SoMa Literary Review

The Tattoo

By Rob Rosen

I live in San Francisco, so I can't say for sure if every person in the universe has a tattoo, but I can say, with a modicum of certainty, that every person in my universe has one. Everyone except me, that is.

And the funny thing is, I never even noticed it until about a month ago while strolling down the street during the Folsom Street Fair. It was a particularly hot day for this enormous outdoor leather festival, hotter than average for the usually chilly bay area. And certainly too hot for the thousands upon thousands of men dressed in layers of leather. I know the expression, "It's better to look good than to feel good," but come on, this was ridiculous. And, by mid-day, most of the men at the fair gave up on being fashion conscious and shucked off a few layers of expensive cowhide to better cope with the increasingly oppressive heat.

That's when it dawned on me, the tattoo thing that is. Every person, every man, woman, and in between, every young person and old person, every Asian, Latino, Caucasian, African-American, etc., every human being that walked or danced by me, had a tattoo. I was surrounded by inked limbs and torsos. Arms with panthers, with bands of barbed wire, with dragons and daggers and long dead celebrities etched deep into the skin. Backs with names and mermaids and Celtic symbols stretched across them. Legs and calves with stars and flowers and geometric patterns running up and down them. Even a smattering of revelers with faces and genitals achingly painted. And I, I alone, had pristine white skin, not a lick of color other than a scattered freckle or a tuft of brown hair. I felt utterly naked.

So it was there and then that I decided to get my first tattoo. If it was good enough for everyone else, then it was good enough for me. Granted, getting something because everyone else has it is never a good idea...usually. If everyone jumped off the Golden Gate Bridge, I would probably not follow. Though this has more to do with my fear of heights and open water than anything else. No, I decided to get a tattoo because I didn't want to be left out. Society, my society at least, had dictated the rules and I, for one, was willing to follow. Better late than never, I say.

So I danced the rest of the day away, with my shirt on, so no one would notice my deformity, and I dreamed of a body rich in color. Pink hearts, yellow moons, orange stars, green clovers and blue diamonds. Yes, I skipped breakfast. Still, it was an awesome sight to behold. Until I realized that, though I knew that I desperately wanted a tattoo, I had no idea which tattoo to get. The possibilities seemed endless. Again I scanned the crowd, this time for inspiration.

Alas, none was to come. While I saw countless tattoos, all beautifully designed and perfectly rendered, none had that, um, je ne sais quoi that I was looking for. I simply couldn't picture myself with a spider's web on my elbow, or a lightning bolt on my neck, or an Elvis on my hip, or a yin-yang above my butt, or an eagle across my chest. None of these screamed "Chris"! That's my name, Chris. None were...me.

That's when I left the fair, depressed and dejected. My mind raced through patterns and shapes and designs in a desperate attempt to come up with one single tattoo. Just one. But nothing. None seemed right. I even thought about walking over to the piercing booth and having a blue bar rammed through my nipple, but that seemed the easy way out. Painful, but easy. No, I was determined to get a tattoo and, by hook or by crook, I was going to get one.

When I got home, I plopped down on my bed and closed my eyes. I reached instinctively for the CD player remote and turned on some music that I prayed would soothe my brain and offer me some much-needed inspiration. Madonna was no help. A ray of light seemed too ethereal. A lucky star seemed trite. The Virgin Mary too religious. Maybe a phallus? Too erotic, even for me. I tried to imagine Madonna herself placed to the right of my crotch, in that lovely crook between thigh and belly, smiling radiantly up at me. But I feared she'd age right along with me. A wrinkled Madonna would not be comforting to me in my old age. I tossed and turned on my bed with these
various images running rampant through my head.

Maybe a photo album would help, offer some clues about my life, show Chris for the man he was, point me in the right tattoo direction. What I found was a Chris in family poses, in nature settings, in distant lands and on distant beaches, on merry-go-rounds, on airplanes, on buses and trains, throwing Frisbees, drinking beers, doing cartwheels, and laughing uproariously. But no images that screamed, "Tattoo me on your ass!". Oh, it was indeed a pitiful state of affairs.

