Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

People who stopped by Oottat Tattoo for ink, or just for a look at the Wall of Tats, would often ask where the name came from.

The younger artists would make up their own stories. Andy would roll her eyes and say that they had it all wrong. It wasn’t Oottat Tattoo but rather Tattoo Oottat, named after its founder Iqualit Oottat in the original location of Nome, Alaska. Sure, the vagaries of fate had required it to be moved to the city of Davis, MS, but that was no excuse for changing the name. Shawnn would simply observe that the name existed to spark conversation, nothing more, and that it was doing its job well–though if you could please hold still and make a little less conversation when indelible lines were being etched into your skin, that would be great, thanks.

The owner, Howard Gaines, on the relatively rare occasions he was inking customers and not paperwork anymore, would tell the truth. When he’d first opened the shop in 1981, he hadn’t had money for a sign, so his brother John Jr. had made a “TATTOO” out of metal at his welding shop and painted it. Howard had hung it up, but not realizing that most of the traffic on Old College Blvd. was eastbound rather than westbound, John Jr.’s “TATTOO” read as “OOTTAT” to the vast majority of drivers. And, especially in the 80s, it was good for business. The metal sign was still out there, though the paint was in need of a refresh, but the name stuck. It helped that Howard hadn’t been able to decide on a name for his business after discovering that his first choice, “Love Ink,” was already taken by a calligraphy shop.

Cleverer customers would sometimes inquire if a backwards tattoo shop meant that the artist paid them. Andy would give them a penny from the penny jar, sarcastically, while Shawnn would offer a simple, flat “no.” Howard, if you could get him, would offer to pay the customer–but only on the condition that he got to choose the tattoo. One look at the exquisite flaming Rat Fink on his shoulder would usually be enough to end that conversation right quick.

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It all began with a doll, and it all ended with a doll.

Deborah had wanted nothing more than a Betsy Wetsy doll as soon as she had discovered one in her friend’s home. It had seemed like an innocent request to make to her parents, but her father had snapped at her, as he often did. Dolls were too expensive, the family was barely getting by as it was, and there was no point in getting something she would soon outgrow. When Deborah had observed that she outgrew her clothes, she’d earned a cuff for backsass.

A handful of times over the next few years, the sting had faded and Deborah had asked for another doll. The response was always the same: they were too expensive and she would outgrow them. Sometimes the message would be delivered with another cuff for emphasis, but Deborah learned her lesson soon enough and stopped asking. But it wasn’t enough to make her stop thinking about the dolls: she daydreamed about her favorites often, desperately made friends with wealthier girls so she could play with their toys, and even scoured the ground near local shops in case somebody dropped one.

Ultimately, she left her family and set out on her own. The first full paycheck she received working in the steno pool went to a deluxe Malibu Barbie doll, an almost unheard-of luxury and one which left her going hungry some nights. But it was worth it for Deborah to see the doll there on her shelf every night. She never even played with it, content to leave it in its box and admire it from afar, much as she had done for all her childhood.

Times were good and bad over the next decades. Though Deborah saw her financial position improve as she was promoted at work and eventually married Harold, who brought an income of his own. But she also faced the specter of long hours of secretarial work, miserable treatment by some of her higher-ups, and Harold’s descent into impotence, unemployment, and alcoholism. But through it all, there were the dolls. Deborah purchased a new one, of the latest sort, whenever she had the money and needed a pick-me-up, and they never failed to lift her mood.

An entire room of the house was given over to them, with Deborah keeping it immaculate. Harold may have let the rest of the house slide into squalor, and pawned plenty of things to get booze money after Deborah cut him off, be he knew never to interfere with her dolls. When cirrhosis took him in 1999, Deborah moved into a smaller room in the house and gave over all three bedrooms and her living room to dolls. By then, there were so many that she had to resort to cutting the tops off some of their blister cards to get them to fit–but it didn’t matter.

They made her happy.

When Deborah fell ill, her cousin suggested selling some of the oldest dolls to help fund her treatment. Deborah vehemently refused; she had the dolls to make her feel better, and getting rid of any would have been a devastating emotional blow just when she needed to feel her best. Once the cancer took its course, though, the cousin thought better of the sale–it would have taken months to sort out all of the dolls, see which ones were valuable, and then pack them for shipment. Deborah’s house was a much better, much quicker, money source, and it needed to be empty.

