The Long Story

© 2000 All Rights Reserved........By Margaret Karmazin

Bernard Green was an ugly man. He d been passable as a baby but from then on, homely as hell. His mother had wrangled a cousin from Ohio to accompany him to his Senior prom and that was the only date he'd had other than several disastrous blind ones and a meeting for coffee with a woman almost worse off than he. His sexual experience consisted of transactions with hookers and a few fumbling encounters with a sweet, dull-witted neighbor when he was thirteen. Resigning himself to celibacy, he sublimated his energies into his job as financial director at a local cable TV station.

He was short and stocky with long apelike arms and a thick crop of black hair all over his chest and upper back. His eyes were bulgy and watery gray, his upper teeth yellow and horsy, and though he was only thirty-six, hair sprouted from his ears and, oddly, from his Adam s apple. Poor Bernard's butt was flatter than the side of a cardboard box and his legs white and slightly bowed. His chin was almost missing but covered with a beard and his lips an unnatural bright red that gave people a shudder to look at. In comparison, Bernard made a Neanderthal look desirable.

"I don't know what to do," he told his rabbi, on his fourth visit to discuss the matter. "I've given up on the idea of ever actually having a wife, but I sure could use some female companionship now and then! I feel so lonely."

"You could get a pet," suggested the rabbi, "but I m sure you've already tried that."

Bernard rolled his unappealing eyes to the ceiling. "Two Black Labs and a Siamese; my house is full. While they listen well, they never tell me those feminine type stories, those girly ramblings, you know what I mean. My mother used to do that to my father."

The rabbi laughed. "My wife when she comes in from her day at school, enraged at the world; yes, I know what you mean."

"I want that," said Bernard simply.

"Benjamin Franklin said older women were grateful," suggested the rabbi, only half joking.

"Even the old ones don't want me," said Bernard.

He visited a plastic surgeon in a slick mauve office on the tenth floor of a high-rise. The waiting room was full of girls that looked like fashion models (what on earth needed fixed on them?) and rich women in their fifties with faces already lifted so far they looked like aliens.

"I don t really know where to start," said the doctor, sleek and groomed with orange skin. We could do the nose, of course, build up the chin, maybe cheekbone and pectoral implants, some work on the butt, but there's the matter of the hair. Electrolysis, but that s pretty much all over, are you up for that? Can't do anything for your arm length though. A word of advice, if you don't mind? Make a lot of money. Women overlook everything for money." And he laughed through a glistening set of caps.

Bernard's yearly salary was $53,000. Certainly not bad, but in no way capable of buying a girlfriend, and for that matter, who wanted one who only put up with you for the money? How could you possibly enjoy a pseudo-friendship or sex with someone who fortified herself for the ordeal by imagining what she'll buy the next day at the mall?

Inevitably, he fell into depression. After a while, this turned to anger. He worked out a lot at the gym, slamming weights around. This didn t do much for his looks, but saved him from doing damage. Finally, he decided he might as well be eccentric - do whatever he damned well pleased since there was no point anymore in trying to fit in.

Every day he walked by a tattoo parlor on his way to the TV station from his parking lot. Sometimes he looked in the window, then later during the day he d fantasize about having a tattoo and see himself tall with bulging biceps, a raging tiger on one arm and a scorpion on the other. He'd chuckle, imagining what his mother or sister would say at such a sight - two domineering but kind-hearted schoolteachers dressed in Lands End clothing and concerned about "family traditions." A beefy-armed, tattooed son and brother would not fit into their picture.

The sign over the shop door said "The Cave" in purple and black psychedelic lettering. Some of the people Bernard saw inside were weird and some were like you d see anywhere, more conservative than his coworkers at the TV station. But today there was some guy lying in the chair who looked like Bernard's idea of a serial killer. Bending over him was one of the tattoo artists, a woman he'd watched through the glass many times.

At the station they were setting up to tape "Jerry's Grapevine." The show, on which Jerry interviewed hotshots around town, aired at seven P.M. weeknights. Today he was hosting Jennifer Gleasen, owner of MatchMaker, an upscale dating service, and she was chatting with Jerry while they waited for the cameras to roll. Bernard caught a view of her through the back of the stage set - tall, moonbeam blonde, a Viking queen. He was admiring her when he heard Jerry say, "You claim you can fix up anybody, huh? How about our financial director? Did you catch a glimpse of him when you stopped in yesterday?"

Jennifer's beautiful mouth formed into a smirk. "Oh! You mean that ugly little hairy thing? Well, Sam, even MatchMaker has its limits."

Bernard felt like somebody punched him in the gut. He actually gasped for air. As soon as he got himself under control, he found the station manager and told her he was taking the rest of the day off. Outside, he stood in the cold sunlight and fought back the tears stinging his eyes.

