Angry Ink

Left Is Right, Right is.....

This guy walks into the shop. He stands maybe 5'6", stocky, with short, bleach-blonde spiky hair. He's wearing a black, super-tight muscle tee, skintight flared jeans with a wide, studded leather belt and pointy-toed, shiny black leather boots. He asks about the industrial piercing, and then asks, "Is that gonna make me look gay?"

No, sir. Not at all.

Blondes And The Art Of Micro-Management

I pretty much have a very solid theory that the smaller the tattoo, the bigger the fuss about it. A bigger fuss about the design, a bigger fuss about the price, a bigger fuss about the pain, you get the picture. I rarely have anyone in here getting anything smaller than three inches square that doesn't act like I'm about to remove their frontal lobe with a rusty hand saw and replace it with a chicken heart. Today was no different.

A timid blonde walked in and showed me a phrase she had typed out for her first tattoo. I knew as soon as I saw the paper, I was in for a ride. She had retyped the phrase five times, and had typed the name of the font next to each version of the phrase. I have no idea what that was about. Knowing the name of the font is of no consequence to anyone, it's simply a matter of the customer liking the design and the design being feasible as a tattoo. Naturally, none of them were doable. Too small, too intricate, the usual with designs like this. The customer decides way in advance that this is what they want, with no knowledge of how tattooing actually works.Then I have to spend a half hour trying to break them of their idea and convince them that mine is better. It's never easy.

I retyped the phrase for her over and over, in different fonts, upper case, lower case, bigger and smaller sizes. She wasn't going to let go, no matter how hard I tried to convince her otherwise. And, of couse, this is one of these cases where they HAVE to have a tattoo....and it must never be seen by anyone, ever, anywhere, anytime. Please explain that to me. If you're ashamed or afraid of  being judged, don't get tattoos. Period. So, it wasn't bad enough she wanted teeny-weeny Roman font, she wanted it on her inner bicep. If you ever want to know what that's about, take a plastic baggie and fill it about 3/4 of the way with applesauce. Then lay that on a table. That's the surface you're working on, and micro-precision and geometric perfection are damn near impossible. I went back and forth with her over the lettering until we both agreed on something that I didn't think would look too much like a disaster after six months, and I gave her the release form to sign.

"Are you going to mail anything to this address?" She asked me, indicating the line where we ask for her address.

"No," I told her, "The health department just asks for that. We don't even keep these forms around after a while."

She nodded and continued. "So, is it bad if I've eaten in the last four hours?" I want to scratch that off of every release form in here. That question alone causes more people to shit themselves than any other on the form. We'll still tattoo you whether you have or haven't. We really don't even care, if you pass out, we're equipped to deal with it. People who have shat themselves over that question blithely jump in the chair without telling us they have latex allergies, iodine allergies, et cetera. But I digress.

So I get her back to my station and apply the stencil. She's then upset that the lettering doesn't line up with her wrist. She keeps drawing a line from her armpit to her wrist and saying she wants it to follow that line. Mind you, the phrase is about a quarter inch high and two inches long. I reapply the stencil numerous times, each time, she's trying to bend her elbow and watch what I'm doing. I keep telling her to straighten her arm so I can see this imaginary line, but to no avail. She sighs and asks me if she can apply the stencil herself. I'm ready to laugh, but I keep it in and carefully hand her the tiny, damp strip of paper. She stands in front of the mirror, makes a few hesitant approaches to her inner arm, then turns back to me, flustered. "I think you better do it," she said.

"Great idea," I reply and put it on once more. She seems happy and so I lay her on the table to work. As I get to work picking away at the wee letters with the tightest liner I have, in walks a regular customer of mine. She comes back to say hello, and as I work we begin chatting about the upcoming convention I'll be working. She has plans to come up and show an older piece I had done on her, and possibly do another at the show. We chitchat as I work, and after about five minutes, Blondie raises her head and says, In a rather agitated tone, "I'm sorry--is it normal procedure to talk while you're tattooing?"

I had no asnwer. And that wasn't a question that was looking for a yes-or-no answer. That was a "How dare you, stop fucking around and pay attention to what you're doing" statement. I know the difference. It's all in the tone. People ask often, "Is it normal to bleed that much?" And the tone implies one of two things: "Is it normal to bleed that much", or, "You incompetent fucking jackass, what the hell are you doing to me". There is a subtle difference, and after all this time, I'm quite able to tell which is which. I sighed, stopped what I was doing, and asked my visitor if she could come back. She asked when and I said, "About five minutes." This made Blondie jerk her head up off the table and stare at me in astonishment. I didn't even have to ask to know what she was thinking: That I was going to rush through her tattoo and screw it up. Yeah....if you can't do a tattoo that's a quarter inch by two inches in under ten minutes, you need to find a new job, end of discussion.

