So Dad got out of the hospital on Monday, but it will be this coming Monday before the doctors get back all their test results. In the meantime he is in good spirits and seems generally optimistic; I wish that I could say the same. I have been researching his symptoms and other medical problems (heart disease, Type II Diabetes) on WebMD and have come up with nothing. So instead I have just been doing a lot of praying. And as comforting and helpful as a panic-induced complete meltdown would be, I just don’t see one around the way; ask me again Monday about that one. So apparently, no matter how much I worry, it has almost no effect on what happens to my dad. This sucks, and is also a huge load off.
So in the meantime, I have two stories, which are only a little interrelated.
Almost six years ago I was living in a small quayside house in Waterford, Ireland. When the tide would go out the quay would drain, revealing a murky, slimy, muddy bottom with things trapped in the sludge: a shopping cart, a lone shoe, rats. Also, it had a funky smell. But the story is not about those things, or the quay.
Not long after arriving in Waterford, my housemates and I befriended a group of six Irish lads, who were probably some of the coolest people I have ever met. They took us to pubs and dance clubs, and came over to our house for dinner, or conversation, and they even came to the small church we were working with at the time. They taught me how to play Playstation, and ride a Vespa, and the joys of a three-pint lunch. Despite all the other weird things that happened to me in Ireland, and in Waterford in particular, they made the entire experience worth it.
One of the guys was named Keith Irish. No, really. Keith was pierced in about every single place a person can be pierced: tongue, lips, eyebrow, nipples, nose. I had always kind of been vaguely fascinated by people who get off on pain that way, and one night our conversation turned to piercing. He mentioned that he was going the next day to get the skin between his thumb and forefinger pierced. I offered to go with him, as moral support, and because I had nothing else to do.
Immediately my friend Amber stepped in. "What are you getting pierced, Nathan?"
I rounded on her. "I will if you will."
She hesitated for only the most imperceptible fraction of a second, then shrugged nonchalantly. "’Kay."
And so, the next day Keith came by our house at about 11:30, and the three of us walked to the city centre, to a small piercing shop the size of my bedroom. Immediately Keith, who had an appointment, was ushered into the back of the shop, behind a curtain.
I still had not decided on what to get pierced. I was thinking something out of the way, innocuous, like an eyelash, say, or a long toenail. I looked at the prices and noticed that it was only five quid to get the ear cartilage, and so Amber and I agreed that we would do that. I had to go first.
So I sat in a chair, and a bubbly, fat Irish lady bustled around me, getting everything ready. I tried to remain calm. Eventually she raised a small gun to my ear and fired. Whap. It felt like someone flicked me very hard in the back of the ear, which people used to do on the school bus a lot.
"That was no big deal," I said, getting up out of the chair so that Amber could sit down. Immediately the Irish lady set about getting everything ready for her: sterilizing needles and so forth.
In the meantime, in my chair by the window, I started to feel - what’s the medical term? - wonky. I felt all the blood drain from my face, and I broke into a cold sweat. My head swam, and I felt vaguely nauseous. The piercer looked over and noticed how pale I was getting, and immediately fetched me a small glass of water, which I sipped. She told me to put my head between my legs and take deep breaths. Sure. No problem. I closed my eyes and did some Lamaze for several minutes.
After awhile I started to feel better, and so I sat up. Now - I am used to opening my eye and seeing things, right? We all are; it is something we learn almost immediately: Eyes Open - objects and people. Eyes Closed - a field of black. So what did I get when I opened my eyes? Nothing. And so, I opened my mouth to tell someone: "I am Blind."
Only what came out was, "Thim Thinth." My tongue was completely numb.
"Holy Crath! Amtha! Thim Thinth!" Oh good. Blind and without speech.
Immediately the piercing lady rushed over and forced my head back between my knees. I figured what the hell, and closed my eyes again, trying not to panic. Deeper breaths. Deeeeeeper breaths. I sipped more water. The piercer put a string of large wooden "healing beads," which were in fashion at the time, on top of my head.
I can’t imagine what Amber must have been thinking throughout this ordeal. However, to her credit, she went through with the piercing, and though she experienced a lot more pain than I did, she had none of the adverse side effects. I have since learned that what I experienced that day was mild shock. Also, I found out later that you should never, never have your cartilage pierced with a gun, as it can lead to all kinds of adverse side effects. Always use a needle.
