The Last Untattooed American
The Last Untattooed American hastily removed his long-sleeved turtleneck shirt, gloves, long trousers and knee-length socks and prepared to take his first shower in six weeks. At that moment, a gust from the heat duct slightly parted the bathroom window curtain. The breach of several inches was sufficient for a citizen spotter across the street to note through his binoculars the apparent absence of mandatory anatomical art. The authorities were alerted. Agents were dispatched. Within minutes, the offender was in custody, dried and under examination. Sworn to fair and thorough treatment of all suspects, the officers probed the length and width of The Last Untattooed American in quest to remove all doubt he was indeed such. "Possible Metallica lightning bolt, back of the neck!" "Barbed wire crucifix, sternum!" "Monarch butterfly, left buttock!" Long shots, all, and each proving to be only a scar -- from acne, from heart surgery, from an unleashed Rottweiler. Left legally as well as literally naked, The Last Untattooed American was duly sentenced to be paraded through the land, where citizens of all ages were assessed modest fees for the privilege of decorating him as they deemed historically and whimsically appropriate. Going forward, there was no question the tattoo patrol would be kept intact, even with closure thus achieved and the national treasury vastly enriched. Caution was the byword. Children were the reason. They never had known of people without tattoos, and now were asking their elders, over and over, what it was like.
Dan Carpenter is a freelance journalist, poet, fiction writer, essayist and blogger, residing in Indianapolis. He has contributed poems, stories, and essays to Flying Island, Laurel Review, Poetry East, Illuminations, Pearl, Xavier Review and many other journals and anthologies. He has published two books of poems, The Art He’d Sell for Love (Cherry Grove, 2015) and More Than I Could See (Restoration, 2009); and two books of non-fiction.