Stranger Stranger

This strange tale began two years ago in my small-town Texas bar. In sauntered a man on a slow Thursday night who looked like he belonged in a circus. He had many unusual piercings and tattoos, yet he wore a shirt with the words, “peace, harmony, and love” intersecting.

I greeted him, “Howdy, stranger.”

With a smooth, deep voice and a smirk, he asked, “How can you be sure that of the two of us, you are not the stranger stranger?”

That made me laugh heartily. “Ya’ll have an excellent point. I do have strange qualities.” I smacked my palm on the bar. “What can I get you?”

“A shot of whatever you’re drinking.”

“It will cost you.”

“Many things cost. Only some have value.”

I couldn’t help a short chuckle. As I poured him a shot of my personal Elijah Craig Barrel Proof, I said, “That sounds like a fortune cookie. Are y’all a philosopher or something?”

“Not by trade, but doesn’t everyone get philosophical from time to time?”

“In my experience, not people who look like ya'll, no offense.” He waved off my comment. I asked, “So what do you do?”

“I am a tattoo artist, specializing in animal tattoos and tattoo removal.”

“Oh, wow! Funny ya’ll should end up in my bar. I have one I have to get rid of. The name’s Rocky, by the way.”

“My name is Albert O’Neill. Call me Al.”

“Wait!” I exclaimed, “The A and O in red on your shirt are your initials.”

Al nodded once. “You are quite observant, Rocky.”

I shrugged, “It comes with being a bartender. You have to watch for trouble.”

“Indeed.” Al put his right palm up. “Where is the tattoo in question?”

I rolled up my sleeve, exposing my forearm, which had the name Joyce on it. The letter O was in the shape of a sun. I explained, “Joyce was my first girlfriend, 25 years ago. I called her, “My Little Sunshine.” My current lady friend won’t marry me until this is gone.”

Al nodded. “This is a common situation. I can make this go away with no scar, but I insist on putting a different tattoo higher on your arm, which I will choose after speaking with you.”

My eyebrows shot upward. I was intrigued. His own pieces were artistic and masculine. It did occur to me that this could be an elaborate ploy to rob me, but I’m pretty good at reading people, and I wasn’t sensing any maniacal tendencies from Al. I asked, “How much would that cost me? I mean, how much would that be worth?”

He smiled. “Very good distinction, Rocky. You’re an excellent listener. I will do the job for $1000.”

I whistled, my pitch falling downward.

Al added, “You will not be disappointed.”

I noticed a group of four regulars enter the bar, chatting animatedly. “I’ll come to a decision by the time you settle your tab. Y’all want another before I get slammed?”

“Indeed, thank you. Just one more.”

I did get busy, but Al seemed content to nurse his second shot and watch the locals come and go. I asked him twice if he needed to leave. He simply shook his head and held up what little was left in his shot glass.

All of my patrons were gone by 11:15. I told Al, “Okay, I’m willing to roll the dice. When and where?”

Al looked around. “Tonight, if that works for you, but not here. I’d rather give you a place to sleep it off when I’m done. How about your place? Do you live with your girlfriend?”

“She has her own apartment. My place is fine.” I started clearing glassware from the bar. “I need to finish up here. Ya’ll can wait if you like.”

“Well, yes. I’d like to ask a question or two. Tell me, Rocky, what is one of your fondest memories involving your father?”

I thought about what to share as I wiped down the bar. “I’ve got one.” The memory made me smile broadly. “Once, my dad and I drove to this place where we could hike to a swimming hole. When we arrived, we climbed a cliff and jumped in the water. It was early spring, so it was cold, but it was so much fun. I must have jumped 20 times.

On the drive home, a big bull was in the middle of the dirt road, just standing there. My dad slowed down and snuck around him. After he drove by, I stuck my head out the car window and hollered, ‘Moo!’ I’ll be danged if that dad-gum bull didn’t charge at the car! My dad took off like Bo and Luke on The Dukes of Hazzard. There was nothing but a cloud of dust behind us. I never laughed so hard in my life.”

