Tattoo Part Uno

I believe it has been a long time, if ever, that I have told the story of my tattoos. They have tended to be a hold over from another portion of my life that at times has been difficult to share with others. Granted, there is always the aside when they ask about them, and by now I have a well rehearsed script that I go through without too many questions being asked when i get to the end of it. I suppose my best skill if I was a magician would more than likely be the misdirection.

I forget my tattoos are there, to be honest. More often than I remember them anyways. They have come to be a part of my skin, more like scar than statement at this point. At the oddest moments, however, I will notice them and become captivated at their mere concept. Each one imprinted in my arm as much as it is carved into my brain. Anytime someone asks what it is like getting a tattoo my simple response tends to be “instant recall.” Since there is not a second, nor a detail that isn’t pulled clearly into focus. Odd what pain can do with a little drama.

I’ll start all of this off with my first tattoo, the one I call “who I was.” I had been working at my first casino at the time. Somewhere in between being suspended (a story for another time) and deciding to move to my last casino (again for another time).  At this point I could go off on a complete tangent about the decision to get a tattoo from the guidance of crazy ex-girlfriends WHILE you are hopped up on cough medicine for what perceived illness you have at the time, but I don’t think that advice is really necessary, as hopefully one should now be able to do the math. Anyhow, I digress. The first one came when I was nineteen, and is the one that really defines as my step away from who I was supposed to be in everyone’s eyes. Fittingly, for the metaphorically rebellious person I was at the time, as all teenagers are since yano they apparently get everything so MUCH more than their elders, I chose to get drama masks.

The tattoo in and of itself isn’t that spectacular, and resides on my upper left arm, hidden away from short sleeves, and only seen on rare occasions not by a lover. It is actually the most personal of all of my tattoos. Perhaps it’s place as the first one, or as the reminder of who I was all those years ago, regardless of the cause, it holds a place for me that I seldom think back upon. What I do recall of that evening (beyond the crazy ex-girlfriend, a red chevy cavalier, and being sick) is pacing around inside the parlor. The parlor was one of those classically seedy joints in downtown bremerton (long since out of business I believe now) that when you walked in you could smell the musty stench of those defending their decades of rebellion. Once inside the door, to ones left and right were alcoves covered in various designs and regalia. Devils and nude woman and all various sorts of crosses or cartoon characters (one could argue they were one and the same) adorned the white stencil sheets, calling out for the wrong decision to be made in a spur of comedy. Facing forward one could see the stalls behind a long rail that went the entire distance, a barrier against those that were “scared” as one of the older tattoo artists had declared when I had finally made my decision. Above the barrier were more and more tattoos, this time nautical stars, birth signs, and all various sorts of mushroom. Buried in the upper left corner in between a devil with a nude woman spread eagle on his tongue (i still want to meet the person daring enough to get it) and comical taurus symbol were my drama masks.

I didn’t make the decision right away, I trolled around the shop either looking for a reason to bitch out or something that was better. Not wanting to regret this coloured scar that I was going to introduce to my outward personallity.  I had dabbled with the thought of a pot leaf (thank god) and other larger more statement bearing tattoos. I looked at the classics and obvious tribal bands (the rage at the time), but kept coming back to the masks and what they would mean to me. After my ex had finished with hers (not sure what it was anymore, no doubt something disasterously white trash) I decided to go ahead and bite the bullet.

I have always hated needles. I am sure that it is more than heavily linked with the massive amounts of blood tests I took as a child. Whatever the cause, I just don’t like them, or their almost mocking pinch when they break skin reminding one of how actually fragile you are that this stupid little thing can easily pierce your skin. Anyhow, this fear had been held off bravely in all the moments until about 8 seconds before I sat down in the chair. All at once the same  old feeling of the cold wave ran over me. I had been given the new guy and he was doing his best to go through his schpiel about what this did, and how this is better than that, and all I wanted was for him to just get it started and be done with it. Now one could make the argument that my tattoos were my way of overcoming my fear of needles. In a way this is true, while I still hate them, i am no longer afraid of what they are going do to me. But in reality, the needle to the skin was something I was only willing to tolerate, not something I wanted to embrace.

After the lecture of autoclaves and slow positioning of the stencil on my arm, colours are agreed on. The background of the drama masks was clear, unlike the orange/red it has in it now. I believe it was supposed to be the sun, these days it just looks like a two toned circle and likely will remain that way until either they are covered up or I remove them. The tattoo-ist (if that’s a word) started to make his small talk and get everything set up, and with one last breathe he said “here we go.”

The pain was something wholly unexpected. Not so much excruciating, or gentle. A new kind of pain, one of intention and purpose.  It started slowly as he wound his away around the outline. I don’t remember a word he said from that moment on, however, I do remember the whir of a fan, and cackle of one of the other tattooers at this virgin getting inked for the first time. I recall staring straight forward with a hell bent expression on my face, determined not to a let a person walking through the front door see who I was before that ink was on my arm. I maybe looked down once or twice at the tatooer’s prodding and suggestion. It looked like black and blood at that point, the knowing of no turning back in front of me. When he started on the colour I recall the relief as the needles became more like pricks as opposed to the carving of the outline. His hands holding my arm steady with rubber gloves, almost a death grip pulling me forward onto whatever this path I was starting on with this message.

And finally, that was it. The tattoo was over. All in all it only took about 30 minutes. I paid him (tipped him I think, even though he picked his rate) and listened to his lecture on the proper use of anti-bacterial ointment all still in the adrenaline induced trance I had been in for the last half an hour. My crazy ex, and her even crazier friend, gave me some sort of lecture about taking too long since they had some random misc white trash thing to take care of. I stumbled to the car and got in the back seat. As we pulled away from the curb, I realized that I had left myself on that sidewalk. Granted, other life circumstances were forcing me to adjust to what life was at that point, but when I walked into that parlor, I was a babe in the woods, and when I left, as small as the tat was, I was now a bad ass.