don't ask, don't tell
Nov. 29th, 2005 12:10 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
penfieldThere are a number of things I will remember about my odyssey home for the Thanksgiving holiday: being bused out to the tarmac and hearing the bus driver say "Uh, hello, is this the gate? I can't find the plane" and a landing that could best be described as tipsy, but most interesting was an exchange I had in the interim.
Across the aisle of the Embraer ERJ-135 twin-jet, three-passenger-wide aircraft was an African-American male, approximately 25 years old. He stood about 6'2 and I'm guessing about 160 lbs. -- though this does not include his belt, which must have been about 20 lbs. by itself, considering the downward pull it was exerting on his very baggy jeans. He wore a novelty mesh baseball cap, the message I cannot recall, and a short-sleeve gas station attendant's uniform shirt with the name Jamaal emblazoned on a white oval patch in modest embroidery.
Most notable, though, was the copious amount of tattoo ink all over his visible skin. There were symbols and asian characters all about his neck and ornate, colorful images covering his left forearm to the wrist. On his right forearm were lines and lines of script, circling the entire limb, punctuated with small, indistinguishable markings. It looked like it could a poem, or a bible verse, or a grocery list. I couldn't tell, and at first glance I was too bashful -- and intimidated -- to inquire.
Mid-flight, he looked over at me. I was dressed rather plainly, in blue jeans, a gray t-shirt, black oxfords and my long black overcoat. Which is why I was so confused when he turned and asked, "You in the Navy?"
I asked him to repeat the question, since I was sure I had heard him wrong. Maybe he asked if my coat was navy. Maybe he asked if it was from Old Navy. Maybe he asked if I liked gravy. "You in the navy?" he said again.
"No," I said, and wondered if I looked particularly buff or if it was just the haircut. He didn't elaborate. But I seized the opportunity.
"That's some ink you've got there," I said. "What is all that on your right arm?"
"That's all the womens I been with," he said, and flashed the sly, toothy grin that no doubt enticed at least a handful of those womens. The buttoned-up yuppie to his right almost spit out his complimentary beverage.
"Ah," I said, reflexively reciprocating his smile in an effort to forge some kind of modern male bond with this fellow while surreptitiously retching at the distressingly flashy display of chauvinism. Soon my nausea turned to wonder, that a man of relative youth could already have amassed such a roster. Did these women, especially the latter on the list, find that sort of thing charming? Were the indistinguishable markings some kind of timestamp or rudimentary rating system? Did he have to wear long sleeves on first dates?
And then I thought about what my imaginary tattoo would look like. With a little more experience, I might have enough for a nice bracelet.
Across the aisle of the Embraer ERJ-135 twin-jet, three-passenger-wide aircraft was an African-American male, approximately 25 years old. He stood about 6'2 and I'm guessing about 160 lbs. -- though this does not include his belt, which must have been about 20 lbs. by itself, considering the downward pull it was exerting on his very baggy jeans. He wore a novelty mesh baseball cap, the message I cannot recall, and a short-sleeve gas station attendant's uniform shirt with the name Jamaal emblazoned on a white oval patch in modest embroidery.
Most notable, though, was the copious amount of tattoo ink all over his visible skin. There were symbols and asian characters all about his neck and ornate, colorful images covering his left forearm to the wrist. On his right forearm were lines and lines of script, circling the entire limb, punctuated with small, indistinguishable markings. It looked like it could a poem, or a bible verse, or a grocery list. I couldn't tell, and at first glance I was too bashful -- and intimidated -- to inquire.
Mid-flight, he looked over at me. I was dressed rather plainly, in blue jeans, a gray t-shirt, black oxfords and my long black overcoat. Which is why I was so confused when he turned and asked, "You in the Navy?"
I asked him to repeat the question, since I was sure I had heard him wrong. Maybe he asked if my coat was navy. Maybe he asked if it was from Old Navy. Maybe he asked if I liked gravy. "You in the navy?" he said again.
"No," I said, and wondered if I looked particularly buff or if it was just the haircut. He didn't elaborate. But I seized the opportunity.
"That's some ink you've got there," I said. "What is all that on your right arm?"
"That's all the womens I been with," he said, and flashed the sly, toothy grin that no doubt enticed at least a handful of those womens. The buttoned-up yuppie to his right almost spit out his complimentary beverage.
"Ah," I said, reflexively reciprocating his smile in an effort to forge some kind of modern male bond with this fellow while surreptitiously retching at the distressingly flashy display of chauvinism. Soon my nausea turned to wonder, that a man of relative youth could already have amassed such a roster. Did these women, especially the latter on the list, find that sort of thing charming? Were the indistinguishable markings some kind of timestamp or rudimentary rating system? Did he have to wear long sleeves on first dates?
And then I thought about what my imaginary tattoo would look like. With a little more experience, I might have enough for a nice bracelet.
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It's in the jeans
Date: 2005-11-30 09:29 pm (UTC)Re: It's in the jeans
Date: 2005-11-30 09:36 pm (UTC)