Old Teenage Hopes

This is it, the last day of work before 11 days off.

This is going to be a long day. I decided to play rat hockey last night until 11:30 since we don’t have a game this weekend. A bunch of Bradley University players showed up and all decided to play on the same team.

They’re pretty fucking good, but it was a good skate anyway. I couldn’t really do much, but they are a college club team. Even though these guys thought they were hockey Gods, they still just play for the Bradley Club Team, it isn’t like they play in the WCHA.

After I was getting my gear off for a shower and this dude is eyeing me, and I know what he’s going to say.

“How much did all your ink cost?”

I was tired, and I noticed he had a couple of garbage tattoos on him. They kind of looked like kanji-ish tribal-ish bullshit. Not a tattoo person, just a person who happened to have gotten tattooed.

I gave him a quick exasperated answer. “Thousands of dollars.”

He then proceeded to regale me with his faded tattoos; it looked like he went tanning on a regular basis.

He told me how he knew he had some sort of bond with people that have tattoos, and he knew they’d be a certain type of person.

My thoughts exactly, however, I categorize tattooed people into two groups. Those that actually are into tattooing, and those that just got one or two to be bad motherfuckers. I had nothing in common with this kid, and I didn’t feel like talking to him any further.

Yet he continued on. I had turned around and he asked me what my back meant. I just said, “Nothing really”. It means a lot, but I just want to shower and go home. I don’t want to spend time telling him about the poem Invictus by William Ernest Henley. I don’t want to tell him about my grandparents dying. I don’t want to tell him about the fictional phoenix and how it doesn’t die. I don’t want to explain the burning cityscape to him. He’s got some fucking symbol for peace or courage or some other bullshit nonsense that he picked off a wall.

“I don’t need tattoos to mean anything”, I tell him, which at this point is pretty true.

As I shower I hear him blathering on about how HE thinks that tattoos need to have some deep spiritual meaning.

I’m toweling off and the kid has finally stopped his questions and philosophical views on tattooing.

Then, this other dude asks me if he can use some of my body wash. WTF, when did they start letting some many dipshits play hockey? I go into a long “um”. I’m trying to think of some reason to not let this kid use my body wash. I can’t come up with something so I tell him “sure” in a long drawn out drawl. I should have told him I had some sort of terrible skin rash and I shouldn’t even have my skin exposed when other people are around, but I couldn’t come up with that on the spot.

I’m about 30 seconds from leaving now, and this other fucking kid asks to get a bit of body wash. Fucking hell! I tell him I’m out in 30 seconds so he takes some now or he doesn’t take any at all. He’s still got some pads on so he squeezes a bit in his hand. As I leave he’s still got his hand cupped like he’s got a baby chicken in it or something.

The crisp night air embraces me, and I go home.