In the Bahamas there are lizards.
You can be lounging in the sun next to the pool and they scamper around so
quickly like little toys that operate with mechanical parts that are finely
tuned for precise movement and motion. One blink and they are gone. Tricksters
on their way so fast to no place special. What’s the rush? You live in sunny
paradise! Do they hire you guys to entertain tourists? “Look mom! I saw a lizard!”
And then a good bit of time is spent searching for where it went diving into
the shadow beneath the beach chair.
I’m no expert on the Lizard, even
though it has been a nickname assigned to me.
We don’t have them in NYC. Not even
in the summer months. It isn’t desert climate which is so unique and hospitable
for these little guys. We do have some
at the Bronx Zoo. In the reptile house where they are housed behind glass in
their recreated habitats. It is dark,
hot and humid and their little lunch crickets and water bowls pretend to be
natural food and water sources- like a river or something that these little
guys have no idea it is fake because it isn’t fake because as far as I know
they were born in captivity in the Bronx and this is all they’ve ever known. So
that means it isn’t fake. Right? They are little statues, not racing around
here but look content if you can find one camouflaged and hidden in the leaves of a questionably
real plant. They are on display under bright lights so we can marvel at their
intricate coloration, precise scaly skin and finger-like toes. They stare
unblinking and it’s hard to imagine they are alive until we see their bodies
move with shallow breathing. What a life. They look nervous and it is time to
move on.
When I got my first tattoo I was
determined to enjoy it. I was afraid I would be judged and waited until I was
ready to deal with that. Until the very moment I sat down in my questionable
artist’s chair, I was unsure if it was the right time, but I decided it was
time enough. I rolled up my sleeve and extended my right arm for him to
permanently score his image. At age 52 I had decided it was now or never. I
have taken to fads which momentarily intoxicate me. Multiple ear piercings in
college which turned into painful infections. I can’t do anything about the
many holes scarring my earlobes. They are useless except for mapping out a poor
decision of my past. A tattoo is more
permanent then a new ring I have been obsessing over and decide I must have.
As my artist buzzed away a single
word on my arm I turned my head towards a man named Angel who was having an old
tattoo reworked on his upper bicep. I spoke to him in the way I easily speak to
strangers when I am nervous. He was friendly and admired my courage as we
looked into each other’s eyes as I lost my virginity to my first tattoo. I was in the hands of an experienced person.
He smelled of cigarettes and was covered neck to toes in ink. He was missing a
tooth, but he was mine.
It didn’t hurt and felt sort of
good. It stung for a minute when he was finished but I was thrilled to see it
reflected in the mirror. I hugged him.
I enjoyed examining my skin as it
scarred and then flattened. I wait to see if anyone notices when I roll up my
sleeve. Waiting for admiration and judgment.
My tattoo reads:
L O V E
The lizard dances on the sun. The
heat does not damage his perfect skin and he is fueled by the energy of the
massive star. Unable to be touched by any human he can look directly into its
face.
No risk to his sharp vision.
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