More Than Skin Deep

The bar is mostly empty tonight as you take seat. "Figures," you think to yourself, "the one night I need a story and no one's here." Without a story, your columnist days are over. You're already treading on thin ice as it is.

As you sit, sipping a beer and thinking how unfair your life is, someone catches your eye. He's about six or so feet tall from what you can tell. He turns his face and you blink in surprise. Not only does he have dozens of tattoos, you can't see an inch of exposed skin. You smile and flip open your omnipresent notepad. You'll get your story yet.

"Mind if I take a seat?" You exaggerate a smile while pulling up a chair. He stares at you warily. You try not to stare back, but it's rather hard. There are so many tattoos and intricate lines dying to be discovered. You cough awkwardly and take a swallow of beer. "I'm a columnist for the local paper, and I was wondering if you had time for an interview?" He is silently cautious. "I'd love to hear the story of all your ... artwork."

Something unrecognizable flashed behind his eyes. He didn't miss your hesitation, but seems to appreciate the effort. He shrugs and relaxes his shoulders. You take a brief moment to examine him, "You sure have a lot."

"They're addicting." You wait for him to elaborate but he doesn't.

"So, um..." You bite the cap of your pen thoughtfully, "What do you like most about them?"

"People stare at me," he says and you give him a questioning look, "but that's what I want."

"Is that what they're for then? Attention?"

He traces one of the many intricate lines of ink along his jaw, "I suppose it seems like that, huh?" You wait. "You want to know what they mean - if they mean anything." It is not a question.

You shrug. You are curious.

He points to a black spiderweb, "I'm deathly allergic to spiders, and I got bit by one when I was twelve."

The skull on his face, "Reminds me that I'm only human."

The radiation symbol on his chest, "So people understand that we're killing the earth."

The brain inside the skull, "Because for a long time, no one thought I had one." You can't help but chuckle a little at this one.

After the fifth or sixth, you stop him. "Okay, okay. So they have meanings. But what makes everything in your life so important you want it on your body forever?"

He stares at you for a second, the darkness around his eyes seems to filter through your chest and into your soul. "My tattoos tell a story."

"Yes, yes. You told me tha--"

"No. They tell a story. One." He takes a breath, "Mine."

You scowl, thinking he is being redundant, "I know--"

"But you don't," he says, "These tattoos tell the story of my life."

You bite your tongue realizing he means something more. Something deeper.

"I've never been good with words." He says, finally breaking eye contact, "I dropped out of school 'cuz everyone thought I was so dumb." He laughs, and for the first time you can hear bitterness fighting its way through. "Turns out I'm not stupid. I'm dyslexic."

You feel your nose sting and suddenly realized how invested you are in this guy's story. You care.

The two of you sit for a few moments in silence, both lost in thought.

"And the purpose is to tell your story then?"

He nods, "When I go before my maker, I don't want to lie. I want him to look at my body and see everything I've ever done. And then no one can ever tell me I'm wrong." He looks in your eyes, almost as if he's seeking approval but then the look is gone and he looks defiant again. "Write that in your damn column."

You look down at your notepad, the words, "Crazy tattoos." written in small letters. You hastily scratch it out. "Th-thank you for your time." As you stand to leave, your eyes begin to sting, so you blink rapidly. After shaking his hand you quickly turn away. Leaving, you realize you have no idea what you're going to write for your column.

At five o'clock the next morning, you take a sip of coffee and smile at your computer. The title of your document reads, "More Than Skin Deep: What Tattoos Really Say."