The Tattooed Man

There are better places to spend a Friday night than this, standing in the street between a Ford dealership and an exotic dance club called Cheetah's. And there are certainly better people to spend it with.

I don't know his name. I never asked. All I know is that for the last two weeks, he's held my beloved Jeep hostage on the back of his truck, and that he has tattoos. And so, I've called him the Driver, also known as the Tattooed Man. And, for the last five days up until ten minutes ago, whenever I've called the Tattooed Man on his cell phone (because in this day and age, even the Tattooed Men have cell phones), I've gotten the distinct impression that I've interrupted him in mid-conversation with his copilot. Often, he attempts to carry on the conversation with his copilot and me at the same time. Which results, of course, in the miscommunications that can be expected when the person you're talking to but cannot see is talking to two people, one that he cannot see, at the same time.

This is the man who has my car. And on this Friday evening, an hour before midnight, when I meet the Tattooed Man on this busy stretch between Sunset and Hollywood Boulevards, I'm mildly alarmed, but not in the least bit surprised, to discover that there was, in fact, never a copilot. That the Tattooed Man has spent the last five days and twenty-four-hundred miles apparently talking to himself.

Welcome to life in a David Lynch movie.

Here, you look this over, initial there, sign there, initial there, he says, handing me the clipboard, and taking six hundred dollars in nonsequential, unmarked bills. He crouches in the headlights of the eighteen-wheeler to count the bills, audibly. That's one hundred, he says. That's two hundred. Et cetera. I sign, I initial. This piece of business conducted, he hands me a receipt, sticks the money in his pocket. Best put this away before somebody rolls me, he says. But I got a big steel rod on me, and if they can outrun a nine miller-meter, more power to 'em.

This is one of those rare comments that you'll get in your life that defy any rational response whatsoever. I smile and nod, which seems like the best thing to do at the time.

In less time than it takes to tell, my Jeep is unloaded off the back of the truck and deposited on the street, as the Tattooed Man, clearly one who prides himself on delivering expert service, points out that one of my tires is running a bit low on air. At this point, with the car over two weeks late for delivery, and having for the last two days been driving a rented P.O.S with awkward rearview mirrors that couldn't spot a rapidly approaching Mack truck in the fast lane and an instrument panel with red backlights that render such inessential details and the vehicle's current speed and fuel capacity next to invisible when exposed to direct sunlight (which in Southern California is pretty much twelve hours out of the day), I'm just happy the thing still has wheels. The sound of the engine running is a choir of angels.

The Tattooed Man shakes my hand with a fingerless leather glove, then squints at his clipboard through his steel-rimmed, heavy-lensed glasses. You know the best way to get to 130th Street in Compton, he asks. I shake my head, telling him I'm new to the area myself. I don't add that he ought to be happy he's packing his nine if he's heading into Compton, since I'm trying to keep the conversation on positive topics until I'm out of firing range. I do, however, recommend coming back to the Cheetah Exotic Lounge for some R&R after he finishes his last delivery.

Hell, I would, he says, but where the hell am I gonna park the truck? He points to a nearby sign that reads, Max 4500 Pounds, with an icon of a truck crossed out within a red circle, Ghostbusters-style, just to drive the point home. They got those fuckers all over, he says.

They're not fans of trucks, I guess, I say.

Yeah, he says, 'cause the forget everything they use COMES ON A TRUCK. This last bit is shouted at the sign, and to the entire truck-hating world as a whole, a lonely man crying out against the establishment that's left him stranded and directionless on Sunset Boulevard, packing a pistol and talking to himself. And at this moment, even though I've spent the last five days cursing the name of the Tattooed Man, envisioning myself beating him with a tire iron for depriving me of my automobile, striking a vicious but ultimately justified blow for all of us who have been left stranded and at the mercy of the incompetent; even though I've spent the long hours before sleep of the last five nights imaging the torture and imprisonment of the Tattooed Man and the fiends who unleashed him on my life; even though I HATE the Tattooed Man; at this moment I feel sorry for him. And five days worth of hatred and anger just kind of blow away, and it leaves just two guys on a road.

He shakes my hand again, then starts to walk away. As I'm getting in my car, he turns and asks me what I'm doing here. Visiting, going to school, what? I moved here, I tell him. My wife works in movies. I fix computers. And I wouldn't mind doing movies myself.

Not a bad deal, he says. Seems like you're doing pretty well.

Not bad at all, I say. We'll see how it goes.

All you can do, he says.

I drive away, feeling the softness in the Jeep's tires, watching the truck parked by the side of the road shrink in my rearview mirror before in disappears completely as I make the turn onto Sunset.

Then the Tattooed Man is gone forever, and I drive on home.