He walked by The Cave, then backed up. It was empty of customers and the woman was staring out the window. Their eyes locked for a split-second then she looked back into the distance. She had shown no revulsion.

Bernard hesitated, then went in. The woman was still standing in the window and did not turn around. He felt pleasure as he looked at the back of her neck where little sprigs of hair curled. She had a lot of kinky black hair pulled up on top of her head. It was sultry outside and the air conditioner evidently not working properly and she looked hot, like someone who should be sitting on a porch in a rocker, fanning herself. There was a tattoo of Celtic design down the backs of her arms and the black ink against her creamy skin made him feel excited. But he mentally shook himself and turned it off. After years of rebuffs and pain, he could do that easily.

She turned around to look at him. "You want some work done?"

"Oh!" said Bernard. Somehow it had totally escaped his mind that this was a tattoo parlor. What else would she think he'd come for?

"I, uh, just want to look," he said lamely.

His thoughts were suddenly on a wild ride. What if he was to get one done? Who would know? He could have it put on his stomach where no one would ever see it, then enjoy the secret knowledge of it. When his mind accepted this idea, it hit him that the woman was not looking at him with the distaste he was used to. Instead, she seemed to be turned within herself, as if everything in her field of vision was an interior landscape of some kind. He noticed the curve of her waist as it rounded out into her hips. Her midriff was bare and her belly button pierced with a tiny gold ring. Against his better judgment, he felt a heat in his groin.

"You can check out the samples on the wall in here. There're more in the next room. You look like the type who'd look good with some tribal or ethnic stuff. What's your nationality?"

"I m Jewish," he told her. "My grandparents came from Russia."

"Oh," she said. "I would have taken you for Italian or Greek. Well, we have some pretty cool Star of David designs. Really intricate." And she motioned for him to enter the back room. Her eyes still had that distant look.

He had little intention of actually going through with anything, but when she stood close to him as he perused the design samples and bent to lift one of the drawings that partially covered another, he changed his mind. There was nothing to lose so he agreed to one of the star designs she had suggested.

"Where do you want it?" she asked with kindly detachment.

His heart thumped. Would he utterly disgust her? "On my stomach, I guess."

She nodded solemnly and motioned for him to mount the long leather table. Her touch was light, like dancing feathers, but when she started with the needle, he was startled at how much it stung. He felt no qualms about admitting this, being long beyond pretending to be macho.

"Yeah, it hurts some more than others," she calmly replied. "You have very sensitive skin."

No one had ever made a comment like that about him, stating a neutral fact about his body without a sneer or attempt to cover their distaste. He felt acceptance from her, yet sensed she was mentally absent.

After some time passed, he asked, "How d you get into tattooing?"

"It s a long story," she said. "I got to be a tattoo artist by accident. I used to be a receptionist in a beauty salon. My boyfriend, who I d lived with for three years, came home one night and said he wanted me out. Just like that, after all that time I'd thought we were getting married. It was his apartment and his name on the lease though. He gave me one day; that was it. I had to skip work the next day to get my stuff out and find somewhere else to go, and when I went back to work the day after, they fired me."

"My God," said Bernard, for the moment forgetting the sting of the relentless needle. "What did you do then?"

"I called my friend, but she was out of town so I slept in a loft that belonged to this writer guy I know. In return he expected sex. I had to do it; it was either that or out in the cold. Worse could happen on the street and at least he was clean."

Bernard was silent as he digested this. This woman was from a different world than his own where every physical comfort had always been met. He realized he didn t know her name and asked for it.

"Michelle," she said without looking up.

He strained to look at her from his prone position. The top of her head had a stark white part down the middle. Her hair was very thick and reminded him of rich earth. He found the lightness of her skin startling against the blackness of the hair.

"A French name," he said, just to say something.

"I m not French," she said then finished the work without further conversation.

He returned for more. The tattoos were only a surface thing; it was the story he was after. As she began Hebrew letters underneath the star, he asked her, "What happened after you got thrown out, after that first night?"

"I found a place, the top floor in an old woman's house on Broad St. Got another job with a hair salon and learned how to do nails. Turned out the old woman wasn't as innocent as she looked. Her son was cooking drugs in his basement lab and we got raided. For a while it looked like I was heading for prison, but my lawyer got me off. In return, he wanted some action because I sure as hell didn't have any money. Eventually, I moved in with him, but it turned out he was married and had an entire family in Hatsboro. And here I thought he was just staying over at the office. Well, I m really not that dumb; I just thought he was a normal cheating bastard.