The local thrift stores were all too happy to take the dolls on, still in their original packaging. And for the next few months, as they gradually trickled onto shelves and were purchased, the collection was broken up. Deborah’s ultimate bequest, it seemed, was that no family in the county, no matter how bad their finances, would be in a position where they couldn’t buy a brand-new doll.

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“It’s a seashell.”

“I know it’s a seashell. Just like the other one.”

“Why are you asking me what it is then?”

“I’m not asking you what it is, I’m asking you why it is.”

“Why it’s on our lawn?”

“The ocean is 6 hours away if you speed. These are too small to be something from seafood. And they keep showing up.”

“Maybe they got thrown out and the bag exploded?”

“That’s one shell explained, not a bunch.”

“Maybe a cat or the birds? They leave stuff if you do things for them.”

“I thought birds left shiny things. And we haven’t done a thing for those cats.”

“I’m stumped, then.”

“Time for a stakeout, then?”

“Don’t be shellfish.”

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“Is that a dosimeter you have on there?”

The barista looked down, startled, at the badge clipped to her apron. “What, this?”

“Yeah,” the customer said. Seeing the expression on the barista’s face, he added: “I was an x-ray tech before I went back to school. I used to have to wear one to make sure I didn’t accidentally irradiate myself.”

“Oh, I work as an x-ray tech too,” the barista said with a nervous smile. “I just need a second job to make ends meet, you know?”

“Boy howdy, do I ever,” the customer said. “They didn’t pay me half of what the doctors were making even though it was my butt on the line. That’s why I quit and went back to school.”

“Yeah, that’ll always be the dream,” the barista said.

“Anyway, I don’t mind, but you might want to take it off here at job number two,” the customer said, collecting his latte. “You don’t want anyone getting nervous because of al the hysteria around radiation.”

“Of course,” the barista said. “Have a nice day.”

Once the customer was gone, and the shop was empty, the barista walked into the back, put her lead apron on, and began adjusting the coffee accelerator, which was set to bathe the signature brew in 74 terabecquerels of cesium-137.

“No more interruptions,” she whispered with a quiet smile.

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Jenna hadn’t had it easy. Not a lot of folks had been on her side, at least from her point of view. Her kids, her sisters, her nieces and nephews, all they did was take, take, take from the one person in their lives who was willing to put in the long hard hours to make ends meet, even if it was a 40-hour week of being alternately ignored or sneered at by out-of-towners in Wal-Mart.

She bore it all without too much complaining. There was always her car, a Pontiac-shaped sanctuary, with a sound system that worked great even if the AC didn’t. And that car was the source of her one indulgence.

At work, Jenna always parked in the side lot, near the bus stop, and took up two parking spaces–one in front, one behind. That meant no one in front of her, no one behind her, and an easy out when her shift ended at 11pm. She got dirty looks doing it, and more than one flipped bird from someone who wanted one of the spots. Mr. Bonesteel, the assistant manager, had even asked her to move it.

It was the only time she’d ever told him no.

That car, that parking space, was the only slice of anything Jenna regularly took for herself. And she wasn’t going to give that up for anything.

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“Well, that’s it then,” said Derkins, watching as the mangled remains of the safe were hauled on deck and swarmed by police. “Whoever it was that wanted the jewel, they’ve got it.”

“Tell me,” Inspector Sloss said. “Are you familiar with the Cullinan Diamond, Derkins?”

“Sounds like you’re going to tell me whether I have or not.”

“The Cullinan,” said Sloss, “was the largest clear diamond ever found; anything bigger was fit only to use in a drill bit. Fantastic stone, 3000 karats, sparkled like a rainbow due to impurities. You know how they got it from South Africa to London?”

“A safe like that?” Derkins said, nodding at the abused steel on deck.

“They loaded a safe onto a steamer, guarded by private detectives. And then they sent the real diamond through the registered mail in a plain brown box. When the time came to send it to Amsterdam to be cut, they loaded an empty safe onto a battleship.”

“How did they get the real stone there, then?” said Derkins.

Sloss patted his waistcoat pocket. “How indeed.”