I ran from the photo albums to my magazines. Maybe they would provide me with popular images, ones that I'd deem suitable for body framing. I flipped through countless pages, only to find that superheroes, Japanese cartoons figures, American flags, arrow-pierced hearts, dolphins and hot babes with devil tails were simply, and definitely, not for me. I looked to the ceiling and screamed, "Why Lord, why me?"

And then I got it.

It hit me like a ton of bricks. Not the ceiling, but a thought. The perfect tattoo for a questioning, inquisitive boy like myself. Now I had to find a studio and an artist to help me achieve my goal of blending in. I flipped open my handy, dandy yellow pages and scanned the "T's" until I hit upon "Tattoo Parlors." But as I mentioned, I live in San
Francisco. There were more tattoo parlors than tanning salons, tailors and talent agents combined. So I picked the one nearest to where I lived. I figured that at least I could be inked and then run quickly to the comforts of my own home. The nearest studio was Erno Tattoo. I had heard good things about them, as they, apparently, were one of the oldest parlors in the city.

With age, I figured, came wisdom. I hoped it also came with some talent. I arrived at Erno's a couple of weeks later. Not wanting to exactly rush into things, I decided to wait at least that long to let my mind wrap itself around the thought that I, Chris, would be indelibly marking myself for life. This was no earring or hair bleaching. This was something I would be carrying with me for the next fifty or sixty years, God willing.

Once I entered, however, I found that I had a new dilemma to contend with. Which of Erno's artists would be the one doing the marking? Though when I think of "artists," the men and few women that work in these places don't exactly come to mind. Tattoo parlors are known to be refuges for ex-hippies, ex-cons, ex-husbands and wives, druggies, loonies, longhaired, long in the tooth and short on education, miscreants and malcontents. Erno offered me just such an array to choose from. Had I listened to the voice inside my head, which sounded alarmingly like my mother's, I would have turned around and left the way I came in. But I persisted and ignored that plaintive, little voice. I was resolute, despite the signs that were pointing me away from my aspirations.

I walked in deeper to the bowels of the establishment and found that each artist was represented by a little, black book placed on a faded, linoleum-lined countertop. These albums were filled with photos of previous tattooing efforts. I flipped laboriously through each and every book, hoping that, in a moment of divine intervention, the right person would present themselves to me as the man or woman that would etch on my body my very first tattoo. This, however, was not to be. The Divine One was apparently busy with other things. Instead, I chose the only woman they had working there, figuring that she would have a light touch. Her name was Ethel. Though it seemed unlikely to me that anyone with just such a name would be gentle.

Ethel was finishing up with a client, so I took a seat outside of the tattooing area and waited patiently for my ordeal to begin. I scanned the tiny interior as I waited. It was the first time I had ever been inside a tattoo parlor, so I made sure to soak it all in. There wasn't much to look at, really. The walls were lined with aging examples of outdated tattoos.

The carpeting was soiled and threadbare. A good sign, I supposed, since that meant well worn with contented clients. Wishful thinking, but I needed the reassurance. And a small tattoo museum filled the rear with ancient tattooing devices and equally ancient photographs of tattoo artists who were probably now in heaven working on soon-to-be-fallen angels.

All in all, not a visually exciting or comforting waiting room, especially for those not used to such environments. Had Ethel been a few moments longer, I probably would have left and tried to forever put the thought of a tattoo out of mind. Perhaps moved to Scranton or Des Moines, where I imagined tattoos as rare as a signed copy of the bible. But just as I started to picture myself packing, Ethel's recent work of art walked by me.

It was two hands in prayer placed on the bicep of a hunky stud. It was covered by a piece of saran wrap and taped down tightly, but I could still see that it was done with great care and skill. The imagery was not lost on me either. Perhaps the Lord was giving me a sign that I should stay in San Francisco where I belonged, with a lovely, new tattoo.

"I'll be with you in a minute," she said, her voice gravely and strained from what must have been years of cigarette smoking. I nodded that I'd wait that minute, but I knew that if she went much over the allotted time, I'd be out the door and back in my apartment before she even knew I was missing. Fifty-seven seconds later, she motioned me over. Yes, I was timing her. The tattooing area was divided into three sections. Two artists worked along a thin, window-lined corridor and one, namely Ethel, got the larger, private space up two steps and out of sight from the waiting area. I was offered a rickety, old chair and Ethel's hand in greeting.