My visitor wandered back up to the front to wait for me, and I got back to work. I was fuming. Really? As if I can't do two things at once? As if doing some little piss-ass tattoo requires every fiber of my being to concentrate. The radio was on and playing music. There were other customers in the shop that were talking to each other, and to their artist as he was working. Not that I encourage watching the tattoo reality shows, but have you ever seen them? The motherfuckers don't shut up the whole time they're working, and neither do the people in their chairs. It's like a damn talk show, only with blood. I was thinking to myself if it ever occured to her that lots of people do things while talking. You should hear the operating room; they banter away while repairing holes in people's internal organs, for cryin' out loud.

I finished the tattoo and brought her up to the front. As she paid, her boyfriend said something to her in a low voice. She looked at me and piped up, "I didn't mean to be rude, it was a big decision, and I just thought it was wrong that you were talking." OH, THANK YOU....I am an amoral, rudderless dipshit, adrift in a sea of malfeasance, I so needed you to come in and set me straight. I smiled and nodded, telling her "no problem", despite the fact that my hands were curling into neck-wringing claws behind the counter. It's all I can do to not toss people through the front window anymore.

What Are Words For.....When No One Listens Anymore?

Lettering is the new tribal. Great googly moogly, for every beautiful, interesting design I've ever done, I've done "Faith" on the foot ten times. Jeebus, enough already! Nobody wants to read your dumb ass. And my annoyance is only compounded by the fact that everyone who wants these things is a total ninny.

                                       ***********************************

A young man and his friend walk into the shop and he says he wants "DON'T CARE" on his forearm. I hand him the lettering book. He spends the next twenty minutes vetting each of his choices to his friend and asking if he likes it.

                                       ***********************************

A young girl asks for "Fearless" in cursive on her back. As I'm setting up, she is wringing her hands, hyperventilating and asking again and again, "Is this gonna hurt? How bad does this hurt? Does it hurt a lot? Am I gonna cry? Is this gonna hurt?

I said to her, "Hey, you're getting the word "Fearless" tattooed on your body, you better start living up to that."

Exasperated, she blurts, "Well, that's not REALLY what that means!"

.....O RLY?

                                         ************************************

HE: I want "Balla" on my neck in Old English. How much dat gon' cost me?

ME: One-fifty.

HE: What kin I get for forty?

                                            ************************************

A young man comes in and asks for "Bad Boy". He spends a good thirty minutes puking in the trash can after I'd outlined half of the Y.

                                   ***********************************

SHE: I want a Bible verse.

ME: Okay, where at?

[She draws a line with her finger across the top of her vagina.]

                                      *************************************

HE: I want "God's Son" in cursive.

ME: Where at?

[He pushes up his sleeve and indicates a spot above a pot leaf tattoo.]

                                    *************************************

HE: I want 'FTW' (Fuck The World) on my arm. Like, up here, so if I have a T-shirt on, you can't see it.

                                     ***********************************

HE: I want "No Niggers" on my stomach. But write it backwards, in case I have to go back to prison or something.

                                    *************************************

CLASSIC: "I want my boyfriend/girlfriend/wife/husband's name on me. Can you do it really small, in case someday I have to cover it up?

                                    *************************************

SHE: Can you fix this? (shows me a long line of blown-out, blurry, scarred lettering wrapping around her leg)

ME: Is that Elvish? (Lord Of The Rings)

SHE: Yeah, it's the beginning of The King's Prayer [or something like that].

ME: Where the hell did you get that done? It looks like crap.

SHE: I know. And I spent three years online researching it, in the chat rooms, on different sites, asking people, making sure I got it translated exactly right. And then I had my friend's husband do it at their house.

ME: What did you do that for?

SHE: I figured, he had the equipment, how hard could it be?

                                          ***********************************

HE: [showing me a piece of paper with "YOUR NEXT" written in drippy-blood letters] I wanna get this.

ME: Like this, or you want it spelled right?

HE: Um.....I guess this way is fine.

 

 

Customers Say The Darndest Things!--Fully Loaded

HE: I took out my nose ring and it closed up. Is there any way you could, like, put the needle back through it?

ME: Yeah, sure, we can repierce it for you.

HE: Well, I don't have the money for that today, I mean can you just put the needle through it.

ME: That would be piercing.

 

*****************************************************************

 

NAMES I HAVE HEARD FOR THE TRAGUS (That's this, in case ya don't know): Tacheus, Trachea, Targus, Togus, Trag (rhymes with 'Drag') Brachius, Teargus, Tracheal, Trickle and, my favorite, Tornacheus.

 

*****************************************************************

 

I have had this conversation so many times it's hardly worth mentioning:

OBVIOUSLY TOO YOUNG PERSON ON THE PHONE: How old do you have to be to get a tattoo?

