As you all know, I recently got a tattoo. I figured I might as well tell you the epic tale of getting inked.
I didn’t go alone. They tell you that you should never travel to the rougher places of the world without a buddy. The Schmitty was my wingman (wingwoman, really) for the adventure; I knew she wouldn’t let the bogies close in on me. For the night, she was the Iceman to my Maverick. We drove up to the little shop of horrors, with my not really knowing what to expect. Painted across the outside of the building, like ancient cave-paintings, were two large, busty, asian-looking women wearing next to nothing, and that’s how I knew we were at the right place.
As I swung open the door, cautiously, fearing what may greet me on the other side, I was greeted by the strong smell of alcohol. I was nearly overwhelmed, the fumes assaulting my olfactory, stinging the eyes; I was nearly contact drunk until I remembered something very important: Isopropyl alcohol doesn’t make you drunk. I walked in, squinty-eyed and bowlegged, doing my best Clint Eastwood because I knew he was a badass, a badass who wouldn’t even flinch at getting a tattoo.
I walked over to the available artist, and he stared at me, finally grunting, “Can I help you?” I was taken aback at the brashness of his question. Just who did this guy think he was? Can he help me? Squinting ever the harder, I laid the piece of paper down and said, “I want this. Can you do it?” “Oh,” he says, “the Green Lantern. Yeah, I can do that. Do you want it that size or bigger?”
We spoke about sizes, waiting for high noon, my arms bent slightly at the elbow, ready to draw at any moment–I wasn’t sure if I should pay before or after. We talked about the wording, the font, the size, the location. The questions were dizzying, flying in from the left, from the right, low, high; they came as fast as Joe Lewis, but I floated like a bumblebee, stung like a butterfly, and we got it all straightened out.
For those who are uninitiated, tattoos start with outlining. Outlining is where they take a big, thick needle, and press down hard, as it repeatedly punctures your skin, leaving a disappointingly thin black line for the amount of stinging involved. I’ve mentioned before that I’m not just the manliest of men, but I’d like to think that I’m also not a complete wuss, either. That being said, the tattooing, including the outlining, is not the worst pain I have ever experienced. In fact, I would really liken it to a prolonged bee sting. You know, the part right when you first feel the sting. Imagine that for the time it takes to get the tattoo; in my case, that lasted about an hour and a half.
After about twenty minutes of outlining, I began to feel dizzy. The room started moving in all sorts of ways that a room, which is in theory attached to the ground via concrete, should not be moving. I told the artist this. He stopped, and we started talking. His first question was if I was going to pass out, to which I, in my most sincere voice, squeaked, “No.” After which, I immediately passed out. I woke up a few seconds later to him saying, “Come back. Come back,” and The Schmitty standing over me. Whew! Passing out. Now there’s an adventure for you. I dreamt something about everyone who was in the shop suddenly riding around in Speed Buggy.
I asked The Schmitty to go get me something to drink, and we sat there for a few minutes while I came back to my senses. I began feeling better, so we got started on the outlining again. About 10 minutes later, I felt that dizzy feeling coming back, and that darned room started doing its wacky dance again, and I had him stop. We breathed. We talked. We focused. We had our vision go dim. We didn’t pass out! We immediately felt absolutely nauseous, so we puked in the trash can. Puking, of course, had its own side effects, of which was an interruption in breathing and focusing, so I checked out once more. I awoke to the guy, and two others standing over me, his having popped an ammonia pack to bring me back.
A familiar acrid smell began to fill my nostrils, and I immediately realized that it smelled nothing like ammonia. I looked down to discover bits of macaroni from lunch, and some pizza sauce sitting in chunks all down my shirt, all over my shorts, and on the floor and even behind me on the table (don’t ask me how it got there. I’m really not sure.). I spent the next several minutes feeling like an idiot, but we pressed on with the tattoo. I didn’t have any more problems, other than smelling of my own vomit for the remainder of our time.
I paid the man, didn’t have enough for a tip, but promised him that I’d return the next day with one. And so I did. I gave him a nice big tip to thank him for not tattooing something obscene on me after my having thrown up on him.
As I walked out the door, I eyed the man suspiciously, wondering just what he’d done to me that evening. Satisfied that he’d never again think to cross me, I left. And promptly put in nose plugs.
Shout outs to Rikki Bailey’s Garage Art in Longview, TX, and especially to Frank, my artist. Thanks so much, and sorry for puking all over the place.