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The Soviet Agat (Агат) was an unlicensed copy of the Apple II produced behind the Iron Curtain for use in Soviet and Warsaw Pact schools and labs. Despite its origins, it proved to be a capable system that improved upon the original Apple II in many ways, being both faster and more expandable.

This did not sit well with either the Defense Department, which used a number of Apple II systems of its own, or with Apple Computer, which saw no revenue from the Agat. At a 1980 meeting, after the Agat had been publicly demonstrated in a Moscow trade show, a group of DoD officials and Apple executives met privately to discuss retaliatory measures.

At the time, Apple was deeply involved in bringing its new Apple III machine to market, but even before its official launch many within the company were privately aware that the machine was likely to be an expensive boondoggle. It had a tendency to overheat, its clock chip was highly prone to failure, the case geometry made for narrow, easily damaged traces, and the individual chips in the system were prone to jarring loose. While key people at Apple–notably Steve Jobs–were in denial about the Apple III, others–notably Steve Wozniak–were very clear-eyed about the machine’s problems.

The DoD, represented at the meeting by Brigadier General Irvin Hooper III, promptly suggested that the Apple III be allowed to “fall into” Soviet hands.

In the guise of a promotional tour, Apple III units and schematics were taken to West Germany and shown off at a number of electronics manufacturers that were known to have been penetrated by the East German Stasi. Extra copies of blueprints and technical specifications were also made available, as were the demonstration units. As expected, the East Germans–already deep in development on their own U61000 chip–were quick to seize the technical details and share them with Moscow.

This led, in 1982, to the announcement of the new “Agat IV” computer, which was promised to be faster, cheaper, and more efficient than the original Agat, which still had not entered official serial production. The Agat II and Agat III were notably skipped (dismissed as “mere prototypes”) as well. Considerable resources were devoted to the Agat IV, leaving the original Agat engineers with a skeleton crew and few resources.

The result was as predictable as it was inevitable: the Agat IV underwent a tortured development cycle, as engineers repeatedly tried to correct its underlying engineering problems working from reverse-engineered specifications. Huge amounts of equipment and time were taken up the the endeavor, with the only result being a belated May 1990 debut of the Agat IV, which was all but given away in small numbers to party members and military academies. In the case of the original Agat, its engineers had valiantly managed to produce 12,000 units by 1990, but lack of official support and the severe drain of resources brought on by the Agat IV meant that the production numbers were dwarfed by the Apple II’s 6,000,000+.

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In the days of line infantry
When republics sprang up as poppies
Only to be cut down by monarchist axes
Soldiers sometimes stole monks’ robes
Cut them up, dyed them, wore them
As uniforms of colors bold
Hues so striking no one wears them today
Would ever wear them in battle
Even in jest or reenactment
And yet in those bygone days
They did just that
Steal the raiment of religion
Turn them into pink battle uniforms
And fight
Fight

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In general, I miss sequels having numbers. The slowly incrementing digits always gave me a sense of continuity, of purpose; the change from roman numerals to lame subtitles between Star Trek VI and Star Trek: Generations always underscored, for me, the calamitous gap in quality between the two films. Even Jason X, risible as it might be, was burnished by its association with Friday the 13th I-IX.

But the opposite is not true. Adding a number to a series that previously lacked them is a giant red flag, a dog whistle of incoming low cinematic quality, and more. Don’t believe me? Consider the Alien franchise. The first film, Alien, was followed by a sequel with no numeral, Aliens. But for the third, they went with Alien 3. and the resulting film was a development hell, a drastic misfire, and nearly killed the series off for good. Adding the numeral was a fatal blow.

Jurassic Park III was the same, and lay that series low for 14 years, following upon the numeral-less The Lost World. And of course, Rambo III came after First Blood and Rambo, even though the latter did have the fig leaf of a tiny “First Blood Part Two” disclaimer.

So in the future, if your beloved series is suddenly sporting a number, and especially of that number is three, run.

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I sit and silently cook
Office air is on the fritz
Fan blows in my nook
80º where I currently sit

It seems an unfair lot
On our rapidly warming earth
Until I have a thought:
What’s the air conditioning worth?

Heat islands are a side effect
Coal-fired plants at beck and call
But surely, then, the most wrecked
Are those who can’t afford it at all

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