ME: Eighteen with a picture ID, it's the state law, no exceptions.

OTYPOTP: What if I bring my mom?

ME: No excpetions.

OTYPOTP: So not if I have a parent with me?

ME: No exceptions.

This conversation usually breaks down into any combination of the following: "Well, my friend got tattoed at [name of shop] and he/she's only 17 and he/she brought his/her mom."  "Well, I heard [name of state] does it."  "Well, if I can't being my mom, how about my dad?"  "What if I bring a note? (REALLY? A fucking NOTE?)"  "Well, I have a tattoo, my brother's friend did it in his garage." The answer, children, is NO EXCEPTIONS.

 

*****************************************************************************************

LITTLE OLD LADY (watching her daughter get a tattoo): I have a tattoo, you wanna see it?

ME: Sure!

LOL: It's a mouse. (hikers her pants down over one side of her hip) You see it?

ME: No, I don't see anything.

LOL: Oh, it must be on the other side. (hikes her pants down over the other hip) See?

ME: No, I don't see anything!

LOL: Really? It's not there? (hikers her pants back up) My pussy musta ate it!

*******************************************************************************************

 

Cover Your Mouth Instead!

A young lady came into the shop with two good-sized black and grey bows beneath her collarbones. They weren't horrible, but they weren't nice. One was bigger than the other, one was placed on crooked. They were far too dark and the outlines were choppy. She said she wanted them covered up, and she had a photo on her phone of what she wanted. I said, sure, let's have a look-see. She shows me the photo, and it's a very traditional 'cabbage rose' style design. I told her that it wouldn't work too well as a coverup, on account of the lack of dark shading, and what with the open areas on the design, the old tattoo would show right through. I said she really needed a different style rose. She asked me, "What about the same style rose?" I looked at her in confusion and told her that one she had on her phone just wasn't going to work.She didn't seem to like that answer, but you can't always get what you want when you're getting a coverup, you have to get something that's going to work.

I got up and directed her to one of the flash racks. I flipped to a page of more realistic style roses and pointed one out. I began to trace over the linework with my finger, explaining to her why this style would work better and what I could do to help her out. She got huffy and said "I don't like that style!" I told her that the problem with coverups is that you don't always get your first choice, sometimes you gotta be flexible to get the coverup taken care of. She said that she didn't care about the color, then, just do the same rose she had on her phone, in black. I explained to her that it was going to look terrible, she already had one tattoo she didn't like, then she was going to have something worse. The color, or lack of, wasn't the issue, it was the design itself, it just wasn't going to work.

She asked me if I could make a vine to cover the bows. Let me explain this to you this way, kids: Take a piece of paper and draw a rectangle about two by three inches. Color it in all black with a Sharpie marker. Then take a green marker and make a green stripe across it, make the stripe about a half inch wide. So...did it cover up the tattoo? No. You still have a giant fucking black square. That is exactly how coverups work. You're not paintng over something like you would on a wall, it's like drawing on paper with markers. The new stuff just gets sucked into the paper with the old stuff. The only thing that covers black is more black. And this was what I was trying to explain to this crazy cunt.

She was getting more and more worked up every time I told her that what she wanted wasn't going to work, it wasn't going to look like what she expected. I don't take peoples' money and then throw any old tattoo on them and kick them out the door. When extremely dark-skinned people come in here and want pale pinks and yellows in their tattoo, I tell them no. I explain why, and guide them towards something that will work better for their skin type. They get a tattoo that wasn't what they originally had in mind, but it works. It looks good, they're pleased, I'm pleased, I get paid, they feel that it's money well spent and we all live happily ever after. That's just the way it goes. Remember this, kids: If you go into a tattoo shop asking for something, and the artist tells you it's not going to work, explains to you why not, then offers a solution that will work, YOU LISTEN. They are not trying to be a dick, they are trying to keep you from flushing your money dow the toilet, making you unhappy with the finished product, and bringing a bad reputation to the shop. But I digress.

She asked if the rose could be the same size as the bows. I said no, and began to explain why. She quickly cut me off. "I don't want it to be that big!" She snapped.

I took out a piece of paper and sketched her bow on it and began to shade it in. "So, when you have a tattoo you're trying to cover, the new tattoo can't be smaller than the old one, it has to be bigger. I'll show you this," and I began to sketch the rose over the bow. "So, what happens is-"

She cut me off again. "Can't you just make the rose on one half of the bow, and then over here make a vine?" She seethed, jabbing her finger at the paper. Back to the vine again. So she would have a rose with a big black box next to it. The vine would have to be all coiled up like a snake to cover a square, so it wouldn't look like a vine, and the green wouldn't cover up the black anyway. And I couldn't get her to shut the hell up for two second so I could draw it out on paper and show her what would work.