"What'll it be?" she asked, giving me the once over. Could she tell I was a tattoo virgin? Should I play it nonchalantly or as nervous neophyte?

I handed her the sketch I made and asked, "How's this?"

"Fine and dandy," she said, smiling. "That there's a first, so I'm only gonna charge ya fifty bucks. You get a discount for originality. Pay in advance, please."

Well, at least I was original. Though I was sure she would have charged me the same had I asked for a Tasmanian devil. I gave her two twenties and a ten, but didn't ask if there was a money back guarantee. Looking at her, I didn't think she tolerated smartasses too well and, since she was in control of the tattoo gun, I decided to lay off the wiseguy routine for a change.

She was, also, a good two feet taller and a hundred pounds heavier than me, so I gladly gave her the respect she deserved.

She took my money and asked, "Where ya want it?"

"Between my shoulder blades," I answered. That way, my mother would never see it, but I'd be noticed on the dance floor. See, I had given it some thought.

"Fine. Off with the shirt and lay down on the board," she said.

The board was actually a workout bench. I removed my shirt and laid down as commanded. My body made that awful Naugahyde to flesh squeaking sound as I slid around trying to get comfortable, which wasn't easy. I watched Ethel as my body sunk in. First thing she did was clean the delineated area of my back with rubbing alcohol. This was followed by a shaving off of the fine hairs her needles would encounter along their journey over my tender back. Next, she took my design and ran it through a machine that made a purple carbon copy. She then walked over and placed the copy right where I had asked her to. After a quick press down with her hands, she said, "Have a look."

So I got up and went to the nearby mirror and did just that. Now really, have you ever tried to look at the area between your shoulder blades in a mirror before? Not easy, if downright impossible. She handed me a small mirror that I utilized as if at the barber, scanning the back of my head. Helpful, but not ideal. Still, I could see enough of it to know that it was positioned correctly. Actually, it looked kind of cool. I got a rush of adrenaline that put a Cheshire cat grin on my face. My first smile of the day. I was, at that moment, glad to be there.

"Perfect," I told her and got back into my reclining position.

I was ready for anything.

I thought.

But I wasn't ready for what came next.

Ethel walked in front of me to a small table that held her gun and the inkbottles she used. I craned my neck up so I could watch what she was doing. She took a bottle of red ink and filled up a small cup with it. That's all she would need. My tattoo was to be done all in red. No traditional black outline, just red. I would certainly stand out in a
crowd. Then she walked back over and sat down, placing her gun and the cup of ink on a small table next to her.

"Here goes," she said, flicking on the power to the needles.

I gave a small jump. The noise was jarring, to say the least. Like several dentist drills tied together.

"No moving, sweetie," she admonished.

No problem. One errant line would ruin my design, so I grabbed on to the legs of the workout bench and held on for dear life. Those first few seconds, when the needles dug deep, deep into my flesh, were excruciating. I had no idea it would be like that. Yes, I imagined pain and discomfort. I was na�ve, not stupid. But I didn't imagine it to be like a sewing machine ripping through the skin on my back. My eyes squinted closed and I could feel a tear well up and run down my cheek.

"You doing okay?" she asked.

"Fine," I grunted, feeling my stomach muscles tighten. They stayed that way for the next forty-five minutes.

The one saving grace was her frequent breaks to fill the needles up with ink. Small islands of respite in a sea of pain. Ethel hummed as she went about her work. I groaned, underneath my breath. Why, I thought, was everyone so gung ho about getting a tattoo? And why oh why, after they received their first one, did so many go back for seconds, thirds, full arms, whole backs, entire legs, nipples, shoulders, and buttocks? The thought of repeating this agony seemed terrifyingly stupid to me.

After twenty minutes of hearing the needle flick on and then off, and feeling my body go tense and then somewhat slack, over and over again, Ethel announced, "Done."

Really?

She was?

Oh joy, oh joy. Now, I'm complete. Now I truly am a gay man living in San Francisco. Now...

"With the outline," she finished.

My heart sank. With the outline? She had to be kidding. That was the worse twenty minutes of my life. How much more could I endure?

