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.
Copyright © Ginna Wilkerson | Year Posted 2007
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