"Well, no, here's what you should--" I didn't have the words out of my mouth before she was shaking her head, violently. "No. No. No. No." She said. "C'mon," she snapped at her friend, grabbing her by the arm. "Let's go."

She shoved the door open with a football-style stiffarm, her face pinched with rage. "Asshole," she barked as she exited onto the street.

Asshole?

Asshole.

I've been doing this for ages, have seen every type of coverup there is, from the horendous to the nightmarish to the kind that will make you suicidal. I've done coverups that have made my co-workers pin me in a corner after the fact and DEMAND I explain to them how I was able to make it work. It's not an easy thing to do, a good amount of the time, I surprise myself with some fo the Hail Marys I pull off. But it's what I do. And to come in here, to this place, to tell me how I'm gonna do this, ignoring my advice when I'm trying to help you? You already have two shit tattoos that you hate because you went to some know-nothing jackass, but you want to argue with me about how to best do my job....and then call me an asshole? No, lady. YOU are the asshole. You are the ignorant bug snatch who shopped for the cheapest price and then got jacked up in the process. You are the stupid idiot who obviously has no clue what looks good and what doesn't, judging by your first tattoos. You don't do this for a living, yet you want to tell someone who does where to get off, because they're trying to help you not make another mistake. And then you heap on the last insult by calling me a name.

Let me tell you something. Nowadays we have to behave ourselves in the shop, we can't handle things like we used to, and it's unfortunate. In the old days, I'd have followed you out to the door, grabbed your little stick arm and hauled you back inside after I locked the door. I'd have slapped that word right out of your filthy, cocksucking mouth until you apologized. Then I'd have taken your piece of shit smartphone (which cost far more than your tattoo since your priorities are right in the toilet), and smashed it under the heel of my shoe. Then I would have handed you the crushed remains of your phone, dragged you to the door by your collar, and tossed you onto the sidewalk. And I'd tell you to spread the word to all your little hoodrat friends that they're gonna show respect when they come in here.

But things don't work that way anymore. It's not 1952, it's 2011 and the frivolous lawsuit has destroyed tattooing even more than reality TV has. I can't go around alley-whipping people who come in here and treat me like I'm some worhtless piece of crap who's duty-bound to kiss their asses just because they walked in and started making silly demands. I wouldn't need or want to handle things in such a manner very often, just every now and then. But I can't do it. And it's too bad. But I do get to write a snotty blog about it, I guess that's the next best thing.

Smarty Pants

So I'm settling in to tattoo a guy, I could best describe him as one of those 'Dad' guys. You know. The guys who are always in the Sears ads for Wrangler jeans and such. No coincidence that this happened on Fathers' Day. Crewcut with a goatee, y'know, so he could keep a little 'edge'. Pleated-front, plaid, knee-length shorts, deck shoes sans socks, polo shirt, that type. The kind of guy who would be the preppy villain in an '80s comedy movie if he were 22 years old. So, now he plays golf, has a dead-end job in middle management, and drinks two beers too many and hits on his daughter's friends at her graduation party. You know, that guy.

So, I'm settling in to tattoo him, and after a minute, he asks me, "So....where is Tattoo University?" Now, imagine he sounds like Lumberg from Office Space. I was wondering if he was gonna ask me for the TPS reports next. No shit, he really had that sorta condescending voice, like he was asking me that question as if he were about to deliver a punchline, or if he was trying to see if I was really stupid. So I answered him back, "There is no tattoo school."

He scoffed. "Really! So, it's just all, like....you're working...and-"

I cut him off. "You apprentice with someone."

"Who also has no education," he sneered.

I sighed and let off the pedal. "How does one become an electrician?" I asked. "You don't go to school, you become an apprentice. You train on the job with a master electrician. It's just like that."

"Ohhhhh, I suppose," He replied coolly. I glanced up from his bicep as I got back to work, only to see him sneer in disapproval. I dug in a little harder and said casually, "You know, I have two college degrees."

"Really?" he asked, perking up, as if he were relieved that I was, in fact, not one of the ignorant masses. "In what?"

"Commercial illustration, and graphic design. And you know what? My house is full of portfolios and paintings that are covered in dust because none of it meant jack shit and I make way more money doing this. How about that?"

He pressed his lips together and slumped back in the chair a bit as I kept going. I didn't speak another word, and, thankfully, neither did he.

