I have a tattoo on my right bicep. I got it twenty-one years ago; when I was eighteen. I got it three days after I came back from an impromptu trip to Mesa, Arizona to see a high school friend, Pam. I wanted to profess my affection for her and see if she felt the same way. Instead, I got—what I've concluded in retrospect—hit on by her father in a fast food restaurant while drinking a carton of orange juice.
When I got home from my trip, my brother met me at Union Station. When we went to retrieve my luggage, I was told by an Amtrak clerk that my luggage was randomly selected to be inspected for drugs. I was not happy. I didn’t like the idea that I had to let someone search my stuff. I refused to cooperate. This immediately put my brother on high alert. At the time, he was working as a 911 dispatcher. He assumed, as did the clerk, that I was carrying. Carrying a gun, carrying drugs, carrying something other than my stuff. Unless my dirty underwear and socks constituted an illegal substance, I had nothing to worry about. I eventually conceded to the “bullshit search” and was sent home, which was where I wanted to go in the first place after being on a silver bullet for twenty-three hours.
I knew I wanted to get a tattoo since I was twelve. My oldest brother, Darrell—six years my senior—left home to join the Air Force. After basic training in San Antonio, and a stop or two at other stateside bases for advanced training, he eventually found himself stationed just outside of London, England. When he joined the Air Force, Darrell was in a hurry to get out of our house. He wasn't getting along with our parents, he took one class at the community college and hated it, he just wanted to get out. This was funny—not funny “ha ha,” funny ironic—because once he got to England, he called home all the time. When I say, “all the time,” I mean all the time. My parents were spending $300 a week in long distance phone bills because he called every couple of days. It was like he thought he was making local calls.
One of his frequent calls involved relaying the tale of going out with his buddies. He actually used the term “buddies,” which I thought was strange because I just called the guys I hung out with “friends.” My brother confessed to our father that he got drunk the night before and woke up with a tattoo. I did not actually hear he words my brother used, but I certainly could hear my father’s reaction.
“You did what!” he shouted. “Are you insane? A unicorn? What are you a fucking queer? You know if you get a unicorn tattoo that means you’re gay! Don’t tell me, I’m a fucking Marine. I know the drill!”
It was a marvelous reaction of anger and I immediately concluded that I wanted one too.
My tattoo is of Yosemite Sam holding a sack of money in his right hand and a revolver in his left. It’s really hard to see that now, but he’s there, keeping my arm safe from suspected robbers. I’m not sure why I chose to get Yosemite Sam, really. It wasn’t as if I was a big fan. I often confused his voice with Sylvester the Cat and assumed his trademark slogan was “Suffering Succotash.”
As a kid, I was a big fan of Captain Caveman. I used to ride my skateboard on the street and fling it up against the curb shouting, “Captain Cavemaaaaaaan!” All that love, and I still chose a competing character.
When I got the tattoo, I had them put three letters on Sam’s hat: BBG. When asked what the letters stand for, my crude reply was almost always, “Big Breasted Girls.” I am older now and their original significance means less than Sam himself.
I’m not the only one with a BBG tattoo; there are at least two other people. BBG used to mean so much more than the letters themselves. BBG meant friendship, loyalty, commitment, brotherhood. It meant Big, Burly, Guys. I was the big (because I worked out and was muscular) and the other three guys--my middle brother, Ira, and a one-time life-long family friend, Dave--were both Burly.
I still have an inked connection with my brother, but BBG doesn't mean the same thing to either of us anymore, and I am certain it means nothing to Dave. The last time I saw him (six years ago), was in a Wal-Mart two blocks from my house. I was shopping for a pan to make my daughter, Lily, breakfast pancakes for her 1st birthday. I saw Dave in the distance, but did not make the immediate connection. This was a guy I'd known since I was six. He was Darrell's best friend, and took over as oldest brother when my Darrell went into the Air Force. I even called Dave my brother when I introduced him to people. He's someone I should have made the connection with; we were both BBG's.
Dave came up behind me in the cashier's line. He didn't look at me at first. I made a comment like, "If I didn't see it with my own two eyes..." kind of thing. Lame. Dave's head turned in my direction. His eyes focused on me and he shook his head.
"No," he said. "No."
Dave grabbed his cart with both hands gripping tightly, and turned around. He walked away without looking back at me. I haven't seen him since.
BBG used to mean so much to all of us. We were proud that the letters were on our arms. Even going so far as to roll up our shirtsleeves to proudly display our artwork.
This is funny—not funny “ha ha,” funny sad--that things can change so much. How something with such significance can just go away. I guess there is some kind of significance now.
BBG signifies the past, like fading colors.
No comments:
Post a Comment