That's Us

Who pulled the trigger

Kenhad had three stupid tattoos when we started dating, three imbecilic tattoos that I’d learned to at least pretend to ignore. He had four when we finally broke up. (And by “broke up” I mean, I just stopped answering the phone when he called. Literally. Ken was so stoned and low-functioning and car-less that I was able to break up with him by attrition.) That fourth tattoo was the straw that broke the Camel Light, but we’ll get to that in a minute. He never grew his hair back out after that mortifying night at my parents’ house, which was a huge blow to my libido. I mean, it’s one thing to date a loser who looks like a punk rock James Dean (with his mouth shut, at least). It is another thing entirely to date a loser who has a tattoo on his head of a p***s driving his brain.

I didn’t break up with him right away, though. By the time he’d shaved his head we’d been together for several months and I’d actually really grown to like the guy. He was just so much damn fun to be around. He was spontaneous and affectionate, and he really did ask me to marry him every day. But the biggest carrot on a stick for me was the fact that Ken was going to get a picture of me tattooed on his body. I knew it was wrong, allowing a man to get your likeness permanently carved into his skin, all the while knowing your relationship had about a six-month shelf life. But I didn’t really regard him as a real person with real feelings at the time or now, to be honest. I might have had more of a conscience about it if he’d said he wanted to get my full name and Social Security number emblazoned across his forehead, but what he was going for was more of a cartoon-style version of me, so I figured he could just pass it off as a generic slutty Anime pixie when we broke up. See? I’m practically Mother Teresa. For weeks, Ken had me drawing sketches for him. It was so exciting! He pored over every detail. I’d never seen him so interested in anything. I must have drawn him twenty-five designs. He wanted sad clown Jane, sugar skull Jane, Bettie Paige Jane, bionic angel Jane, and even gutter-punk Jane brandishing a pair of brass knuckles and a baseball bat. I couldn’t wait to see which one he picked! My fragile little teenage ego was soaring. This man loved me and my art enough to put both of them on his body forever. Holy s**t!

Ken was actually working at the time (I know, right?) at some auto body shop a good half an hour from his house, so more often than not, I would wind up being his ride home because…no car. (How a guy with no car gets a job working on cars is still beyond me.) I would come home from school, anxiously pick at my dinner, lie to my parents about where I was going, and then dash back out the door to go take his sorry ass home. Then, one day, when I called Ken to see if he needed me to pick him up from work, he snickered and told me I could come get him from the Terminus City tattoo parlor instead.

Oh my God! He’s doing it! He’s actually doing it! My heart and my Mustang seemed to defy gravity as I sped over to

Terminus City. It was like Christmas morning! I was giddy and impatient and effervescent. This is why I was still with Ken. He was just so dumb and carefree and fun.

When I shoved open the tattoo parlor door, I used so much force that the little silver bell above it swung all the way up into the drop-tile ceiling,sending a chunk of plaster flying. The guy behind the desk casually arched

his pierced eyebrows and gazed over at the ripped red vinyl cushion of one of the cheap aluminum waiting area chairs where the dislodged piece of ceiling now rested.

“You lookin’ for the dude with the pecker on his head?” I beamed and bounced and nodded. Captain Cheerful shoved a black-tipped thumb adorned with a heavy

silver ring, not unlike the ones dangling from every convex place on his face, in the direction of an open door behind him. “He’s back there.” The tattoo parlor looked like it was probably once a tanning salon. It consisted of a front lobby that bottlenecked into a long hallway with doors lining both sides. As I galloped down the hallway, I saw that only one door was open, and there was a god-awful buzzing sound coming out of it. Bingo! I burst into the tiny room and found a shirtless Ken lounging in

what looked like a semi-reclined dentist’s chair, placid as a Hindu cow, while a hulking man sitting on his left side stabbed him repeatedly with tiny, buzzing, needles.

I remember thinking that he was a colossal badass for not even flinching when, in retrospect, he had probably just taken a fistful of Vicodin and washed it down with a bottle of Listerine. He gave me a slow, sleepy-eyed smile and announced, “There’s the pretty Lady,” as he unfolded his arms and waited for my hug. I tried to dial down the gusto to match the somber, humming, Zen-like atmosphere in that little space. After tiptoe-prancing over to his right side to give him a quick hug, I wriggled loose and gingerly slinked around to the other side of his chair where a serious (and seriously scary-looking) tattoo artist was stooped between me and what I came to see.

