found drama

Twenty-first century reconstituted strip mall; buried in sand but well-contained in some impermeable geodesic dome.  We (A. & I) descend through the longest escalator in history into this gray-lit, half-closed-and-boarded-up mall.  My tattoo artist is here.  When we arrive, I have forgotten what brought me there.  A new tattoo?  Something else?  She seems happy to see me and dusts the chair off with a towel like a barber from some olde fashioned silent movie.  What’ll it be?  I roll up my sleeve and show her my Scorpio tattoo.  Just a touch up, I say … and (I grab a fat black magic marker and draw a circle around it) may as well do this little addition here.  She seems a little confused.  It does not seem to be a very well thought-out addition to the existing ink werk.  A circle?  I do not admit to her that it’s just my feeble attempt at covering for the fact that I don’t remember why I came down here.  She goes to work on the edges of my existing ink, touching up the spots where it could stand to be a little more crisp.  Before she can start on the circle though, we are interrupted.  Some fifteen year old looking Girl Scout is down trying to sell my tattoo inker something (decidedly not cookies) and the inker tells this “vegan proselytizer” to get lost.  That’s enough for me to sit up, wrap my tattoo in a bandage and explain that I’ll be back later.  Some other errand to attend to.  I’ll pay you back when I swing back next time…

About Rob Friesel