Look, people, let me explain something to you. This is another symptom of these fucking tattoo "reality" shows. Everyone thinks we're all a bunch of uppity-ass art school grads. People like myself, up until ten years ago, were a total anomaly. For a long time, I was actually considered a joke by most of my co-workers for having an education. I have spent most of my career working with high school dropouts and ex-cons, and most of them can tattoo circles around me. While I was dicking around in school, hoping to break into advertising, my contemporaries were soldering needles under the watchful eye of a grizzled, chain-smoking old schooler. I had the fortune to be taken in as an apprentice by the same kind of guys, who overlooked my credentials and gave me a shot anyhow. I was told that my smarty-pants, highfalutin' art bullshit had no place in tattooing, and they were correct. I still maintain to this day that all my art education didn't do one thing to make me a better tattooer. But tattooing sure as hell made me a better artist. I'm not sorry I went to school, but if I knew then what I knew now, I might debate attending a bit.

Nowadays, people go to art school with the expressed intention of tattooing after they graduate, and good for them, I wish them the best of luck. But let me impress upon you, there is no advantage whatsoever to going to art school as far as tattooing goes. One of the best damn tattoo artists I ever saw was an apprentice for about a year, right after he got out of prison. Now he's gracing magazines, getting offers from all over the country for jobs, people travel several time zones to get worked on by him. And yet, some people almost crap themselves when they find out he never went to college, and they question his ability. In fact, I don't know if he even finished high school, and so what? He's brilliant. His portfolio is stunning. His work after two years is staggeringly better than mine was after ten. He just has a gift, and gifts aren't taught, they're innate. If a portfolio of knock-out tattoo work means less to you than some bullshit piece of paper with a university seal on it in regards to your tattoo artist, you watch way too much television.

Oh, Grow Up

As most people know, there are typically age restrictions on tattoos. They differ by state, but the average age limit (and common sense answer) is 18, and I wholeheartedly agree with that. This state is no different, and anyone getting a tattoo has to show ID before getting in the chair. One evening, three young guys came in and one asked for a tattoo. His friends hung back in the waiting room as he explained to me what he was looking for. I asked him for ID and he began rifling through his wallet. Slowly he turned away from the counter, intently digging in his wallet as if he were drilling for oil. His brow furrowed, he wandered out to the waiting room where his friends sat on the sofa. His back was turned to me, but I could see him quietly mouthing something to his friends. One of them, a smirking, heavyset kid spitting tobacco juice into a plastic cup, mouthed something back at him, then spat with great conviction into the cup. The kid ambled back up to the counter, his fingers still digging in his wallet, and mumbled that he would be right back. 

I waited a few minutes, then went to the front door and peeked out. Sure enough, he was in his jeep, digging around in the front seat. I was pretty sure the point of having a wallet was to keep one's ID in there instead of tossing it into your car somewhere. But, hey, I'm old and I can't keep up with what the kids are doing these days. Anyway, he came back after several minutes with an ID in his hand.

"Here ya go," He said breathlessly, as if he had been running. I took the ID and looked at the photo. I looked back at him and said, rhetorically, "This is you?"

"Yeah, yeah, that's me," he answered, dropping his eyes and turning his head slightly away.

"What's your zodiac sign?" I asked. Now, I don't care who you are. I don't care if you think horoscopes are stupid, if you've never read one friggin' horoscope ever in your life, you KNOW what your sign is. Even if you never wanted to know, someone made sure you found out. Like your own eye color, you know what your sign is.

"Uhhh.....he fumbled...March. Uh....March, is, uh....."

I waited, sadistically enjoying his discomfort. This was a trick an old bartender buddy of mine taught me. Nab a kid with a suspected fake ID, you ask them what their zodiac sign is. They've spent hours carefully memorizing and practicing reciting all the information on their fake ID, so when the bouncer asks how old they are, or what their address is, they know how to answer. Ask them their zodiac sign and watch them shit a brick. Gets 'em every time.

"I don't know what my sign is." He said finally. I didn't even have time to say anything before he stammered, "Okay, that's not me, that's not really my ID." Well, hell. Like shooting fish in a barrel and I didn't have time to bust his balls some more.

"Yeah, I know," I said, "and I'm not tattooing you." His friends, realizing that the jig was up, got up off the couch and came to stand behind him.

"Well, I am eighteen," he explained, "I just lost my ID last night, I totally lost it."

"Did you know," I said, in my best aging smarty-pants voice, "that it's actually a misdemeanor to leave the house without an ID if you're over the age of eighteen?"

"Yeah, over eighteen," the kid retorted. Jeez, kid,  I thought. Quit shooting yourself in the foot already. I know you're not 18, you don't have to make a neon sign broadcasting it, dumbass.

His fat friend guffawed. "Oh, yeah, well, who carries their ID around with them all the time? Do YOU do that?" He scoffed, gesturing crudely at me with his spit cup and rolling his eyes incredulously, if I had just insisted Santa Claus was real.

