Wallflower

August 9, 2004

The bar wasn't crowded when I first arrived, and I managed to score a seat at a small table against the back wall. It was more of a stool than a chair, and from where I sat, I could scan the whole place. I watched the crowd thicken and the people begin to squish up against each other. There were two stools at my table, and a guy sat across from me, talking to his buddy, who was standing. Other than when the seated guy asked if I had a light, the two of them didn't talk to me, and I didn't talk to them.

When they finished their drinks and walked away, a girl with a long brown ponytail was quick to grab the empty stool. "Is anyone sitting here?" she asked.

"Nope," I replied and held out my open palm, encouraging her to sit. She had on a torn and frayed jean skirt, tube socks, and black Converse All-Stars. Her red sleeveless T-shirt revealed tattoos on her upper arms. When someone is tattooed, they often wear clothes that seem designed to show them off. The bar was too dark for me to make out what her tattoos were, but it probably didn't matter anyway. The majority of tattoos I've seen lately are about the tattoo itself. I mean, I know a lot of people who got tattooed simply because they wanted a tattoo -- the idea, or image, is secondary. I don't have a problem with that. If someone gets a tattoo just because they like the way it looks, so what? But some people feel put on the spot if they don't have a good answer when you ask them what their tattoo means. They feel embarrassed to say, "It doesn't mean anything, it just looks cool." So they wind up forcing some kind of meaning into a meaningless design. Either way, tattoos around here are ubiquitous, and if I spent time looking at them all, I wouldn't have time for anything else.

The tattooed girl was with another girl, and when she walked up to where we were sitting, I offered my seat. But she didn't take it. "No thanks," the standing girl said to me, and then turned to her friend, "I'll be right back, I'm going to see if he's in the back."

"Okay," the tattooed girl replied, "I'll be here."

I watched the second girl squeeze through the crowd and walk into the courtyard. The tattooed girl explained that her friend was looking for her boyfriend. "But I don't think he's gonna show up."

"No?" I asked.

She shook her head, "Nope."

"What good is he?" I said. "The bum."

"You said it," she laughed.

We both ignored each other for a little while, drinking our drinks and people watching. Every time someone passed by, we'd have to squish against the wall. "These seats are key," the girl said.

"I know it," I agreed. "Perfect for a wallflower like me."

"Wallflower?" she scoffed, "Is that your schtick?"

"It's no schtick," I said. "It's true. I'm the shy, quiet type."

She rolled her eyes and stirred her drink. "Yeah?" she said. "And how's that working out for you?"

"I'm talking to you, aren't I?"