Al’s chuckle was low and made his shoulders shake. He said, “Great story. It’s just what I needed to hear. I’ll wait outside while you close up. Will this cover the drinks?” He placed a $100 bill on the bar.

“Sure, that’ll do nicely.” The fact that I was going to turn around and give it back (and then some) wasn’t lost on me, but this way, we kept our transactions separate.

After I locked up, I found Al lying in the bed of my old, faithful truck, staring at the stars. He was leaning on a large hiker’s backpack, and his legs were dangling over the tailgate. I said, “You look right comfortable, but I’m ready to git going. Ya’ll climb in the cab, if ya have a lick of smarts. It ain’t far, but no sense getting bounced around in the back.”

Al complied, and we arrived at my modest home in minutes. With both parents gone and no siblings, I had inherited the house and the bar. As we entered, I admitted, “I don’t have anything fancy to drink here, but I can offer ya’ll a cold brew or iced tea.”

“Iced tea would be great, thank you.”

As I got myself a beer and his requested drink, I asked, “So Al, how long have ya’ll been a drifter?”

“About 10 years now. I was miserable working as an accountant. I learned tatoo art from a friend in exchange for doing her taxes for three years. I discovered that I have a particular gift. I sold my house and bought my own equipment. I’ve been wandering ever since. I’ve got enough saved up to retire, but I’m enjoying myself. I’ve met many interesting people, such as yourself.” He drank half the tea in one guzzle.

I downed the rest of my beer, handed him the money, and asked, “Ya’ll want me on the couch?”

“Yes, that would be perfect. I’ll set up my equipment on the coffee table.” He took a case out of his hiking pack and started laying out the tools of his trade. It all looked very professional.

“You ready?” he asked.

I took off my shirt and ran my hand nervously through my hair. “Aren’t ya’ll gonna use a stencil or a drawing?”

“No.” He pointed his free, gloved hand to his head. “I’ve got it all up here. I will warn you, though, that the removal part will take time. Be patient.” He held out his tattoo machine. “Okay, here we go.”

Soon after the initial contact, I started getting groggy. I remember thinking, “If he robs me, so help me, I’ll find him…” Then, I blacked out.

I didn’t wake up until morning, when my girlfriend called. Before I could get a word in, she asked, “Why didn’t you call last night? Did you get slammed late at the bar?”

“Long story,” I grumbled. I sat up, looking around. “Listen, I’ve got to check something out. I’ll call you back in a bit.” I disconnected, not waiting for her response. I walked around my house. Nothing seemed missing. Well, except I half expected to find Al somewhere on the premises, but he was nowhere to be found.

My arm was covered with two plastic films. The one on my bicep had a note attached. It read: “Open me first, then the other. Then wait and watch. Remember, patience. Peace, A.O.”

I peeled back the film covering my bicep. To my delight, the most amazing, artistic bull was tattooed in exquisite detail. The eyes looked enraged, and there was steam billowing out the nostrils. I could have sworn that I saw it pawing as if to charge.

When I uncovered the forearm, my heart sank. I used every expletive in my book in the space of 30 seconds. My old tattoo was still there. Still ranting and raving, I looked again, and this time, I know I saw movement. More steam puffed out the bull’s nostrils. As I watched, flabbergasted, the bull charged across my arm, lowering its head and smashing into Joyce’s name. I opened my eyes and mouth wide. The J and part of the sun were gone. The bull turned, ran back up my arm, and charged again. This time, he took out the rest of the sun and the Y. One more charge, and Joyce’s name was shattered into oblivion. The bull turned around and traipsed back to his original position, freezing into his fierce, menacing pose.

I blinked several times, not believing what I had just witnessed. I inspected my forearm closely. Not a drop of ink; not a scar remained.

With a triumphant smile, I declared aloud, “Some things have value. Thanks Al, you stranger stranger.”