"Yeah, as a matter of fact, I do," I shot back, scowling. "Especially if you're going to do something like drive a car? You know, you can lose your insurance, or your car over that, or even go to jail."

The kid with the fake ID looked scared. It was time for his gelatinous friend to step in and save group face. I could smell the adolescent testosterone bubbling up like Jed Clampett's crude. Tubby scoffed again and said, "I'd like to see someone try to do that to me, I'd punch 'em in the face!"

I suppose my reaction was expected to be an enthusiastic agreement and high-five him for his anti-authoritarian posturings. Naturally, I did not. "You'd punch a police officer in the face? I'd like to see that."

"My dad is the police," he replied, a notch less on the tough-guy scale, bringing the cup hesitantly to his lips.

"So you'd punch your father in the face. Not likely"

He looked perplexed and unsettled. He spat in the cup and his eyes darted about. "Yeah...."

I smirked. "Have a good night, gentlemen." My outstretched arm indicated the door, and my desire for them to exit through it. They did, obviously cowed by the experience.

The sad irony of the whole thing is, if he would have pulled out the ID and handed it to me without a fuss, I would have glanced at the date, handed it back to him without much thought, and gotten his release form ready. The kid in the photo looked reasonably enough like him that, if I had no real reason to suspect, I wouldn't have. But I knew from all the ado and bumbling and fidgetiness, he was staving off the "no" he would get if I busted him. I knew this because I used to do the same thing as a youth, nervously pacing in front of the liquor store before I went in, bracing myself for what was sure to be a perilous gauntlet. Or else I'd spend all day digging in my pocket for my ID while the annoyed clerk looked on. Or I'd go toss the interior of my car, DEA style, as if I had no idea where my ID was. I knew, I was just afraid of what was going to happen when I handed it over. For trying so hard and spending so much time figuring out ways to procure contraband, kids sure do fuck it up as soon as they get a chance.

The kid called back the next night and asked for the same tattoo, and asked if it was okay to come in. I asked him if he had his real ID this time. He assured me he did, then told me he had completely lost his ID and went and got a new one. He never showed up and I'm not surprised. In retrospect, I shoulda challenged that fat kid to call his cop daddy down to the shop so he could  punch his pop in the face. Then I woulda informed dad that we had not only an unlicensced driver, but also a minor with a fake ID, attempting to perpetrate a fraud. I'm trying to imagine the look on that snotty punk's face if I had said it. But....I've cleaned up enough shit on the job as it is, I didn't need to do it again.

The Price Is WRONG, Bitch!

One afternoon a big bear of a fella came ambling in. Ruddy-faced and pockmarked, the smell of a rough night still clinging to his clothes, he approached the counter. "I want my tit pierced!" He bellowed. The piercer handed him the release form and he headed to the sofa in the waiting room. Lounging there were two lovely young ladies who were waiting for me to tattoo them. I cringed as he attempted to strike up a conversation in the most lounge lizard-esque of ways. "So, ya like tattoos? I got a lotta tattoos. You got any? Lemmie see...." I'm always wary to shield the young girls who come in here from that sort of thing. They're already nervous, coming into a place with a lot of big, goony guys with needles. They don't need to be shmoozed on by an even bigger, goonier guy, old enough to be their father and then some. The piercer hustled him away from the girls, and we shot each other a sympathetic look as the two of them headed back to the piercing room.

After the piercing was complete, this guy started asking something about some existing tattoo work he wanted finished. The piercer called out to me and I came in to have a look. The guy was sprawled out on the table, sleeveless denim shirt open clear to his navel. His rotund belly eclipsed whatever he was indicating on his chest, so I stepped around for a better look. There was one of the most gawdawful eagle tattoos I have ever seen in the center of his chest. I wish I could add photos of some of the tattoos I see to this blog, to make the horrors all the more real. But as much of a snarky asshole as I am, I really don't want to identify people on here with photos.

However, words are not going to do this thing the injustice it deserves. The whole thing was enormous, the guy had to be better than six feet tall and a good 300 pounds plus. The bristly expanse of his chest was a good three feet wide, and this disasterpiece covered nearly the whole thing. To imagine the linework on this thing, think of the line you make with a crayon. Now think of taking that same crayon and trying to color in an area about two and a half feet wide by a foot an a half tall. Now, you're not aiming for perfection, you're just trying to fill in this whole area in three minutes or so. That's what this thing looked like. Its sad, lopsided head more resembled an irate goose than a majestic bald eagle.

I peered at the center of the eagle's body and noticed the profile of a red devil's head on the guy's sternum. "That was supposed to be a cover up?" I asked. And I wasn't trying to be smart, I really couldn't tell if the guy had wanted the eagle to cover the devil, or if he meant to leave it there.

"Naw, it's a cover up," He replied, looking down at it. "He ain't done with it."

