A Tale of Tattoos

It starts with just one, Just a small one, A delicate pinkish shooting star Chosen painstakingly from the flash on the wall While a girl with blue hair and a nose ring Watches disdainfully from behind the counter. It takes more than one trip To check out the place On the south side of town, on a dimly-lit side street Between an all night laundromat and a café With a dingy neon sign that reads “Garden of Eatin.” Then a venture inside (to make sure it’s clean) And a conversation with the proprietor, A painfully thin ghost of a man With a shaved head, a long black beard And one whole arm tattooed (it’s called a sleeve, I later learn) With a brightly colored scene of a Chinese garden. Yes, they use only new packaged needles And all the equipment is sterilized. It takes a few beers and one shot of tequila To arrive on the appointed day And sit in the cracked fake-leather chair Trying not to look like this is my first time, At the ripe old age of 44. The whirring sound of the needle Reminds me of a dentist’s drill And I get a familiar shiver of anticipated pain Before the very real pain of the first ink Bites into my shoulder. When the ordeal is finally over, The black-bearded artist hands me a small mirror So that I can view the “body art” For which I’ve paid sixty dollars, an hour’s time, And several days of agonizing indecision. It is, in a word, fabulous. He covers it with gauze and gives me “aftercare instructions” (just like they do in the hospital) And a tube of something called “Tattoo Goo” And I walk proudly out the door, Wondering if the young couple dressed in black Eating hummus in the Garden of Eatin’ Realize that I have a fabulous, Spectacular shooting star Under this bandage I wear on my shoulder. I wear the tattoo like a badge of honor, A medal of courage, a sign of the times. I love it. And it’s only the first one.