Tales from Exit 22 by Al Batt

 

I was at a family gathering where there was an abundance of buns.

Another in attendance had a lot of tattoos. More than last year. She appeared to be in danger of becoming one big tattoo. Tattoos are a way she tells her story. She married into the family, so we probably drove her to it.

Not much later, I tried to keep the cargo from shifting further and feed my addiction to steps by walking in the mall on a day showcasing nasty weather. I encountered some people bearing tattoos. I figured they were a group of Popeye impersonators. Popeye was a trendsetter.

“Well, blow me down!” I muttered. That’s what Popeye said. Popeye was the one tattooed individual I was most familiar with when I was a lad. Popeye had an anchor tattoo on each of his bulging forearms. Popeye ate spinach for strength. He ate the spinach through his smoking pipe, sometimes eating the spinach can, too. That was troubling to an impressionable mind, but thanks to countless counseling sessions, I’m nearly over it.

I’m sure some of the tattooed folks I chanced upon while mall walking were spinach eaters who didn’t eat it through a pipe like a cartoon character.

One group of walkers stopped to visit with me. One mentioned a new tattoo she’d obtained. They decided to ask me grueling questions that fell just short of waterboarding.

“Have you ever thought of getting a tattoo?” asked one.

“Or do you have a tattoo?” asked another, that person in a couple who refuses to stay in his own lane and asks follow-up questions.

I made an announcement. It was difficult without a drumroll, but I did it.

“I don’t have a tattoo and I’ve no immediate plans of acquiring one,” I answered my interrogators. “But more power to those who are tattooed.”

I’ve thought of many things over the years. I can’t remember the majority of them, but getting a tattoo never crossed my mind. A fellow can’t have everything. Maybe I’d find growth in the experience of getting a tattoo. But I’d have to form an exploratory committee to investigate the possibility of getting a tattoo, apply for a grant and hire consultants to determine the tattoo best suited for a doofus like me. That’s not going to happen.

Just the other day — it might have been Wednesday, as I try to think at least once each Wednesday — I was thinking of not getting a tattoo. I was considering not getting any body piercings, too. Intentional ones, anyway. There was that unfortunate incident with the nail gun.

If I did get a tattoo, I’d worry that one day, I wouldn’t be able to recall where I’d put it.

What would I get? “This side up.” “If found, please call.” “Born to flip a pillow to its cool side.” “I regret this.” The mirrored image of my name so I’d be able to read it when looking in a mirror. A blurred tattoo of a Chinese symbol that I could adjust its meaning on a whim when someone inquired about it.

What I know about getting a tattoo could be written on the head of pin, leaving enough room for the entire U.S. Constitution. I do know it’s not a good idea to use the words “separate,” “dilemma” or “supercalifragilisticexpialidocious” in a tattoo because it’d likely be misspelled.

I’ll get a tattoo when I win the lottery. First, I’ll need to buy a lottery ticket. I’ll wait until tattoos offer audio and video capabilities.

Had I planned on getting a tattoo as a young man, I’d have asked for opinions from my wife, mother and father. A unanimous 3-0 vote would have been required.

My wife would have rolled her eyes all the way around in that amazing way only wives have.

I could hear my mother’s advice, “If you must get one, don’t put the tattoo where anyone could see it.”

My father would offer his dependable and stellar advice, “Ask your mother.”

My father ate Grape Nuts most mornings. Oatmeal gave the Grape Nuts an occasional morning off. Grape Nuts seemed to make him happy and provided as much fiber as eating two sofa cushions or the entire backseat of a Buick. I called it gravel and told him I’d used it to patch holes in the driveway.

If I ever do get a tattoo, I think it will be of a box of Grape Nuts breakfast cereal.

That tattoo would remind me of my father, and that’s a good thing.

Al Batt’s columns appear every Wednesday and Saturday.