Went with my “Aunt Judy” to get either a new tattoo, or another nose piercing. The tattoo parlor was an excavated tire shop, rusted car frames arranged in two rows of three out front, their noses angled towards the entrance, beckoning customers inside. I was aroused by a topless pregnant woman with pierced nipples and naval, hobbling behind us. Aunt Judy confides to me: I shouldn’t take my kids here.
Instead of a tattoo I decide to get a dangling, golden cross for an earring.
There is a group of men huddled together in leather trench coats, one of them is Malcolm Jamal Warner. Even though I’m not a fan, I point and say his name in a surprised tone, causing him to turn around. I take cover behind a wrecked car before I need to make eye contact.
When it’s my turn I tell the piercing man what I want, and he digs through a heavy duty garbage bag, sifting through plastic spoons, forks and plates covered in a cold, Chef Boyardee inspired sponge meat. He pulls out a wet fork and hands it to me, asking if I would like a cleaner one.