"You got that right," I said.

"So, I was wondering," He began, rubbing one of his thick fingertips over the back end of the eagle. I grimaced as the moon-shaped sliver of greasy black under his fingernail came dangerously close to his piercing, still fresh and glistening with a crimson bead of blood. "If you could fill in this part here, what that would cost me."

I took a breath to answer, but as my mouth opened to speak, he cut me off with one of the most insulting things I have ever heard in all my time in this business. "That shouldn't take ya too long, maybe about three or four hours' work, that's about what, twenty, forty bucks, right?" My eyes went wide and I think I might have made a small choking noise in the back of my throat. The piercer looked at me with total astonishment. Before I could even climb over my own shock, he continued, and this was definitely on my list of the top five most offensive things anyone has ever said to me in regards to tattooing. "IF your work suits my fancy," he drawled, (go back and read my description of what he had on him if you don't see why I'd be appalled) "I'll let you (LET ME!) put "God Bless America" underneath it."

I got my bearings and said, "Well, first of all, we have a sixty dollar shop minimum." Now, I was going to go on from there, but there was clearly no need.

"SIXTY?" He roared. "What are you, nuts?"

"No, sir, far from it."

He jabbed at his chest. "My boy did this whole thing for a hundred dollars!"

"Where?"

"At his kitchen table. But he got into some trouble and he went to the can, so he won't be doing any more work on me for a while."

"Well," I proceeded cautiously, "I can't compete with that at all. And, to be honest, I couldn't tattoo that shitty if I tried." As soon as I said it, I felt a twinge of regret. People just have no idea. They think because a tattoo is big, it must be good. They don't care if it's garbage, all they care about is that it's huge, therefore badass, therefore a good tattoo. I have to very gently break people of that idea, to warm them up to the idea that they have a humungous piece of donkey crap on their bodies, that all this time their friends have been laughing behind their backs about it. It's not easy for people to swallow, and I make it clear that I'm here to help. I'm like a sick sort of disaster relief worker after I cause the hurricane that disrupts things. However, the very idea of someone barelling in, telling me that the locally accepted pricing system was total shit and I should hammer away for peanuts really galled me. So much that my interest in being polite was completely dashed. One does not go to a restaurant, plumber or doctor and dictate what they think the prices ought to be, and we are no exception.

He leered at me, and lurched his weight off the piercing table, the heavy steel base creaking beneath him. "Y'all are crazy," he muttered, and brushed past me, buttoning up his shirt. The piercer scuttled after him to he front counter to ring up the piercing.

"Thirty dollars?" He bellowed again. "I coulda got this for ten over at __________!" Which, to be fair, is a load of crap, because we know those guys and they don't do anything that cheap. The piercer had a look of utter resignation, taking the money and wearily shoving it into a pocket. The big galoot went out the door, carrying on about what a crazy-ass rip-off we were, and a bunch of con men, et cetera. We could hear his baritone blather fading as he headed down the street.

I got the girls back to my chair and they immediately launched into a tirade about what a "Creeper" that guy was. Yes, he was, indeed, ladies. And thank goodness that we are too pricey for some peoples' tastes. What we do clearly isn't for everyone, and people who think it's acceptable to pay a hundred bucks to get butchered at the kitchen table by an ex-con with a home made rig, well....As Lyle Tuttle once famously said, "Tattoos aren't meant for everyone, and they're too God damn good for some people."

 

Customers Say The Darndest Things! Redux.

HE: Do you have, like, a computer program that has red-tailed hawks?

ME: Google images?

HE: *blank stare*

********************************

SHE: *Pointing to one of my piercings* So, what does the jewelry look like without the top, can you show me?

ME: *pulling out a diagram of how the piercing is done* See, it's like this and this and this here.

SHE: *Snapping her gum* Show me what yours looks like without the top on it. Unscrew it.

ME: No.

SHE: *Making a face* Why not?

ME: I just got it three days ago.

SHE: *Sneering* What, are you scared?

--If you don't get why this was worth mentioning, it's really dumb to go unscrewing jewelry in a fresh piercing to show off for other people. It's also dumb to get an attitude with someone who is about to do a totally different piercing on you because they will not concede to your demands to do dumb stuff with their piercings for your amusement. It is also absurd to assume that because you are a bleach-blonde, gum-snapping, 19-year-old little bint, that I will be powerless to deny you any request.

 

************************************************

HE: My yellow looks faded.

ME: You're too dark, man. You've been tanning for ages and ages, you're burnt all the way down to those base layers. You let that lighten up and that yellow will be a lot brighter.

HE: *poiting at some yellow on my arm, as he has done the last 4 times (no exaggeration) we had this conversation* I want my yellow to look like that.

