September 8, 2014
There is something inside of me that just has to get out.
Something that I cannot describe
but looks me right in the eye daily.
Clearly, I needed to look more closely.
And when I did,
the idea of getting a tattoo
was born.
It all started years ago. My nephews, Smokey and Mitch were both graduating from school … Smokey from college and Mitchell from high school. I had been racking my brains to come up with a gift for each of them to mark the occasion. My bad idea pile was growing by leaps and bounds and my maybe pile did not exit. The criteria I had settled on for the gifts was that the nephews would never forget it. That pretty much ruled out a new fishing rod or anything that had any potential for being relevant or useful then or ever. I definitely was leaning towards some shared event, some epic adventure. Cat fishing with a guide for the big cats was a possibility except for the fact that Mitch was not a fisherman. Neither one of them was tuned in to the joys of suffering while camping (I blame their Dad for that oversight). I was in a quandary. My reputation as a strange uncle was on the line.
And then it came to me. Male bonding at its best. The gift you can't forget. I decided to give them tattoos.
Immediately, I called their Dad and without hesitation he was in. I called both Smokey and Mitch. There was no way that they could refuse. I explained what I wanted to do and that it was a bonding thing for them, their Dad and me. And then I said, "Look, no problem. If you are afraid and don't want to do it, I won't think any less of you. I understand. You will still be a man to me." Just as I suspected … those guys were fearless.
Bob found us a tattoo parlor in Charlotte, NC. It was perfect. Located in a rougher section of town with great steel bars on all the windows. My only regret was that no matter how hard I a tried, I could not get Anne's Dad to join us. He did go with us to watch, but would not get a tattoo. I was never really certain whether he just did not want to get one, or if there was another reason. As we headed for the car to leave, Ruth, Mr. Hughes wife, leaned out the door and said, "Bob Hughes! You had better not come back here with a tattoo". He went home with a tattoo that day … but it was a temporary stick-on one. Don't misinterpret what I am saying. Not for minute, do I think that Ruth's comment had anything to do with Mr. Hughes decision.
We all arrived at the tattoo parlor, ready for a great day. Mitch and Smokey had brought copies of special tattoos that they wanted. Smokey's was the Hughes Family Crest. Why put it on a blazer when you can carve it into you back I say. Mitch designed some Asian symbol for music and a guitar player. Bob and I had to look through the tattoo books. He wanted something with Felix the Cat and found it. You learn something new every day. I never knew that he was in to Felix the Cat. Personally, I never cared for the cartoons myself, but I did see some Felix the Cat porno stuff once that was pretty funny. I found a yin yang sun and moon kind of thing and it was okay. Everyone but me wanted their tattoo on their right shoulder blade area. I didn't know much about tattoos, except that where there is bone, there is pain. I chose my well-padded hip next to my fat butt for mine.
Time to man up. Smokey volunteered to go first and plopped down on the stool. In case you are not aware, tattoo artists (they weren't exactly called artists back then) are not your khaki pants and button-down oxford types. Our artist was disgustingly obese, complete with heavy wheezy breathing. His condition, I am sure was exacerbated by the need to sit on his huge butt day-in and day-out torturing men and writing in ink and blood on women's breasts and beyond. Within easy reach of his stool was his loaded 257-magnum handgun. He explained that he had been robbed the week before. However, I expect the gun was there before anyone ever thought of robbing the place. I think there may be an unwritten rule that the tattoo artist is required to to tell tough guy stories throughout the tattoo experience. It is all wrapped up in the need for men to posture and flex their muscles. Our version of this for the day was to make fun of whichever one of us was currently in the hot seat. We took pictures, laughed and accused each other of crying. Oh, the moaning and grimacing and white-knuckle gripping of the stool was like nectar from the gods. Neverthless, What happens in Vegas Stays in Vegas. That is, unless one of the group writes a blog. There were too many memorable moments to share them all. My favorites though are:
Bob's eyes nearly bugging out of his head when the needle came at him
the vise like grip that Smokey had on the chair to keep from flinching
Mitch, well I was not sure he was going to make it
Smokey telling Mitch before his turn that he would not think less of him if he backed out
The two girls looking over the partition and saying, "Mr. Bob, is that you?"
