There is no forever

**Possible trigger warning.***

A client once joked to me that my waiting room smelled like regret. I prefer

to think it smells like second chances. People like to spill their guts to me.

I guess I have one of those faces. One of those faces people trust. I used to

go to a personal trainer who was like that. I told him all my problems while he

kicked my Behind all over the gym. It was therapy, with a side of squats, burpees,

and sweat. Pain is like that though. It can crack you open, make you talk about

things you didn’t think you could ever say out loud.

It’s a privilege, honestly. To get a glimpse into a complete stranger’s

life. They tell me about their first loves, heartbreaks, imploded marriages,

parents who let them down, jobs they didn’t get, time spent paying their dues.

But it’s not always so serious. We have some laughs. Sometimes it’s a drunken

shenanigan or a misadventure from some slap-dash vacation. I’ve heard it all.

I present my clients with possible solutions, different options. My methods

are a little unorthodox. I like to get right into the thick of things, dig into

the meat of the problem, not just work around the edges. They may not notice

results right away but when they do, they will feel like a weight has been

lifted. But I’m always honest with them, I tell them it’s going to take time

and it’s going to hurt. Some people feel the pain more than others.

And they are still going to be left with the memories. I mean I’m not a

magician. I just remove tattoos.

I remember being about 5 and my dad tucking me in at night. He’d sit down on

the side of my little bed, my rainbow comforter wrinkling beneath him, looking

large and out-of-place in such a girly room. I never actually saw him drink or

smoke, but he smelled faintly of shaving cream, layered with bourbon and

cigarettes.

Cuddling up with me and my legion of stuffed animals, he’d read me my

favorite book – “Caps for Sale.” I’d watch him turn the pages and mime the

monkeys in the story saying “tsz! tsz! tsz!” His arms, covered in tattoos,

mesmerized me.

“Daddy, did it hurt?” I’d ask in my tiny voice, interrupting the story to

trace my finger along one of his tattoos, reading the dark letters out loud:

“S.N.I.P.E.R.”

“Yeah baby. It hurt a lot.” He’d say. Even though the only light in the room

was my tiny purple desk lamp, I knew there was a storm brewing in his brown

eyes.

It was the fourth-grade father-daughter dance. My dad, uncharacteristically

dressed-up in a crisply ironed, short-sleeved button-down shirt, handed me a

shiny plastic box. I peered inside to see a corsage of bright pink roses, tiny

water droplets clinging to the petals. My dad helped me put it on my wrist. The

color contrasted perfectly against my black dress. Hand in hand, we walked into

the dance. I felt so grown up and loved seeing my friends and their dads all

dressed up. The music was loud, girls and dads were milling about, drinking punch,

and eating snacks. My dad was usually so serious and distant so seeing him let

loose and have fun was

exhilarating.

Halfway through the dance I went to the bathroom. Just as I closed a stall

door, two girls from my class came in together. It was Morgan and Tara, already

well-established as the class bullies at age 10. They were cackling away, as

mean girls do, about someone’s dress, while they washed their hands and traded

lip gloss. Terrified of a confrontation, I pulled up my feet and stayed frozen

in a stall, listening to them:

“Eeew, did you see Emma’s dress? I bet her mom made it from old scraps, or

she got it from the Salvation Army bin, or someplace nasty like that!”

“Ugh, she’s such a loser. And WHAT was her dad wearing? I would NEVER let my

dad leave the house in those pants.”

They both screeched like baby vultures.

“Totally! Speaking of dads, did you see Jessie’s dad? He’s so gross and

scary. My dad says that his tattoos mean he was a baby killer in a war! Can you

believe that? I NEVER want to go to her house. There’s probably dead baby

trophies all over the place!”

“Tara, EEEW! But yeah you’re probably right! He’s so creepy. I guess that’s

why Jessie is so weird.”

I sat frozen in place until I heard their heels clicking away on the tile

floor and the swinging door slam shut behind them. Then I sobbed. What did they

mean? How could my dad be a baby killer? I felt sick to my stomach, like

something I didn’t even know I had was suddenly being ripped away from me. When

I finally left the bathroom, I pushed through the crowd to find my dad chatting

by the snack table with another dad. I told him I felt sick and I wanted to go

home.

“What happened in there?” He asked me, eyeing Morgan and Tara suspiciously

from across the room as they whispered and giggled in our direction. “What did

those girls do?”

“Nothing, dad! I just want to go. I don’t want to be here anymore!”

I was too ashamed to tell him what they said. Too ashamed to tell him that I

worried there might be some truth to it. Maybe that’s why my dad was so sad all

the time?