ME: I keep telling you, man, I avoid the sun like the plague. My yellow looks like that because I stay out of the sun. Get some sunblock, put sunblock on it, you'll make that yellow look the same way.

HE: So....so put the sunblock....put the sunblock directly on the tattoo?

 

****************************

HE: Can you fix this? *Shows me little jailhouse tattoo*

ME: Yeah....I'll have to re-outline it, I can put some real nice red in there, shade a little bit, it'll be like a whole new tattoo.

HE: How much is that gonna cost me?

ME: Mmmmm......'bout a hundred bucks.

HE: *Jerking his arm away* What? You know how much that thing cost me?

ME: How much?

HE: Two packs of cigarettes!

ME: Well, I can't beat that price, you're gonna have to go back to the can for that.

 

**********************************

SHE: (A mother with her teenage daughter) Can I sign for her to get a tattoo? I'm her mom, she's 17.

ME: No, ma'am, the state law is 18.

SHE: Not even if I'm her mother?

ME: Not even if the Pope came with her.

SHE: (To her daughter, completely deadpan) I don't even know the Pope.

*I actually thought this was totally made of win.*

What's My Sign? No, Seriously, What's My Sign?

A young girl wandered into the shop one night, looking for her zodiac sign. She had been in the shop before, she said, and had already seen the one she liked. It was a tribal design, she led me to the flash rack, flipped to the sheet and pointed it out. "That one", she said, indicating a sharp-looking bull's head. I pulled the rack out and brought it to the counter. I love jobs like that, no dancing around and holding their hand for them. They know what they want, and they go for it.

As I was running the stencil, she asked, "Could I make a few changes to it?" Curses. I knew it was too easy. I threw out the stencil and took the copy out of the carrier. She looked at it for a moment and then asked if I could make the horns a little shorter.

"Sure," I replied, grabbing a pencil. Well, so she's not into the Longhorn thing, I thought. I traced the bull's head, bringing the horns in shorter, and showed it to her. She looked at it for a moment, chewing her bottom lip. "I don't know...." she began. "Could you maybe make them curvier?"

Shorter and curvier, no prob. I drew it again, curling the tips of the horns up in a dramatic crescendo and showed her the drawing. She studied it carefully and then handed it back. "Could you make his head not so wide?"

I was beginning to wonder why she picked that design in the first place if she didn't like anything about it. I found it even stranger than she had looked at it on a prior occasion and was still sure she wanted it on her return visit. But that's one thing you'll find about tattooing. Most people know exactly what they want. And it is nothing like what they choose to get.

The bull was looking less like a bull and more like a calf after this latest incarnation, and she still screwed up her face and studied the tracing. "I don't know...." she said again. Well, shit, tell me when you do know.

"Can you make the nose a little less....can you take that off?" she asked, pointing to the ring in the bull's nose. Oh, for Pete's sake, if you don't want a tattoo of a bull, why the hell are you getting one? I redrew it again, hastily, and handed it to her. She gazed at it for a moment, and then slowly nodded her head.

"Okay. I like that." She said. Finally! I hustled her into my station before she could change her mind again. I got her prepped and put the stencil on her, right in that little spot inside the hip bone. That's so cute when they have those little flat bellies and that indentation. Twenty years later it's hideous, but, whatever. She lay back on the chair and I put my machine together. "I'm sorry I was being so difficult," she said, as I put my hands on her stomach and stretched the skin.

"It's okay," I replied. "You gotta get what you want. It's going to be on you forever. Well, at least you're not going to outgrow the design. You'll always be a Taurus." I stepped on the pedal and the machine buzzed to life.

"Taurus?" She exclaimed. "I'm an Aries!"

I pulled my hand away, the needle a hair's breadth from her skin. "This design you picked out is a bull's head! If you're an Aries, you want the ram's head!" I spat. I think I was mroe shocked than she was. I told her to stand up and follow me back to the lobby. She shuffled along behind me, shorts pulled down around her hips, the paper towel I had tucked into the band flapping rhythmically. I took her to the flash rack and pointed at the ram's head design. Curled horns, narrow head, no ring in its nose. "This," I said sternly, "is Aries."

"Oh, yeah!" She exclaimed. "That's it! That's exactly what I want!" Good God, I'm glad I said something. And I realized at that moment that it would have saved me a great deal of trouble if I had said what I was thinking earlier; If you don't like the way a bull looks, why are you getting a tattoo of a bull? I'm sure it would have shocked the shit out of her even then, long before I was at the stage of attempting to tattoo her. So, I learned a valuable lesson there. When someone picks out a symbolic representation of their sign, I'll say, "Oh, Pisces (or what have you), when is your birthday?" I saved a Scorpio from geting a Virgo tattoo that way later down the line. Really, kids, do your homework.