Photo by Maxim Hopman on Unsplash
Dolores stepped out of the F train subway station. She resembled a Lower East Side of yesterday. Dyed Black hair, a smart leather jacket, black jeans, an A-1 Records tote bag, and tattoos all over her neck, Dolores walked on Delancey Street toward Ludlow and Houston. The fire escapes dripped with the residue of a blizzard, as used records, couches, and black trash bags, collided with snow banks along the sidewalk. The sign for a Tattoo shop twinkled. Dolores walked in.
Tattoo designs covered the most of the yellow walls. Velvet Underground’s “I’m sticking to you,” blasted. Dolores looked around with both curiosity and nervousness. A male tattoo artist dressed in all black and heavy beard, greeted her.
“Can I help you? The tattoo artist asked.
“I’m looking for my abuela, she’s supposed to be getting a tattoo today,” Dolores said, puzzled.
The tattoo artist’s frown turned into a smile, “Oh, Azucena, she’s in the back. Just between you and I, she’s had some anxiety,” the tattoo artist said.
Dolores ran to the back of the shop. Azucena sat alone, surrounded by three walls filled with tattoo designs. Her bouffant grey hair, large glasses, and conservative dress, resembled more of a church lady than tattooed punker. Dolores smiled nervously.
“Mija, I can’t do this,” Azucena said, anxiously.
“Abuela, why the certain urge for a tattoo? You so hated my tattoos,” Azucena replied with confusion.
“I still hate your tattoos. I think you look silly, too many,” Azucena said.
Dolores glanced at Azucena’s arm. She noticed an odd design on her forearm. It appeared to be a small, etched tattoo of the sun, surrounded by little lines that indicated brightness.
“This is why you always wore bracelets,” Dolores said in shock.
“Bingo,” Azucena said, happily.
“When did that happen? It looks like somebody carved a tattoo on your arm.” Dolores said.
Azucena stared into Dolores’ eyes. Dolores’ body language signified confusion. Azucena took in a deep breath.
“My mother did this to me when I was a kid,” Azucena said.
Dolores gulped and replied, “that sweet old lady?” Dolores said.
“So sweet, she cut me up. Mama was rough. That temper calmed down through the years, but she could be a monster,” Azucena said.
“Clearly, why would she etch that design on your arm?”
“When I was a girl. I found a pen and started drawing on myself. My mama came back from the river. She saw my arm full of pen markings and went bananas,” Azucena said, as anxiety was released.
“She cut you up?” Dolores said.
“She cut me up, mija,” Azucena replied.
“I was just a bored kid, who drew images of the sun in my arms. She didn’t get artists,” Azucena said with a giggle.
“Kind of like you don’t get me,” Dolores said.
“I’m your abuela. You’re supposed to get endless criticism from me,” Azucena said.
“Why the tattoo?” Dolores asked.
“It’s time to make my arm look beautiful again. The small etching on my forearm looks like deformed cuts,” Azucena said.
The tattoo artist walked in and said, “Ready for your tattoo, Ms. Avila?”
Azucena shook her head, yes. The tattoo artist put on a mask and glove. Sounds of the tattoo gun intensified. Azucena’s eyes squinted. She held on Dolores’ hands. As the tattoo gun settled on Azucena’s skin, the pain kicked in. Thoughts of her childhood in El Salvador sunk in, the old hacienda on a makeshift hill, the steamy cobble stone streets, her mother’s smile and dark side.
Dolores had different memories. The old church lady with such a formal style, had taken the plunge. This made her laugh. Azucena’s olive skin was splashed with yellow and orange. The pain became even more intense. Then the drilling stopped. Azucena’s eyes glanced into the bright lamp above. It resembled the newly brightly colored sun on her arm. Azucena stared into the sun design on her arm.
“You did well, Ms. Avila,” the Tattoo artist said, as he placed cellophane over the new tattoo
“Abuela, it’s very pretty. It’s actually symbolic,” Dolores said.
Azucena looked at her arm again. She looked on in disbelief as she continually analyzed the design.
“Shit, I actually did it,” Azucena said, with a laugh.
Azucena leapt from her chair. After Azucena paid for the tattoo, she walked out with Dolores. Night had fallen. The cold Lower East Side pavement sparkled with dusted snow, people traffic, and shiny storefront windows. Azucena held Dolores’ arm. They walked toward Houston Street. The street scene became more intense with people and vehicle traffic.
“I still think you have too many tattoos,” Azucena said.
“You’re one to talk,” Dolores said with laugh.
Anthony Alas is a nine-times published author. His works have appeared in In Parentheses, Scribble Lit, Azahares Magazine, Twisted Vine, Defunkt Magazine and elsewhere. After many years in New York City and California’s Inland Empire, Mr. Alas now calls Dallas, TX home. He holds a Master's degree in English literature from CSU San Bernardino. https://anthonyalaswrites.wordpress.com