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People want to talk about current
events. Make your peace, I say (a good idea
anyday). I have seen tattoos blur and fade. Nothing
is permanent but change. The old bicycles hang from the ceiling at
Anchor Tattoo
in Ballard. After dinner, we step in with Charlie, Jim, and Denise to admire
the lowrider in the window. The guy at the counter is lost in his work, perfect
universe, drawing designs to adorn the skin--a pattern, a symbol, rolled-up
sleeve so eloquent. Back outside, Dave calls from Hattie's Hat. We were just
there. How did we miss him? Up and down the block we go, past a weedy lot
with large office desks in two rows.
The building is gone, the walls are ghosts, metal rusts, grass grows.
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