Out of my way, asshole! Having to stifle my excitement was making me feel like a human tea kettle—quiet and calm on the outside but liable to erupt into steaming

screams of hysterics at any minute. I was dying to find out which one of my drawings had made the final cut. Trying hard not to disturb the orc, I finally shimmied my way to a place where I could see over the scowling creature’s shoulder, and there, staring back at me with big sad eyes, practically covering half of his upper arm, was…

Eeyore.

Mother. f*****g. Eeyore.

The depressed donkey from Winnie-the-Pooh, little pink bow on his tail and all, was gazing up at me from the very spot where my own face should have been no, shouldn’t have been. No part of me ever belonged on this man, especially not forever. Eeyore took a bullet for me that day. And he looked absolutely miserable about it. I glared at him who was totally oblivious to my fury. He just smiled stupidly and slurred at me, “It’s Eeyore. You know, ’cause people call me Eeyore ’cause I talk all slow like, Muh tail…fell awf…agaaaain.”

That was it. I was done.

I don’t know how Ken got home that night, but I do know that, in my haste to get out of there, I put at least one more hole in that already crumbling ceiling.

Eeyore? Eeyore??

Goddamn, that man had shitty taste in tattoos!

Email Conversation with Brenda

FROM: Jane Dawson

TO: Brenda Mage

SUBJECT: HUMMERS

OMG Sara. It’s working! It’s actually working! So, a couple of weeks ago I wrote my first bullshit Subliminal Spousal Bibliotherapy journal entry and left it in a file on my

computer that I literally named Super Private Journal That Braden Is Never, Never Allowed to Read Ever. It addressed all 4 objectives, and I made extra sure to emphasize Ken’s impressive oral skills seeing as how it had been at least 18 months since Braden had gone down on me. (For real, Brenda. I grew and expelled an entire human being from my body in half that time.)

I was nervous as s**t that Braden was going to light my computer on fire after reading it, but when a few days went by and nothing happened I started to worry that he was actually going to respect my privacy and not read it at all. Then he surprised the s**t out of me after I put the kids to bed last night. Braden came up behind me while I was doing the dishes, wrapped his arms around me, and pressed a full blown goddamn erection against my back. I was super confused about why Braden had a hard-on at 8:30 on a Tuesday night when all he’d been doing was watching the news in the other room, but I don’t question

these things. I assumed that he would guide me into the dark safety of our bedroom before anything got started, per his absolute abhorrence of fun and spontaneity, but instead that bastard slid my running shorts and panties down and started finger-f*****g me right there at the sink. And he was really into it, too grinding his c**k against my ass and practically making out with my neck and ear lobe. So then, when I turned around to kiss him, Ken hoisted me up onto the counter, spread my legs, and for the first time in a year and half, that motherfucker went Downtown. But that’s not even the best part: He f*****g HUMMED while he did it. I almost cackled out loud like a goddamn voodoo priestess! That is exactly what I wrote about in my journal entry, Brenda! It worked like a charm! This must be what witches feel like when

their spells work! Mwa ha ha ha ha! Of course, I still need to work on getting him to compliment me, give me a nickname, and get a Jane themed tattoo, but so far this

Subliminal Spousal Bibliotherapy s**t is turning out to bmarital black magic! I want to kiss your evil brain!

FROM: Brenda Mage

TO: Jane Dawson

SUBJECT: HUMMERS

Thanks a lot. I was supposed to have some girl’s dissertation read by noon, but after reading your email I ended up wasting the entire morning looking for the perfect outfit to wear on Good Morning America. I think I’ve settled on a Stella McCartney sheath dress, nude Kate Spade pumps, and I want to wear some nerdy professor glasses for credibility but I’ll need to find some

without the lenses, like actors on TV wear so that the lights don’t cause a reflection.

Brenda Mage, PhD

Associate Professor, Department of Psychology