TATTOO YOU

I got my first tattoo in a dingy trailer at the Trumansburg Fair sometime in the ’70’s. The exact year escapes me as do a lot of details from that era.  Memories swirl about like the fog of smoke that was my constant companion during that time.  I had to have been 14, maybe 15.  Nevertheless, the fair was the place to be for high-schoolers of my ilk and the massive bleachers provided the perfect hideout for clandestine meet-ups of the drug-induced variety.  The whole aura of the fair was very rock ‘n roll back then, and I was easily transported into another realm as I crossed through the gates and into the fairgrounds.  Bright lights illuminated the surface but failed to cut through to the seedy underbelly, which was right up my dark alley.  I began, then, to realize that it’s not so much where you are, but what can be born out of where you are. Yeah, I was still in Trumansburg, NY (literally a stone’s throw from Podunk, if you catch my drift...) but this T-burg was nowhere that I had ever visited before. It had been transformed into what I could then have only imagined Las Vegas to be. All glittery and flashing and loud, thumping music and high-pitched carnival music and sharp smells and bizarre, magnetic characters. Sinewy carnies with faded tattoos and dangling cigarettes called out to me every few steps, trying to seduce me into their stalls to try my hand at winning life-size fuscia llamas, dangling from ropes as if they had just been hung. 

“C’mon little darlin’,” they taunted. “I won’t bite...”

“Forget it then!” I’d holler with a backward glance over my shoulder, watching the cigarettes drop from their lips.  Sexual energy crackled like the grease from the fried dough booth.  I wanted nothing to do with the boys from my high school, with their smooth skin and part-time jobs stocking shelves at the P & C. These circus guys who didn’t give a shit and thought nothing of turning up a bottle of Jack Daniels and wiping their mouths on their grease-stained sleeves while undressing you with their eyes all the while pulling this lever and that and clicking bars into place so that the little kids wouldn’t fall out--these were the guys for me!  Again, the guys who reminded me the most of Keith Richards. Which brings me to my tattoo.

I decided that I would profess my love for Keith by getting a commemorative tattoo of the Stones logo--the famous lips and tongue painted by Andy Warhol. The same logo that adorned the walls of my room, the same logo that my older sisters had attempted to paint on the back wall of their closet, the same logo that I had on countless t-shirts and memorabilia.  I didn’t realize that this was what I’d decided to do until I found myself standing in front of the tattoo “parlor” at the fair on that muggy night in late July. With enough Mad Dog 20/20 under my belt to push me over the edge of doubt, I declared my intention to my older, just as wild, sister. I just happened to have a keychain with said logo dangling from my macrame purse to show the “artist” who was intensely adorning another girl who looked like, she too, had consumed her fair share of Boone’s Farm. He was fat and sweating profusely through his threadbare once white tank top. His prominent ass-crack greeted me from the too small stool he swallowed up. The air smelled sharp and sour; a thin film of dirt covered the counters and I don’t remember whether or not he wore gloves.  I tend to think not.  My sister, wild as she was, tried to talk me out of it. “You’re gonna be an old lady with boobs down to here with a tongue stretched down like some disgusting frog's tongue!” she pleaded.   

“It’s going to go here,” I said, pulling down my tube top and pointing to the very crest of my right breast, just before it swelled. “Not right on my boob!”

I fumbled with my key chain and had finally loosed it from my purse when the tattoo guy stood up and, thankfully, hiked up his trousers (Mick says “trousers”, you know...).  The girl grabbed the edge of the counter and pulled herself up, wobbling a bit. She gazed adoringly at the new vine wrapped around her ankle.  “Gotta keep it slathered for the 1st five days,” the tattoo guy said, grabbing a jar of Vaseline and scooping out a big glob with his index finger. He gently rubbed it over her angry-looking ankle.  “After that just keep it dry as best you can till it scabs over and then you’re good to go.”  

She handed him a $20 bill and limped down the rusty aluminum steps.

“Does it hurt to walk?” I called after her, my nerves kicking in.  My voice was drowned out by the tinkling of the merry-go-round and she didn’t answer me. I looked at the guy. “Does it hurt her to walk?” I asked him.

“Nah,” he said, lighting a cigarette. “She’s just favoring it. She’ll baby it for awhile and then forget all about it. Now, what can I do you for?” he asked, moving stacks of drawings in plastic sheets until he unearthed an overflowing ashtray.

“Well,” I said, thrusting the keychain at him. “I want to get this, here,” pointing to my right breast. Well, just above my right breast... 

