Mermaids in Paradise: A Novel Read Online Free PDF Page A

He never claimed not to be.
    I saw photos displayed of armpit work, photos of naked-chested people raising their arms above their heads, and in those armpits were tattoos. In one pair of armpits there were grinning skulls, while in another two large eyes popped out to look at the viewer, one in each pit. They seemed to be the eyes of snakes, perched balefully on scaly lids. One man had women’s legs tattooed in his fishbelly-white armpits—a pair of disembodied legs in garter stockings and red high heels, one leg-pair per armpit. The legs were spread wide, one pointing up the inner arm, the other down the ribs, to reveal betwixt them both a nest of springy armpit hair.
    I turned away from the tattoo tent, feeling one’s idealism might be sullied there. Before I left the area, though, a tattoo artist called out and propositioned me, jauntily offering his body-scarifying services free of charge if I would be a little more outgoing. Although I felt gratified and waved amiably, I wondered if my jewelry had been a factor in the attraction. I’ve heard that, on a male finger at least, a wedding band can be an enticement, alluring as a loaner puppy. Was it the same with engagement rings? I thought of asking the tattoo artist this question, since surely there could be no harm in it, but when I turned around, my plastic cup newly drained, he’d already gone to ground.
    I got back to the screening room in time for obstacle number two, called “Radioactive Jacuzzi” (although, as far as I know, there were no actual particles of thermonuclear fallout). It was a wriggle on the stomach across a long vat of ice cubes, with barbed-wire netting close above them. This time I really would have liked to catch a glimpse of Chip; he’s always been sensitive to cold. He doesn’t eat ice cream, even, claiming it freezes his brain near the forehead. But once again I failed to spot my soon-to-be husband: there was too much humanity, it all looked the same to me and I lacked the necessary patience. Instead of squinting and studying those figures of athletes, I bellied up to the bar.
    And so it went: obstacle, drink, obstacle, drink. The men and several women ran through lines of flame; they carried logs up hills on their shoulders, abraded their knees and elbows climbing through massive corrugated pipes, and scaled treacherous vertical surfaces. As they became exhausted, injured andcovered in mud I threw back margaritas, added some nachos to the mix. I flirted with several other spectators, even got my palm read by someone taking methamphetamines; it was oddly relaxing, even luxurious. A girl with blue fingernails did numerology, while off in the corner a group of wholesome, rich-looking men wearing Harvard letter sweaters chanted ominous runes in some foreign and possibly ancient tongue . . . the point was, it was a party scene, and we the audience even forgot what we were there to watch, after a while. Few of us even glanced over at the screens; it was like being at a party on election night, supposedly “watching” the “returns.” We paid no attention to the faint sounds from the speaker system—squeals, screams, and bells ringing repeatedly.
    I drunk-dialed Gina on my cell; she’d been passingly interested in seeing the mud marathon and Chip had invited her, but as it turned out she had a scheduling conflict—free tickets to a special showing of an old Karen Carpenter movie. Now, tipsy and at loose ends, wanting Chip to be finished so he could join me at the after-party, I hit the speed dial. It was the intermission in the Carpenters movie so I gave her the room rundown. That’s what Gina calls it when you’re surrounded by people you don’t know in a social situation and feel compelled, whether under the influence or straight lonely, to dial a friend and callously describe the other people at the scene. I meandered out to the finish line eventually, with Gina still on the phone; in the lobby of the theater she was talking to me