Smokey's determination to get a picture of me flinching in pain
Smokey's comment to me, "You SOB, you are not even going to change your expression are you?"
By the way, I did not change my facial expression … just like Smokey implied. Remember what I told you earlier about tattoos on muscle and bone and tattoos on fat. End of story. We had a great time … a great bonding experience. It was something the women just could not understand … like torturing your younger brother.
The Charlotte tattoo satisfied my need for ink for many years. I don't recall when it was that the urge resurfaced. What I do recall was that I started sketching possibilities. I am not one to jump into things. This sketching phase lasted at least a year. About the same time, I realized that I was psychologically drawn to spirals. Needless to say, I settled on a spiral design. I and seen an itinerant worker at the school with a tattoo (in this case, just a straight line) on his calf. Ignoring the wisdom on my first tattoo, I decided that I wanted the spiral tattoo on my calf. A friend at work recommended that I try The Black Bear where she had gotten her tattoo. I called and made the appointment.
The Black Bear was one of those "here today, gone tomorrow" kind of places in West Brattleboro. I want to say the shop was named for the tattoo artist because he sort of looked like a big black bear, complete with heavy black beard and a black Harley t-shirt. The beat up sedan he drove convinced me that the t-shirt was as close to a motorcycle gang that he would ever get. I was a little disappointed that he wasn't packing … perhaps he had a gun in the car or a switchblade in his pocket. However, he did talk tough … both words that he said. And, he was a man of his word. Just before he touched the needle to my leg he said, "This is gonna hurt". And it did.
Perhaps my need for ink is easily satisfied. Or perhaps, it is my need to avoid physical pain. Whichever, tattoo number two was sufficient for years. Then one day, I began to draw again. This time, it was circles and triangles and squiggly lines. However, this time, old age had taken its toll. I was getting lazy. To see the Yin Yang, I had to pull down my pants. The spiral necessitated turning all the way around or checking myself in a mirror. This time, I would just look down at my arm and there it would be.
For about a year I toyed with a combination of shapes … a black circle, a red triangle, and multiple squiggly lines. I combined them in numerous ways, but finally made my decision. I started with the black circle, which for me represented a wholeness and an embracing of people and ideas. Within the circle is a red triangle. I envisioned a passion for focus and direction within the welcoming spirit of the circle. Behind it all, is a river of time … perpetual and eternal. I drew it out, enlarged it, shrunk it, and cut out samples to try out in different places on my body. I settled on the inside, left forearm just below the elbow. And then, I waited … and thought about it. And waited … and thought about it. Until it was time. Maybe it was "about" time is a more accurate way to say it.
I decided a man that had lived to the ripe old age of 65 ought to get a new tattoo. I started looking for just the right place. Tattoo parlors are pretty much cookie cutter reproductions of one another. The artists are even more stereotypical. The artist definitely has to have the sleeve tattoo and a demonic calf tattoo … something new, dripping blood and staring out every time you unbutton another button. Just once I would like to see a tattoo artist dressed in a button down shirt or wearing pink or bright orange even. They might say, "I'm sorry, this may hurt a little." Perhaps, they might relay a story of how thugs confronted them and they were so scared that they wet themselves and ran away screaming for help. Sorry, but my imagination is getting away from me.
I tried three local spots. At the first, the artist took one look at the design and quoted me a price that proved to be double the the other prices I would get. The second spot was pricey as well, but the artist seemed to be having trouble redrawing the design I brought … not too reassuring. The third spot was 100% Goldilocks. Good price, confident on the drawing (and everything else) and he was wearing a gun and carried a knife. Perfect! An added incentive was that two students that I had known at BAMS were apprenticing there. One was an attractive blonde. I assumed she was new given the nakedness of her exposed skin. Her ink, I imagine, was tucked well out of sight for now. Her beauty was apparently her role in the parlor. The second former student was well sleeved and sported additional ink about his neck. He informed me that he had always been getting into trouble at school for doodling and drawing on his assignments and had eventually quit high school to come here and do tattoos. As I recall, doodling was not his primary problem in school, but he was basically a good kid … regardless of the hunting knife tucked neatly into his belt in the back.
