A Guide to Coin Machine Temporary Tattoos

Photography by Tien Hoang, writer.

I. Your car, parked in front of an Ollie’s store. You wander around every now and then—you’re circling the aisles and pretending that your last-minute grocery run has any meaning at all. But the only reason you’re there this evening is because you’re desperate to waste loose change on toy machines. Let loose a little. It’s obvious the shop owner’s rigged the claw—metal grip all sick and weakly like quail feet. This is how you kill time. This is how you make poor choices. It doesn’t really matter, anyway. The world can pause for a bit, at least until after you dump all your rusty dimes and browned nickels into the slot. You imagine they’re chocolate. Your mouth wide open, eager and hollow—hands cupped, fingers pointing up to tile ceiling. There’s a leak up there and a questionable vomit-colored stain in the shape of Bob Ross. It’s too ordinary for you. Either way, you end up loving it.

II. A fat quarter, bloated and silver, in for a tattoo. The temporary kind—and the colors bleed altogether, raw and tender. Tattoos are your favorite, you decide. Next to chalky paper keychains and sad-looking plastic rings. Really, the fake ones give you a cheap, lame thrill. It’s almost pitiful, but you love the feeling you get when you twist the knob. Out comes the cardboard. The envelope hides the paper tattoo like a womb. Commit to it—take it out, sneak back to the bathroom, and breathe in the public washroom funk and sweat. Stick your hand in the mercury water. Smell the sourness, and wait a few seconds. Watch the damp image of a frowning Terrier slowly form above your wrist. You consider keeping it forever, but you know you don’t have the guts for it. Down the drain goes your money.

III. The back of your hand. The lines trickling down your knuckles and curving into your palms. A laughable tattoo, swallowing your veins whole and hugging your exposed flesh. You feel new again, like a bright-eyed baby. Gouache and watercolor drowns your fingers, and you feel just too lucky. Like you’re capable of anything and everything. May the world bow to you. And you think to yourself, how sensible you were to spend your last few cents on an Ollie’s coin machine tattoo.

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Tien Hoang is a seventeen-year-old writer from Richmond, VA. They write way too much about relationships and cultural food, definitely not because they constantly crave smoothies and spring rolls. An Adroit Journal Mentorship alum, Tien's work has been recognized by Ringling College, the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards, and occasionally, their relatives. Apart from writing, they enjoy streaming Spotify on the regular, going on unhealthy K-Drama binges, and watching really, really bad movies. They're also a part-time Costco fanatic.