The Price of a Tattoo

by Huina Zheng

Ming was striding through the park when he spotted a teenage boy sitting on a swing. Yellow city lights seeped through the leaves overhead, leaving him half in shadow. It was late in the evening. Why was the boy still out here?

Ming slowed, then headed over. The boy looked up so suddenly that Ming almost stopped. Blue-and-white school uniform. Buzz cut. Thirteen, maybe fourteen.

Ming could feel the boy’s gaze dropping from his face to his arms. Ming’s hair was dyed blond, dark roots already showing; a dragon coiled on his left arm, a tiger on his right. He knew what the boy was thinking. He knew what had caught the boy’s attention. He almost said, “Don’t worry, I’m not a bad guy” but, before he could, the boy blurted out, “Your tattoos are awesome!”

Ming stared at him.

“When I’ve saved enough money,” the boy went on, louder now, “I’m getting tattoos just like yours.”

Ming glanced at the boy’s buzz cut. “Shouldn’t you be at your dorm? Or home?”

The boy lowered his head.

“What is it?” Ming said. “Skipped school? Ran away?”

Ming scratched a mosquito bite on his calf. His tattooed arms had started itching, too. “If you’ve got nowhere to go,” he said, “there’s an all-night McDonald’s up ahead. Let’s sit there.” He paused, then added, “I skipped school, too, once. Slept under overpasses.” He turned and started walking.

Soon, footsteps sounded behind him. The boy was jogging to catch up.

The McDonald’s was brightly lit, a few scattered customers inside. Ming ordered two meals, carried the tray to a corner booth and sat down.

The boy grabbed the McSpicy chicken burger and devoured it, gulping down Coke until the cup was half-empty. He didn’t even touch the ketchup, just shoved fries into his mouth.

Ming bit into a burger.

Before long, the tray was empty. The boy stuffed the last few fries into his mouth and let out a loud burp. He leaned back in his chair, his eyes falling again on Ming’s arms.

“Got them the summer after seventh grade,” Ming said, wiping his hands with a napkin. “Spent ages online looking at designs, thought they looked cool. But I had no money, so I told my parents the school required us to buy a learning tablet.” It had been only four years ago, yet it felt like another lifetime. “My dad made four thousand yuan a month. He gave me two thousand.”

The boy’s eyes lit up. “And you went straight to get them?”

“That same day.” Ming tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Got the dragon and tiger done, and the tattoo artist said, ‘Little brother, add a descending tiger on your back and you’d be truly fierce.’” Ming laughed. “Looking back now, he just wanted to squeeze more money out of me.”

“Still sounds awesome, though,” the boy said. “Wish I’d told my parents I needed a learning tablet, too.”

Ming glared at him, and the boy shut his mouth. Ming then lowered his eyes, his finger tracing circles on the Coke cup. “That day I went home, my mom saw the tattoos on my arms and cried all night. My dad sat in the living room smoking, one cigarette after another, not saying a word.”

“My parents are the same,” the boy said, rolling his eyes. “What’s the big deal?”

Ming was about to say, “It is a big deal,” but the words didn’t come out. He sighed. “At school, we weren’t allowed to show tattoos. Everyone else wore short-sleeved uniforms; I had to wear long sleeves. Classmates asked if I was hot, and I played it cool, said no. But sweat ran down my forehead, my uniform stuck to my back, damp all day long.”

The boy looked at him, eyes still shining. “They just didn’t get it. You look so badass.”

Ming looked at his arms. The dragon and tiger looked faded under the McDonald’s lights. “After middle school, I went looking for work. Wanted to apprentice at a hair salon; the owner took one look at me and said, ‘You’ll scare the customers away.’” Ming laughed a little, himself, as if remembering something foolish.

“Then I tried an auto repair shop. Too brutal. I quit. After that, restaurants, security, convenience stores. One look at my arms and they waved me off. In the end I could only help out at my uncle’s rice roll shop.”

The boy said nothing.

“Later my cousin was going to enlist,” Ming continued. “I thought I’d go, too. Medical exam day, shirt off, the doctor took one look, and I was not qualified. My cousin passed, I didn’t. My mom cried another whole night.”

Ming raised his hand and slapped the spot where the dragon was. Smack.

“Don’t try to talk me out of it,” the boy said immediately. “I’m getting them anyway.”

Ming held the boy’s gaze. “When people tried to talk me out of it back then, I didn’t listen either.” He paused. His fingers scraped the edge of the table. “In middle school I climbed over the wall to internet cafés and thought I was so tough. But now?” He laughed, a dry sound. “Every time I go home, my mom’s eyes are still red. I know she’s afraid my life is basically over.” Ming lifted his head, looking at the school uniform on the boy. “You know why I walked over to you tonight?”

The boy blinked. “Because of this uniform?”

Ming nodded. “You think it’s ugly, right? But you have no idea how much I wish I could wear it.” He stood up. “I’m leaving.”

“Where’re you going?” asked the boy.

Ming didn’t answer. He pushed open the glass door, and the night rushed in. Just got off work. Time to sleep. A windowless single room was waiting for him. The night wind blew from behind, and he remembered himself at thirteen, wearing that same uniform. Back then, his arms were still bare.