"I was about to spill the beans to his wife when I found out, and not from him or I wouldn't have believed it, that she was having a breast removed, so I let her off the hook and just moved out, this time to a regular dumpy little apartment of my own on Lindsay St. You know that gas station that looks like a castle? Well, behind that. By this time I was doing nails in another salon. Some girl came in with roses up her arm and I liked it. She introduced me to her ex who was a tattoo artist and he taught me how to do it. I was good in art in high school and took right to it. He and I had a thing going and I gave up that apartment and moved in with him then found out he was into orgies; he hosted them at his place. So there I was back in my writer friend's loft and ready to do my duty again when the guy tells me he has this blood disease and about a year to live. No, it wasn t AIDS or I would have burned pavement getting to the doctor's. After hearing this, I actually offered to take care of him but he wasn't in the mood, he'd gotten religion. He was a Buddhist now and he meditated and ate only brown rice and vegetables. I began to enjoy his lectures, they put me in a peaceful mood, and I wasn't even missing my quarter-pounders, when he up and died ahead of time and I was back out on the street. But then Derek said he'd try me out here even though I was inexperienced and that worked out fine. So far. He and I aren't lovers or anything."

She looked up, her face impassive; she wasn t much of a smiler. The tattoo was done and Bernard had hardly felt a thing. It was disappointing when it was over and a surprise to see it was dark outside.

"You have nice hair," said Michelle suddenly, and Bernard was so shocked he didn't know how to respond. It took til next morning for the statement to sink in, so unused was he to compliments. Probably the last time he'd received one was fifteen or more years ago when his grandmother was alive and he'd been on the Dean s List. Nothing to do with his appearance.

He had more tattoos done and asked for more episodes of Michelle's life. There were two abortions, one conversion to Catholicism, one leaving of the Church, one engagement soon broken, a boyfriend carted off to jail for child molestation, two courses taken at the community college, an ovary removed, a UFO sighting, a family reunion during which a neighbor shot the dog, and permanent eye liner tattooed around Michelle's drag queen friend's eyes. This was all so interesting that Bernard eventually realized he had tattoos all over his chest and now on part of his back.

One day Janine, the station manager, accidentally walked in on Bernard while he was freshening up in the bathroom. He had his shirt off to wash under his arms. It was a hot day and the new deodorant he was trying was not doing the job. "Oh my!" exclaimed Janine, rushing to back out and banging into the doorjamb. "I m sorry!" But then she lingered. "You re tattooed! All over your chest there!" She had a silly smile on her face.

"Wow!" she said.

Bernard fumbled to get back into his shirt, but Janine was now standing close to him. She touched one of the tattoos on his chest and he could smell the shampoo she'd used in her hair and feel her breath in warm little puffs against his skin.

"What does this say?" she asked, referring to some of the Hebrew lettering.

"Shalom," he replied.

"Oh, I know that word!" Then she looked into his eyes. "I never imagined you'd have anything like this under your shirt," she said and then kissed him.

She had a sitting room in her office and locked the door. They had sex on the futon couch. How conveniently it opened up to make a nice hard bed. But Bernard was surprised to find that doing it with her was pretty much the same as with a hooker. All these years he'd imagined sex with a "real" woman would be different. He had years of pent up horniness in him and so he unleashed some of it on Janine over the next couple of months, but there was a hole in his heart. Though he had not returned to the tattoo shop, he often thought about Michelle s long stories.

When next he entered The Cave, it was to learn she no longer worked there.

"I had to let her go," said Derek, a skinny, pointy-bearded man in his thirties.

"Why? asked Bernard. "Why?"

"She talked too much. People want to relax while they're being done. Some just want to concentrate on not letting the needle get to them. Others get a shot from their friendly dentist before they come here so they don t feel nothing and they wanna just lay there and daydream. I had some complaints."

"I liked the stories," said Bernard. He felt sick to his stomach.

"Well, you're in the minority, Jack."

He tried every other tattoo shop in the area and then remembered she said she did nails. It only took five calls to hair salons before he found her. The look of surprise on her face when he sat down in front of her and slid his hairy hand across the table was encouraging. At least it was friendly.

"Oh, you," she said and then immediately went into her long story. "And so," she said as she buffed, "I d been living upstairs over The Cave, so when the job went so did the apartment. My sister took me in but she's got five kids and I'm just in the way. I think they'd like a couch that stays shut all the time instead of being a bed."

"You can stay at my place," said Bernard, shocked at his own nerve and scared she'd recoil from his homeliness.

"Your place?" she said. "You don't have a wife?"

She thought he was capable of having a wife? This was better than Janine's hot hands on his tattoos. He had no illusions about the station manager's view of him, regardless of her lust. All their interactions had taken place behind her office door and outside of it, they were no more than co-workers.

"I don t have a wife," he said. "Why would you think I did?"

She held up a bottle of clear polish and uncapped it. "You re a professional person and you seem together and organized. Like you d have a house and wife and kids. Not like me, a mess."

He felt a wave wash over him, some kind of heat or light. "You can stay with me," he said firmly.

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