That One Time in the Tattoo Convention in Caracas

I was talking to Asshole about my dream tattoo, but wasn’t a real conversation. I had asked him what his would be and he shrugged out a half-baked idea, waited a beat, and then -suddenly remembering conversational courtesy- threw the question back. I surveyed the long line snaking its way towards the doors of the tattoo convention. For an instant I didn’t want to tell him; it seemed ridiculous talking about my future with someone who wouldn’t be in it.

Most of the time, we love to tell strangers about our futures. We give away our plans within the first five minutes: “I’m going to study medicine” and “I’ll probably only stay for a week.” On the plane to Caracas I had been more than willing to open up to the two gentlemen I was seated between. They chatted in Spanglish and their flirting quickly gave way to kind condescension. I told them about the phone-call break up my decision to fly down anyway. I asked them which shirt I should wear: the pretty one, or the bungy-jumping T-shirt: we decided on the T-shirt. You could say that I let them in on my future with relative ease, despite the knowledge that they wouldn’t witness it.

Telling Asshole about my future would be different though. He was an active agent in his exclusion from it, and thus I felt it was a forbidden topic between us: he can’t decide not to be there and still get a sneak preview, right? “I’m getting an octopus one day,” I offered, wanting him to ask why. He didn’t.

We finally got to the door, he paid, and we entered not quite holding hands. It was the kind of convention that made you feel simultaneously cool and dirty. Stalls decorated with suggestively dressed women didn’t just line the walls, but actually created an almost unsolvable labyrinth. I ached to get lost there. The drill of inking guns was thick and almost as slimy as the excess of bare flesh in all directions. There were arms, legs, chests, and backs getting tattooed and crowds gathered around the limbs to bear witness. Right in front of me was a small stall providing information on AIDS. The volunteer girls seemed friendly, but the mono-browed man leaning against the booth looked as if he would sell it to you in a vile if you asked.

Asshole’s camera was dangling from his neck, begging to be used and I felt a pathetic empathy. “He’s got another three cameras at home, you know?” said the almost ex girlfriend to the Canon DSLR. And to console it, I squeezed through the crowd towards a tattoo in progress, dragging Asshole by the wrist. It was a great shot: the ‘tattooed’ couldn’t be more than 20 but her beer-holding hand didn’t shake as her ribcage was transformed into a pair of wings. I had the role of “photographer’s girlfriend” down pretty well and as I squeezed him into the front of each line, I managed to convince myself that I was there for the art, not for the boy. We collected business cards that we knew would get lost in the wash,  marveled at the idiocy of face tattoos, and cheered for the first five minutes of the competition before slinking away to get Coronas and a photo op with Chewbaca.

When we climbed into his car two hours later, ready to go home, I cradled the Canon on my lap. He’d been cheating on her with my mother’s vintage Minolta and that blue plastic thing he’d bought from Urban Outfitters. Yeah, they’re cool, but the photos on the Minolta never come out as good as he thinks they will, and the other, well she’s just tasteless.