VALDOSTA — A TALE

In his Marine Corps days, Uncle Al could make the hula girl dance. The blue-fade of her grass skirt swayed with every pump and release of his bicep.

Then, Uncle Al’s taut muscle filled the hula-girl tattoo with a buxom roundness. He could make the tattoo on his arm move without even trying.

If Uncle Al reached for a beer, she danced. Cutting a steak, the permanent reds, yellows and oranges of her flowered lei and the blooms in her blue hair shimmied.

As a boy, Billy couldn’t help staring at Uncle Al’s tattoo. Billy didn’t know anyone else with a tattoo. He’d occasionally see another man with a tattoo on his arm at the barber shop. Even this was rare, and those tattoos were never as colorful or as interesting as Uncle Al’s hula dancer. Billy could watch that tattoo for ages.

Sometimes, only the hula girl’s skirt and legs poked out from under the sleeve of Uncle Al’s white T-shirt. Whenever Uncle Al scratched his head, or raised his arm, the whole hula girl tumbled out of his sleeve, upside down, dancing with every twitch of muscle. On several occasions, young Billy could have sworn the hula girl winked at him.

After a few beers, Uncle Al might notice his young nephew’s interest in the tattoo. Then, Uncle Al would bellow-sing something he called the theme to “Hawaii Five-Oh,” a song unfamiliar to young Billy, but a tune which Uncle Al performed with gusto. He’d blurt out that song, making the hula girl dance on his bicep, her tattooed arms, legs and skirt, gyrating, swaying, never losing a beat. Billy laughed at the strange dance occurring on the stage of his Uncle Al’s arm.

Often, with the song finished, Uncle Al would explain that the hula dancer was high enough on his arm that the sleeve of his Marine blouse kept her covered whenever in uniform.

On the forearm of his other arm, Uncle Al had a tattoo of the Marine emblem. It rippled whenever his arm moved. Still, Uncle Al did not make it jump to funny songs. He might place his hand upon it occasionally. When he did, he did not sing. He did not speak. Uncle Al sat quietly, looking off into space.

If Billy asked why he had tattoos? Uncle Al would respond that tattoos were a long military tradition. If Billy asked why to that answer, depending on Uncle Al’s mood, or how many beers he’d had, he might say, “Well, if I’m ever blown up, these         tattoos will help them  identify my remains.”

Saying this, Uncle Al and Billy remained quiet a minute. Depending, again, on Uncle Al’s mood, he might continue, “If I had more money, I’d get a tattoo on each of my legs, too. One would say, Al’s left leg. The other would say, Al’s right leg. And you know what?”

What, Billy repeated.

“If I had a million dollars,” Uncle Al said, “I’d get one tattooed on my behind that said, Al’s rear end.”

As time passed, Uncle Al seemed something of a prophet. He never had a tattoo placed on his legs or his behind, but it seemed like the rest of the world would get tattoos on their arms, legs, behinds, backs, chests, breasts, and everywhere else.

Compared to the sleeves of tattoos up and down people’s arms, Uncle Al seemed like a novice, a dabbler in the art of tattooing rather than a pioneer in the art of skin.

The old saying is true: Once a Marine always a Marine, but that doesn’t always hold true for a Marine’s tattoo. The hula girl had sagged on Uncle Al’s deflated arm. Her flowers had faded to blotches. She had taken on a blue that matched the varicose veins mapping Uncle Al’s legs.

She no longer danced whenever Uncle Al reached for a beer. She jiggled.

Billy had come of age in the rising age of tattoos. He had several. Nothing gimmicky like a dancing hula girl on his bicep, but various designs along his arms, his legs, back and chest. He even had a wheel tattooed on his neck.

No mistaking Billy on a battlefield, Uncle Al thought. He didn’t really know what to make of this new era of tattoos.

Many years ago, Al had taken a lot of grief from his folks about his tattoos. So, he usually kept his mouth shut regarding Billy’s tattoos. Given that Billy also wanted to join the Marines, Al kept quiet because he felt like he may have been partly responsible for Billy’s tattoos.

Visiting one day, Billy moped into the kitchen. He slumped into a chair beside of Al.

“Well, I went to see the recruiter today,” Billy said.

“Yeah,” Al answered. “How’d that go?”

“Well, you know how you used to tell me when I was a kid, that tattoos were a military tradition?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, they said with my neck tattoo and my sleeves, I’m too tattooed for the military.”

 Uncle Al reached across the table for another beer. For a second, Billy could have swore, that for the first time in years, the hula girl tattoo winked at him from the loose flesh of Uncle Al’s arm.



Dean Poling is The Valdosta Daily Times assistant managing editor. His book, “Waiting for Willie,” is available at The Valdosta Daily Times’ 201 N. Troup St. offices.