Day 19

January 18
8:30 pm

We spot David and Aneeta when we get here, raucously leaning back in their chairs at the center of the bar. The room fills with their laugh. The adorable bartender, luminous in a lime green workshirt and That Belt Buckle, smiles hello and I say something like, “Wow! I’m so excited about your outfit!” and he says “It’s spring!”—it is, almost--and before I know it I’m ordering a glass of red wine and asking what Anne should have.

“She should have the Vinho Verde,” says the man next to me, who is sitting alone and wearing a starchy-looking navy and white gingham shirt. “It’s amaaaazing.”

“Awesome,” I say.

“It sparkles. You know, subtly. Just a little.” He holds up his glass to show me.

“Cool,” I say. “It could be a night for sparkles.”

“Honey, it’s always a night for sparkles,” says the man. “I’m a sparkler! Well, who among us isn’t, really?”

Indeed.

We’ve already had a bit of an evening, which included an hour at NOAC, involving a little bit of working out and a lot of bumping into people we knew; a fruitless and, ultimately, slightly demoralizing quest for tattoos; and a consolatory dinner at Adolfo’s, up in the window seat overlooking Frenchmen Street: the room cluttered and companionably noisy, the food decadent and perfect. Now, sad as we are about the tattoos, we’re content and satisfied, and we’re expecting a little crew of our people to show up tonight.

I’m giggling with David and Aneeta about friends from residency, their odyssey today through the bars of lower Decatur Street, and David’s slightly scandalous love life. Anne’s doing this ritual where she flutters around our chairs for a second or two, then says, “Oh, I have to go outside for a second,” then leaves for a bit, then returns, looking slightly dejected. Ordinarily I’d be wondering what this is all about, but David and I, who even in serious working environments only have to look in each other’s direction before falling into gales of laughter, are currently cracking each other up merely by raising our eyebrows at each other, and we’re therefore blind to our surroundings.

After about her third venture outside, Anne returns to us, breathless, and says, “Okay. I just talked to Boobie. They’re on Rampart Street, they’re open all night, they can do what we want, and it’s gonna be 60 bucks.”

We stare for a second.

“Who’s Boobie?” Aneeta finally asks.

“The guy at the tattoo place on Rampart Street!” Anne says triumphantly.

I guess we’re getting them after all.

Devin arrives and squeezes into the seat next to me with a High Life. “I broke my promise,” he says. “I never made you a Ramos gin fizz.”
“There’s time,” I say.

Suddenly everyone’s texting us: Elizabeth and Rahn aren’t coming after all, and Adi and Anjali are getting haircuts at the R Bar (“A night of grooming!” says David), but may want to catch up with us later, post-tattoo. DrewChristopher and a group of folks may be coming by for a goodbye drink before he heads back to the Bay Area tomorrow. Anne and Devin are talking on one side of me, and I’m still giggling with David and Aneeta, about the hospital and awkward dating situations, and then Anne leans over and says, “Devin’s coming with us!”

I clap my arm around his shoulder. “Yay!”
“I’m not coming!” Devin protests. “Whoa. No. I was just drawing out what my tattoo would look like if I got one.”
“That’s half the journey, love!” I take a sip of wine. “You’re totally coming.”
Devin kind of shakes his head.
I’m about to say it again, but then I get that Don’t Corrupt The Youngsters feeling and I squeeze his shoulder and say, “You should do whatever you want,” and go back to making faces with David.

In walk Lydia and Evan, who are one of those couples who look exactly alike. We give each other wide hugs and Lydia says, “Yay! Are you here to see Drew?”
I hope so, I explain, but we’re about to get tattoos.
“Yay!” says Lydia.
We’re talking about how Lydia and Evan get mistaken for brother and sister, when Devin leans over to me and says, “Ok, I’m ready. If we’re gonna go, let’s go.”

Whoa!

In about seven seconds I’ve drained my glass and start settling my tab. “We’re taking Devin to get a tattoo,” I announce to the adorable bartender. He starts asking all the responsible questions, like Who’s the Artist, to which I respond, “I think it’s somebody named Boobie.” The adorable bartender raises an eyebrow, and I say, “It’s just gonna be a word. I think it’ll be okay. But we have to go quick before Devin changes his mind!” And we give rushed hugs to everyone and scuttle out of there, and really this is only the beginning of the story. I could tell you a whole lot about the rest of the night: the glorious multicolored walls and how the place was packed with kids and grown-ups; the flock of girls giggling in the booth next to us; the swaggering fifteen-year-old, who’d just gotten an enormous “Senora” across his chest; the incredible Jessi, who was everything you’d want your tattoo artist to be; the way Devin marched up to the chair, rolled up a sleeve, said “I want it in purple,” and didn’t even blink the whole time; and Boobie himself, who kept checking in with Anne all night like an older brother, and who’s in the business with his whole family, including his mom, who’s been running the place for about 35 years. I could fill you in about our tattoos themselves, their significance and beauty and meaning, and how it felt to get them, and our celebratory drinks at the R Bar, the way we stayed up all night afterward, wired, like we’d all undergone an important transformation; but in the end I’m just supposed to tell you about Mimis, and all the rest is another story for another time.