"Want to see?" she asked, as she got up to stretch her massive frame. She was actually kind of pretty, in a Kathy Bates sort of way. I felt a certain connection with her now. Somewhat, I figured, like the ones reported between kidnapper and captive.

"That's okay. I'm comfortable here," I lied. In reality, my arms were now locked tight to the bench and the layer of sweat between my tummy and the bench had nearly glued me down. I could wait until she was really through to see the final result.

"Well, let's finish this puppy up then," she said, rubbing her hands together. Kathy Bates again, but this time in "Misery." My stomach lurched.

"Yes, let's," I thought to myself. "Please, hurry. Please."

But what I said was, "I'm ready when you are." See how cool I was? Inside I was a knot of tension.

She sat back down and filled her needles up again. I readied myself. As painful and gut wrenching as the outline was, the fill in work was worse. Much worse. Exceedingly worse. What's the word beyond worse? Beyond pain? That's where I was. In those words. It wasn't a constant pain, not exactly. There were endless seconds of tolerable discomfort, but, on certain parts of my back, an intense pain arose and died down, over and over again. I dreaded each passing lull because I knew it would be followed by searing bursts of stings.

"You doing okay?" she asked, again. At least she appeared concerned.

"Yup," I answered, between my teeth. "Almost done?"

"Few more minutes," she answered, and flicked the gun on again. I'd never felt a few short minutes go so long before. They stretched and stretched. Each minute seeming longer than the previous one. Each minute filled with its immeasurable amount of pain and distress.

And then...

"All finished," she announced.

Finished?

Really? Really finished this time?

Thank you Lord. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

I had made it. Weathered the storm. Persevered. I had come in like a boy and out like a marked man. My rite, this ritual, seemed finally over.

"Let me just clean it real fast and then you can have a look."

Sounded good, professional, hygienic. Go for it. What I didn't know, what no one had warned me about, especially not Ethel, was that cleaning meant spraying cold rubbing alcohol all over the wound. The open wound. My open wound. The one Ethel just slashed into my flesh. Picture, if you will, if you can, lying in a bathtub, relaxing to the soothing sounds of a radio, plugged in and playing lovely, melodic tunes. Now the radio falls in. That's what it felt like. Like a million jolts of electricity coursing through my unsuspecting body.

"Sorry, sugar, gotta keep it clean," she said, rubbing the wound and
removing the flecks of blood that had accumulated around my back.

"Sure, no problem," I barely mumbled out. No problem for her, I meant.

"Now, go have a look-see," she ordered.

I gingerly arose. The removal of my body off the bench caused an embarrassing slurping noise. My arms, my back, my legs, my shoulders, all ached. I felt dizzy and nauseous, exhausted and stressed. But then, then she handed me the small mirror again and I saw, for the first time, my tattoo. My very first tattoo. It was a joy to behold. It fairly radiated off my back. Pulsating like a red neon sign: ???...???...???

The perfect tattoo for me. It practically screamed, Chris. ??? was me all over, well, all over my back anyway. Now I blended in, was part of the group, part of the team, a member in good standing, one of the guys...

But then....

As Ethel bandaged me up and gave me cleaning instructions, told me what to expect, what to do and what not to do, another man walked into the tattooing area. He sat down at a station below mine and removed his shirt. Oh, it was beautiful. Truly a glorious vision. On either arm were matching green, leafy vines with sprouting purple flowers and delicate tendrils. Over his chest there was a small, blue and green Earth, and over his bellybutton a beautiful red, orange and yellow radiating sun. My three small ?'s, newly planted on my back, seemed so small, so insignificant, so plain, so, so, so...

"So, see you back here soon?" Ethel asked.

"You bet," I answered. "Real soon."

Rob Rosen was born in Brooklyn, New York in 1966. He spent his childhood in the suburbs of New Jersey, his teen years in Hilton Head, South Carolina, and much of his early adulthood in Atlanta, Georgia, where he graduated from Emory University with a B.S. in Biology and then worked for eight years as a Clinical Biochemist. When he turned thirty, he packed it all in, sold his car, broke his lease, gave up his career and followed his dreams to San Francisco, where he is now an Office Guru. So much for that expensive education. His first book, "Sparkle," was published in September 2001.