My artist finally arrived and I was the perfect customer for the next hour. I listened intently to all the stories. I agreed profoundly that everyone the artist said he beat up clearly deserved it. I was oh so understanding when he informed me that he had never shot anyone who was an American. Not one sly comment did I make about his Marine mentality. For my cooperation, I got a sewing machine with ink on the needle run up and down my arm for an hour. It was everything I had hoped it would be.
Tattoos are definitely not for everyone. In fact, about 95% of my friends fall into that category. Most of them ask me "why in the world would I sit down and intentionally have someone stick needles in me … intentionally hurt me"? I suppose that is a legitimate question. My answer is this. What is the use of having a beautiful canvas if you never paint on it?
For about a year I toyed with a combination of shapes … a black circle, a red triangle, and multiple squiggly lines. I combined them in numerous ways, but finally made my decision. I started with the black circle, which for me represented a wholeness and an embracing of people and ideas. Within the circle is a red triangle. I envisioned a passion for focus and direction within the welcoming spirit of the circle. Behind it all, is a river of time … perpetual and eternal. I drew it out, enlarged it, shrunk it, and cut out samples to try out in different places on my body. I settled on the inside, left forearm just below the elbow. And then, I waited … and thought about it. And waited … and thought about it. Until it was time. Maybe it was "about" time is a more accurate way to say it.
I decided a man that had lived to the ripe old age of 65 ought to get a new tattoo. I started looking for just the right place. Tattoo parlors are pretty much cookie cutter reproductions of one another. The artists are even more stereotypical. The artist definitely has to have the sleeve tattoo and a demonic calf tattoo … something new, dripping blood and staring out every time you unbutton another button. Just once I would like to see a tattoo artist dressed in a button down shirt or wearing pink or bright orange even. They might say, "I'm sorry, this may hurt a little." Perhaps, they might relay a story of how thugs confronted them and they were so scared that they wet themselves and ran away screaming for help. Sorry, but my imagination is getting away from me.
I tried three local spots. At the first, the artist took one look at the design and quoted me a price that proved to be double the the other prices I would get. The second spot was pricey as well, but the artist seemed to be having trouble redrawing the design I brought … not too reassuring. The third spot was 100% Goldilocks. Good price, confident on the drawing (and everything else) and he was wearing a gun and carried a knife. Perfect! An added incentive was that two students that I had known at BAMS were apprenticing there. One was an attractive blonde. I assumed she was new given the nakedness of her exposed skin. Her ink, I imagine, was tucked well out of sight for now. Her beauty was apparently her role in the parlor. The second former student was well sleeved and sported additional ink about his neck. He informed me that he had always been getting into trouble at school for doodling and drawing on his assignments and had eventually quit high school to come here and do tattoos. As I recall, doodling was not his primary problem in school, but he was basically a good kid … regardless of the hunting knife tucked neatly into his belt in the back.
My artist finally arrived and I was the perfect customer for the next hour. I listened intently to all the stories. I agreed profoundly that everyone the artist said he beat up clearly deserved it. I was oh so understanding when he informed me that he had never shot anyone who was an American. Not one sly comment did I make about his Marine mentality. For my cooperation, I got a sewing machine with ink on the needle run up and down my arm for an hour. It was everything I had hoped it would be.
Tattoos are definitely not for everyone. In fact, about 95% of my friends fall into that category. Most of them ask me "why in the world would I sit down and intentionally have someone stick needles in me … intentionally hurt me"? I suppose that is a legitimate question. My answer is this. What is the use of having a beautiful canvas if you never paint on it?
Nevertheless …
I got new ink.
That should do me …
at least for a while!