At 16, I got my first and only tattoo. My best friend Kristen and I procured

some shady fake IDs from her older sister’s dirtbag boyfriend, Craig. We

borrowed her mom’s car and drove to the Eagle’s Nest Tattoo Shop two towns

over, at Craig’s suggestion. He said he knew a guy there and they wouldn’t look

too hard at our IDs.

Careless with giddy teenage excitement, Kristen jumped a wheelblock in the

parking lot and gouged the bumper of her mom’s car. The parking lot incident

gave Kristen a case of the nerves. She backed out of getting the tattoo and

settled on a belly button piercing that she reasoned would be easier to hide

from her mother.

While Kristen got pierced, I stood under the red glow of the neon Eagle’s

Nest sign and studied the wall of the tattoo parlor, covered from floor to

ceiling in laminated cards of tattoo designs. The possibilities seemed endless

and scattershot. Animals, angels, devils, cars, busty women, sports teams,

flags, hundreds of different types of lettering. All those options and I didn’t

see any like the kind my dad had.

When it was my turn, I chose a blue dolphin. Dolphins held no significance

for me. I just thought it was pretty.

The tattoo artist, Nolan, introduced himself and looked at the design I had

chosen. I studied his slicked back hair and admired his tattoos while he

prepared his instruments. On one arm, a complicated pattern of waves and the

scales of a tropical fish. On the other arm, climbing green vines, red flowers,

and the name “Ariana.”

I wondered who Ariana was, and with teenage naivete, conjured an image of a

beautiful woman that he had dedicated his life to forever. It never occurred to

me that Ariana could have already broken his heart or left him. Adrenaline

rushed though me as Nolan hunched over my ankle and went to work. It didn’t

hurt nearly as much as I had anticipated. The needle buzzed loudly, and a faint

medicinal smell permeated my nose. I suddenly understood why people say that

tattoos are addictive. I realized I had been holding my breath, and exhaled

deeply as I watched the ink permeate my pale skin. “This is what forever feels

like,” I thought.

I was not prepared for the wrath of my dad when he saw my tattoo.

“Jessie! Who did this to you? Tell me who did this to a goddamn child!” He

grabbed my shoulders so hard I shook.

“Dad! It’s just a little tattoo! You’re covered in them! What’s the big

deal? It’s MY body!” I said, my voice dripping with teenage disdain. I wrenched

myself away from him and stumbled to the other side of the room.

My dad had never hurt me before, but I was scared. I’d never seen him this

angry. His brown eyes were unfocused with rage, droplets of sweat visible on

his brow.

“Jessie! I didn’t want any of these! Each one is a reminder of crap I did in

Afghanistan. I hate them! My own skin gives me nightmares! Promise me you won’t

do this to yourself again! I’m stuck with this on me forever.”

But nothing is forever. My dad disappeared later that year. First, he

disappeared mentally. Sleep eluded him for weeks at a time. He tried therapy, medication,

meditation. He got a therapy dog. He tried to have his tattoos removed or

covered up, but it was too expensive. Then he disappeared physically. First,

for a few days at a time. Then a few weeks. Then he disappeared completely. He

was found dead a month after my 18th birthday.

I still think tattoos can be beautiful. Our bodies are a canvas, an

ever-changing work of art, and they are beautiful with or without tattoos. We

grow, we expand, we shrink, we change. We pick up bumps, scars, and scratches

along the way. Some people keep their art on the inside and some choose to wear

it on the outside. I think of all the tattoos I’ll never remove because people

love them so much. They talk about them, they show them off, they love to tell

their stories. They can’t wait to get their next one. I wonder if Nolan is

still dedicated to Ariana or if all of that beautifully artistic ink turned

into an ugly regret.

My dolphin represented nothing more than a fleeting moment of teenage

rebellion. I gave about as much thought to choosing it as I did to removing it.

I was my own first customer while receiving my laser certification. I just

wanted it gone. It hurt more to remove it than it did to get it. Like being

flicked with a rubber band in the same spot thousands of times. I was so

relieved to have that thing off my body. I wish I could have helped my dad,

given him a clean slate. We could have had some good talks while I removed

those painful reminders from his skin. Maybe the pain would have cracked him

open too. Like I said, I have one of those faces that people like to spill

their guts to.

I didn’t notice it when I first came in here, but I guess you have that kind

of face too. Not surprising though, you’re the best in the business. And even

though it’s just a simple, three-letter job, I wanted the best.

“All done.” You say to me. You hold up a black-framed mirror so I can see

your work.

In simple black block letters. On my inner left arm, closest to my heart.

DAD