After a few minutes my sight returned and my tongue moved again. I was thrilled. Keith had emerged from behind the curtain near the beginning of the whole ordeal, and he let me tell the story to everyone rather than rib me about it all night, which I thought was just really nice of him. After we left the shop we all went to the chipper for some food, and I went home and rested all afternoon.
When I got back to the States, the first thing my mom saw was the new steel stud in my ear. She asked what it was before she asked how Ireland had been, or what I had brought her.
An interesting epilogue to that story. About two years later I was in New York, walking down Christopher Street with my boyfriend at the time, when I had a lark: "I want to get my eyebrow pierced." So we found a little shop run by a guy with long purple dreds. I like that in a piercer. I relayed to him a short version of my previous piercing adventure, just as fair warning, and he told me that just that morning, a girl had come into have her lady parts pierced. The second - the very instant - the needle went through, she lost control and shit all over the place.
I looked around worreidly; the scent of bleach fiercely tickled my nose, and I relaxed. So, no more piercings for me; I no longer thing that copious amounts of metal sticking out of one’s body is cool (though I will never get rid of my ear stud - the eyebrow thing fell out on its own after two months), and anyway, I am way too old for that sort of thing.
So the second story.
I’ll just start with the moral: Do not ever, ever, ever, ever offer to do something for a story that you are not actually willing to do, even in jest. Especially if your editor is a little, shall we say, cukoo.
I had my evaluation this morning at the Gazette. This basically meant that Rob and I sat in my office and talked for half an hour, which was a lot of fun, despite how much I had been dreading it. I worry about things like job evaluations, because I am a raging, insecure narcissist, and I just assume that sooner or later someone will come along to tell me that the jig is up, that I am not meant to be a writer, and that everyone knows what a disgusting person I am.
Rob told me I was doing a great job, and he was really pleased with my performance, and more or less offered to put me on the payroll as a freelance writer once my internship ends. This pleased me to no end, as I am really fond of Rob, and the Gazette, and - duh - of writing. He asked me what I had in mind as far as articles go.
I mentioned to him my idea about the negative economic impact of Oklahoma’s ridiculous liquor laws, and reminded him about the tattoo thing. For those of you who do not know, Oklahoma is currently the only state in America where it is illegal to operate a tattoo parlor. The state legislature recently took up the issue and will probably pass a law making tattooing legal very soon. Rob and I discussed the idea of me covering this story, though we came up against a brick wall when trying to find a new angle from which to write about it. We had kind of given up until this morning.
That was when I had to go and open my big, stupid mouth. Jokingly, I said, "I could go get a tat and write about the experience, ha ha."
His face took on a new shape almost instantly. "Would you?"
I sighed; I knew the answer before he even asked. I covered my eyes and whimpered, "Yes. I’m such a whore."
"Would you be willing to sign a release?"
"Ugh, yes."
"Let me talk to the legal team."
He laughed about this, and I tried to join him, but I was struck with the dawning realization that I would very likely be getting a tattoo soon for the sake of a story. I have always wanted a tat, but am scared of needles, and of pain, and of accidentally shitting all over someone’s fine business establishment like the girl in New York City.
Later this afternoon, Rob sent me an email telling me to hold off on the idea for a week or so, but to definitely keep it on the front burner. By the end of the day everyone in the office was high-fiving me; even Ben, the hardcore reporter who wants us to imbed him with the troops in Iraq. This gave me a minor lift, and I thought - "What the hell?" I called Brian and he seemed to like the idea.
So now I am lost as to what to get, and where. Any thoughts?
Again, I stress the moral: Never, ever, ever volunteer to do something for your boss, even if you are volunteering in jest. Ever. Never. It’s a good thing I like my job, and Rob, so much. He dared me to get a tattoo of Herve Villechaize - you know, "Tattoo" from Fantasy Island. I told him I would not get a Tattoo Tattoo. That was asking too much.
I repeat: I am such a whore.
Ah, well. I like Derek Webb’s tats. Also, Erica’s been on me for years to get a tat like hers, the Chinese symbol for friendship, on my pelvic bone. Geez.
Anyway. This Sunday is Easter, and it will be mine and Brian’s first whole Sunday as official members of Mayflower. We’re having an Easter brunch afterward, so anybody in the OKC area - if you want brunch, just let me know. If you’re away from your family, or don’t have one, or don’t have Easter plans - call me, or email. Should be delish.