A small smile threatened the corners of his mouth. “You do, do ya?” he said, handing me back the keychain. “I can do this one in my sleep.”

“Really?” I said. “So how many have you done?”  I noticed that my sister was gone. She had apparently slipped back into the night to pursue her own adventures. I suddenly wished she were there.

“Too many to count,” he said, waving his hand as if he were shooing away flies. Come to think of it, I think he was shooing away flies...

I reached into my purse and found my Camel Lights and, yes, Rolling Stones flip-top lighter. I needed a cigarette.

“Have a seat right here,” he said, gesturing to the metal chair in front of me. “And I have just the thing for this, uh, occasion...”  He fumbled through a pile of cassettes before holding one up in victory. He inserted it into the portable player and made a big show of pushing the play button.  Mick’s sultry voice echoed in the small space; “Please allow me to introduce myself...” he drawled.

“And if I’m not mistaken,” the tattoo guy continued, drawing back a stained curtain that hid a small bookshelf, “I think you could use a swallow of this.” He pointed to a bottle of Jose Cuervo. 

A tiny worm, protectively curled around itself, floated on the bottom.  “Now you’re talking!” I cried, hiding my nervousness. And it just so happened that Jose and I were already great friends. He produced a couple of Dixie cups and poured us each a glug. “Bottoms up!” I sang as we toasted and tossed back the fiery liquid.  He plopped down on the stool, which groaned under his weight, and he rolled back and forth across the counter, gathering up little pots of ink. I sang the “hoo-hoo’s” in “Sympathy for the Devil”; my favorite part, and swayed back and forth.  I wondered what my sister was doing. 

“Alright, so what size are we going for here?” he asked, reaching for my tube top. My hands flew up and stopped him. I pulled down the top ever so slightly, exposing the top of my already well-endowed chest.  

“You know,” I said as casually as I could. “About the size of a quarter, I guess.” I made a circle with my fingers to illustrate the point.

“Okey doke,” he said. “So, have you ever gotten a tattoo before?”

“Nope,” I said. “This is my first one!”

“Any questions before we get started?” he asked. “It’ll prick a little but won’t really hurt and it shouldn’t take long a’tall cause it’s small. It’ll run you $20.”

“Okay,” I said, fumbling for another cigarette. “Can I smoke while you’re doing it? And if I need to take a break can you?”

“Yup and yup,” he said. “Ready?”  

 “Ready,” I said. The tequila had begun to work it’s magic, unfurling it’s warmth throughout my body and I felt calmly excited.

He tore open an alcohol packet and wiped the cold square around my exposed flesh in a circular motion. He picked up what looked like a medieval dentists drill and dipped the end in dark ink. The motor whirred to life as Mick sneered “Pleased to meet you, hope you guess my name...”

The tip of the drill met my skin and a cloud of ink spread out like a fan. He dabbed at it with a wadded up paper towel and kept on drawing and dabbing. I watched in fascination and growing apprehension, wondering how this mess was going to even remotely look like my keychain. It was surprisingly painless. There was an obvious sharp pinch that was quickly followed by a sting, not unlike the feeling of having skinned a knee. Tolerable pain, obviously helped by my liquid medicinals. We didn’t talk while he worked; I didn’t want to distract him and I was lulled into a sort of trance in which I watched what he was doing as if he were doing it to someone else. Each time he dabbed I could see the picture taking shape and I grew more and more excited. I chain-smoked, tilting my head up and twisting my lips as I exhaled as not to blow smoke in his face. This was actually fun, I thought. I wondered if he needed an assistant. In what seemed like just a few minutes, he was done. He cleaned off his work with another alcohol wipe and sat back to look. “Now that,” he exclaimed, “is one good looking tongue!” 

I looked down at my chest. There is was, in all it’s glory. A perfectly rendered depiction of my beloved’s logo. I was thrilled and jumped up to hug him, almost knocking him over.

“Whoa, now,” he jumped back. “Don’t go moving quickly on me like that. I get startled real easy and you don’t want to startle me!” He wiped off his hands and held out his arms.

“Thank you!” I cried. “I love it!” We hugged. 

“How about one for the road,?” he winked at me, reaching for the tequila.  He poured us each another generous glug. I chugged it down in three gulps and felt my eyes water. How I loved that burn!

He gave me the Vaseline spiel and applied a thin gauze over the tattoo to protect it from rubbing on my clothes. I gingerly pulled up my top, smoothed my hair and slipped him a $20 and a $10. I’ve always been a good tipper.

Holding my head high, I slung my purse over my shoulder and made my way back into the bright lights to meet my fate.  And my mortified mother. But that’s another story...