Signing for packages at a certain New York publication, the delivery man points to my bare upper arm (the offices of the publication are excessively warm) and says I should get a tattoo there. I sigh and explain that I can never decide what to get.
"Get this," he says, lifting his shirt to reveal a life-sized handgun tattooed over his breastbone.
"Now how did you decide on that?" I ask.
"I was in a gang in L.A.," he tells me. "It was a long time ago."
The tattoo is slightly gray, as old tattoos go. He heads out to his next delivery. I turn back to my computer, editing a podcast about the legality of torture, a podcast about the science of loneliness.
skip to main |
skip to sidebar
stories at work.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment