so it angled off her shoulders. On her hips, a black and white stripped skirt. She completed the outfit with a string of faux pearls and black tennis shoes. She methodically plugged in her hair straightener and pulled out a pair of scissors. I stared as she snipped a few pieces of hair in no real order.
“You cut your own hair?” I asked incredulously.
She laughed at my shock. “I’m poor—of course I cut my own hair! Besides, I like the whole jagged-edge-chunky-layer look. Want me to do yours?” she asked, turning towards me.
“Yes,” I said without a minute’s hesitation.
Beck looked a little shocked. “I was kidding. Do you really want me to?”
I nodded enthusiastically and quickly ran a brush through my hair. I took a seat on the vanity chair in front of the sink. Beck set to work cutting and snipping layers into my hair (in no real order). Before long I had an edgy, flirty, punk rocker-ette coif. I shook my head.
“It looks great!”
“I think you look hot!” Beck giggled. “Ready to get tattooed?”
We ran downstairs to her little blue Geo. I sat back in the passenger’s seat feeling relaxed, powerful, and excited. I wanted a new start and Beck was doing all that she could to give me one. As we chugged along the freeway (now bumper to bumper with cars), I couldn’t help but imagine my homecoming. Maybe I’d start listening to obscure-new-to-the-scene bands as well. Start wearing clothes that were a little less mainstream. Start trying new things, getting into trouble. I sighed. Limitless possibilities.
. . .
Beck and I arrived at House of Freaks around one that afternoon. We made appointments to get our piercings done (nothing until five thirty—apparently the rest of L.A. was also going through a torrential break up) and then walked over to the tattoo parlor next door. The first thing that struck me was how open and bright the space was. Like a downtown loft. Two artists sat behind a counter, each with someone in their chairs. The buzz of their needles sent a ripple of nervousness through me.
“Hey ladies—have a seat and we’ll be with you in a little bit.”
Beck and I decided to wander around first. We stood at each wall and gazed at the numerous options for inking one’s body. Every so often I’d glace towards the waiting room where a trio of guys were sitting. They were just as curious about us, as several times, I caught eyes with them. One more often than the others; he was dark skinned with a sweet smile. Their sharp haircuts suggested military. In this area, they were either sailors or Marines.
“Did I ever tell you about my first Marine?” I whispered to Beck as we continued to take in the drawings.
She shook her head, too distracted by an intricate design that would have easily taken up my entire back and then some.
“I was sixteen. My church had adopted a unit for Thanksgiving. He was so cute! He had this Michigan accent that was so adorable, big baby blue eyes, and a body that came straight from boot camp. Mm!”
Beck looked at me. “Easy there killer.”
I shook my head. “They just don’t make boys like that at sixteen! He was an adult to me.”
We were silent for a bit.
“Anything ever become of it?” Beck finally asked.
I shook my head. “No. A few phone calls, a letter. Then he was sent to Japan. I think he called me once from there and that was it. Since then I’ve tried to find him a couple times but no luck. I’ve always wondered what happened to him.”
“Ah, the one that got away,” Beck mocked me.
“Kind of,” I replied honestly. “I think about him to this day.”
One of the tattoo artists called out, interrupting my trip down memory lane. We hadn’t realized we’d been walking around for nearly half an hour. He had already finished with his client and was motioning us to the counter. Beck and I ambled over. His partner had already started on the guy I’d been flirting with. He had his shirt off revealing an elaborate design in blue ink which already had some shading completed.
“I’ll be tattooing you today,” our artist said, shaking our hands. He had full sleeves running up and down both arms and I could see additional artwork under his collar. “Why don’t you show me what you were thinking, and then we’ll decided who’s going first. Have you ladies ever been tattooed before?”
Beck and I shook our heads. He looked quite pleased. “Very nice.” He spoke with a diluted Spanish accent. Not the same as what we commonly heard in Southern California.
Beck started to explain what she wanted and slipped him her example. She explained that she wanted the monkeys in all black so it looked like a shadow or silhouette. When she was finished I pulled mine out of my back pocket and let him see it.
“Nice,” he said again. “Where are these going?”
“Lower back,” I said. So typical, but it was where I wanted it.
“Inner thigh,” Beck declared.
As we waited for the artist to prep his area, Beck turned her attention to the others sitting with us. “From around here?”
They shook their heads. “No ma’am.”
Definitely military.
