Do spiders eat chicken?

We were sitting in the front room eating an 8-piece Kentucky Fried. I left to get a beer, and when I returned was dismayed to see that my pal Joey had disgorged a huge pile of biscuits and slime in the middle of the rug. Personally, I usually try to make it to the bathroom, but dogs are not as refined as apes.

I can deal with dog vomit with aplomb, and I have the technology. Still, the resemblance of this incident to the recent SF Bay oil spill should be noted, with wads of absorbent material required, a few environmental hazards left behind, a kidney-shaped blotch moistening the carpet.

Lest we remain unaware of the complexities of our bioverse, I left to get another beer, my fourth, and returned to stand momentarily in front of my chair, we were watching Andy Griffith in "A Face in the Crowd." It's a dramatic movie, I was deep into the TV screen, suddenly startled by the leg waving silhouette of a spider descending on a strand past the bridge of my nose. How novel! But business was being done, this pale arachnid was after the puke. Descending like Neil Armstrong, conducting a moonwalk to obtain a boulder of whitemeat, blasting back into silk-string orbit. I watched this repeated three times.

The landline rang in the back room of the 'TooZoo and Jack answered it. A lady with a nice voice asked if he was the owner.

"Jack Dextra, that's right. You can call me Jack, or Dextra, whichever you like."

"Jack Dextra, you WILL NOT give my daughter a TATTOO!" the formerly nice voice suddenly shouted in his ear. Jack jerked the phone away and let it drop to the floor, the plastic receiver twitching as the old-fashioned twisty-cord unwound. You got used to these calls after a while. Well, either he would, or he wouldn't, or maybe he could cut them a deal on the removal later. Sighing, he retrieved the instrument.

"Sorry," he said. "Dropped something. What's your daughter's name?"

"Vanity Aaron," the voice said. Fuck. It was her. The Bird of Paradise.

"Doesn't ring a bell," Jack lied. "If she comes in, I'll tell her she needs to get counseling. Okay? Sure, I can call you too, Mrs. Aaron."

Jack hung up the phone and massaged his aching neck. The body of a snarling puma danced on his forearm.

It was a beautiful summer day in Berkeley but you never saw much of it back here in the dim, spotlit recesses of the skin-arts studio. Jack checked his schedule again and stepped squinting out into the storefront, nodding bashfully at Evelyn, the counterperson, a black haired lesbian in a tank top, her pale bare shoulders adorned with orange flame. "Wish I'd done that," he mused out loud, for the hundredth time. Evelyn grinned back at him, secure in her sexual preference.

"Remember the girl with the Bird of Paradise?"

"Huh-uh. The flower? Or the avian species?"

"The bird," Jack sighed, "I'm going to take a smoke break. Want to come?" He had a fat one already rolled up in his car.

Evelyn considered, nibbling at the stainless-steel ring that ran through the corner of her lower lip. "You have a walk-in." Her purple-shaded eyes shifted to the left.

It was an older guy, sitting alone in one of the plastic chairs, leafing through a tattoo mag, looking at the tats on the tits. Another parent? Jack winced. "Can I help you, sir?"

"I was thinking of getting a tattoo?" Well, no shit.

"Would you like to have a look at our design collection? We have some really good fantasy scenes, a great selection of totem creatures, abstract tribal designs."

Most walk-ins either had some idea of what they wanted or else they didn't and this guy was no exception. "Hmm," he said, brushing his thin brown hair back. "Hmm, no, I don't think so."

Nah. No, what he really wanted was to have his wife's name put on. Jack gave him the lecture, thinking about the telephone call, thinking about the possibility that it was a setup, an Alameda county health guy or Channel 5.

"Frankly, sir, I think you should know, names are usually not a good idea. People change, and people change people. I mean, even at your age. Can I ask? Is it a relationship thing? Is that what's going on here?" Jack had done it himself, Alexandra's name in script woven invisibly, yet indelibly into the bamboo forest through which his puma strode.

"Okay," he said, "Let me introduce you to Evelyn here. Don't worry, she doesn't bite--much. She'll get your info and the medical stuff. I'll be back in a few minutes and we'll get started."



It turned out that the name was Steve Oskman, sort of an unusual moniker. "You don't have a daughter, do you?" Jack asked, making conversation.

tattooed on his hairy back. Candice. How do you spell that, with an a or an i? Fuckhead doesn't know for sure. "You know, spelling in important in this business," Jack jokes. "Frankly, names are usually a bad idea. People change, and people change people. In Black Letter, cause he thinks it gives more gravitas. "I need to warn you that the more surface area the more discomfort, the more blood." So it isn't just the dumb kids getting stupid tattoos. Ends up with "CNADY" on his shoulderblade.

Silver hair on his back. "Jesus, man!" Jack joked, "I should charge you extra for a barber fee."

"Actually, you know," Jack said, slapping a swath of shaving cream across the guy's shoulderblades, "a lot of the old tattooists were barbers..."

Dev Notes (see also the Revision History):

-----

What's the plot, then? Presumably he has already done the tattoo or still goes ahead, probably the latter. What's the danger/conflict?

Need some more tactile detail. Smell of alcohol. What's the theme? Events are indelible. Mistakes can be made.

-----

What's your sign?

Story about a guy that got into tattooing early, ended up decorating more than 800 women. Maybe roll in some of the massuse story.
"I was thinking about getting a tattoo?"

Later I had Jeannie to work out in the parlor, but in those early days it was all on personal charm, which I don't have none of, but if you want to eat, you better get it.
This chick came into the A1 Tattoo and stood there uncertainly. Lot of empty real-estate. I put down the Chronicle, gave her my best smile.

"Where do you want it?"

"Where do you think?"

"A lot of guys think the lower back location is kind of sexy. How about across here? I drew the alchohol pad across the girl's sacrum and she giggled as the cool evaporation tickled.
What do I have? Thanks for asking.

Everyone remembers their first time. For me it involved the lead of a No. 2 pencil that became lodged beneath the skin of Jane Hokinson's forearm. She forgave me, eventually, but for several weeks it was touch and go whether I would go on to become a premier tat guy or end up plying my future trade in the dark corners of juvenile hall.

Of course I do guys too, but from the very beginning I was most interested in making my mark with the girls.

Third person?

What might happen? Present tense, so the couple just comes in. She wants her boyfriend’s name, he suggests otherwise. “I could put my name here in reverse lettering so that you can remember me everytime you look in the mirror.”

Not present tense, past, but not looking backward.

What her mom said about it.

Dexter? a good name. A first pp in a fantasy land, full of vines, weapons, weirdling images. Maybe I'll call him "Jack Dextra"