Black and grey realism tattoo of a classic Volkswagen Beetle seen from the rear three-quarter angle, placed on the side of the ribs.

Black and grey VW Beetle on the side ribs

Realism · Ribs · Black and grey · Photo

A realistic tattoo of a classic Volkswagen Beetle, shown from the rear three-quarter view with its chrome bumper, rear grille and spoked wheel visible. Fine stippling and smooth shading build the curved bodywork, glass reflections and shadows on the ground. The design is rendered only in black and grey ink, with a partial line of script cut off at the bottom edge of the frame.

Realism Ribs Car Wheel Script

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The Beetle has been sulking behind the dodgems since Tuesday, nose-first into the hedge like a dog that won't come in. Harrow wants her running before he gets back from Ipswich with the lorry, so you are flat on a sack in the mud, wiping oil from the starter motor with a rag that used to be somebody's vest. Nobody else on the fair will touch her. Harrow polishes that chrome bumper himself every Sunday, even on the days the rides stay shut, and he won't let the lads near the spoked wheels with a spanner.

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Under the rear seat, when you finally get the cushion up, there is a shoebox tied with baler twine. Inside are ticket stubs from 1958, a tobacco tin full of coppers, and a photograph of a girl in a headscarf leaning on this same bonnet, laughing at whoever held the camera. On the back, in pencil: Mabel's first season. Towed the Big Wheel from Cromer to Clacton. You turn the photo over twice, then slip it into your shirt pocket, because it seems wrong to leave it for the man who is about to sell her.

Harrow's lorry noses through the gate at six. He stands with his hands in his coat and tells you a man in Norwich will give four hundred pounds for a Beetle this age in this condition, and the fair needs a generator, not a car. You tell him her name is Mabel. He says she's a lump of tin. You say nothing and turn the key, and after three coughs the engine catches, rough and certain, and the whole body shivers like it has been waiting for someone to ask.

You drive her out past the caravans with the headlamps on the stubble, the grille catching every light the fair still has. At the lay-by on the Ipswich road you stop, tuck the photograph under the sun visor, and leave the keys in the ignition. Then you walk back across the field toward the grind of the last ride coming down, and behind you the bumper keeps its small bright shine in the dark, waiting for someone to come looking for her.