Inked-A personal Essay

The foggy bathroom mirror reflects a confident, virile boy, invariably beginning a gun show. Biceps bounce and a gauntlet of bodybuilding poses are run. Front double bicep… boom. Side chest… bam. Lastly, the classic archer… badda boom badda bing; I still got it! The fog dissipates, and with it, my delusion. Time has made a mockery of my physique. Mighty guns have become pea-shooters, and tight abs are now punchlines to gravity's sick sense of humor. Old School is what the kids call me. Time also mocks my tattoos. Over fifteen pieces of artwork adorn my skin, their colors fading alongside my relevance. The grown folks orchestrating my youth advised against tattoos, foretelling of negative effects. “Your skin will sag,” some said. “No one will hire you,” others said. “You will regret them,” they all said. As a young man, the question weighed heavily—to ink or not to ink?

Feeling nostalgic, my favorite pair of Speedos are eased into. They still fit, albeit snugly. Keepsakes from high school, like a prom dress or a favorite baseball card. Don’t judge. The miniscule undergarment affords a nearly unobstructed view of my body. The grown folks prediction of sagging goes unfulfilled, but aging has affected their appearance. My shoulder wields my favorite piece: two alien lovers, hungrily embraced, centered in a blazing sun. Brilliant greens, yellows, and reds characterized the piece–gave it attitude–but The Clock has stripped its vibrancy. My tattoos have devolved from masterpieces at the Louvre, to bathroom graffiti at Buc-ee’s.

Looking back, I realize defiance finalized my decision to get a tattoo. Barely eighteen and returning from a long weekend at the Beale Street Music Festival in Memphis, Tennessee, father picked me up from a friend’s house, my excitable little brother bouncing in the ‘92 Cavalier’s backseat. An artist painted a henna tattoo on my forearm–a tiger–and the perfect bait. Mom’s tolerance for skin art would be tested after bro ratted me out, his squeaky, pre-pubescent voice telling: “Moooom, Jr got a tattOOO!” She saw tattoos as works of the Devil, and her post-betrayal phone call confirmed her stance. It went as I knew it would, a lengthy tonguelashing followed by an abrupt dial tone. I did not get to speak. My first trip to a parlor came shortly after.

Getting a tattoo during the day was lame, so I waited till after dark. The chosen shop resided in a broken-windows neighborhood. They had a reputation for good work, not that it mattered–my mind was set on joining the ranks of the disenfranchised. A tattoo seemed like a sensible addition to my outlying lifestyle. Like an initiation into something bigger, something missing from my life: a sense of belonging.

Growing up in a military family caused detachment. Sentimental regards flew with the winds of transience. A little boy that slowly lost interest in the external. People, places, and things came and went; it was best to stop caring. Two continents, five states, ten towns, and seven different schools were called home before my eighteenth birthday. That night, the elusive feeling of permanence would be tasted–a dragon chased for the rest of my life.

The parking lot was empty. Cracked streetlights and iron bars protected parlor windows from intruders. I walked in chest forward, shoulders back, because boys didn’t walk into tattoo parlors, men did. Inside, my expectations of darkness and chaos were shattered by a bright, clean environment; the parlor looked more like a hospital than a witch’s lair. Photo books displaying artist portfolios were stacked on smoked-glass counters, hiding paraphernalia only accessible to us members of the tattoo community. Framed flash sheets covered the walls with images of tribal bands, howling wolves, and skulls. Bare-breasted women with horns and wings and tails. Guns and Harleys and gunned-Harleys with topless succubi riders. Lengthy, agonizing contemplation led me to select the image best representing my persona–a lonely pitbull staring off into the sunset–to be placed just above my outer right ankle bone. After an hour of ink-filled needle torture, I left the shop and drove home, reveling in the company of my new companion. My truck felt different–more RAM than Dodge. The bass boomed and NWA warned me about corrupt police. I dreamt of Compton. My head bobbed, my Sox cap sat sideways atop my fade. The windowless door supported my elbow, allowing the night’s electricity to fill my truck. My eyes scoured the streets for signs of action, or trouble. What are you looking at? You got a problem? I was somebody. Born again. Invincible. Inked. Fuck them grown folks.

For years, the world provided fodder for new ink. “That would be a cool tat” became my mantra. Comic book characters, mythological creatures, insightful words. A joker here, some barbed-wire there, a spade right about here. Ink “FIGHT” on my neck just so they know. Decorating my body was pleasurable, but tattoos were a big no-no in the workplace. Head, neck, and forearm tattoos were reserved for anarchists and convicts. Mine hid behind clothed doors, most of them, for hopes of a stable future. Procuring employment came easy for a young, hard working lad, but my secrets loomed large, and the paranoia of exposure by corporate eyes lingered. Are my sleeves long enough? Is my collar high enough? I was an anti-hero, my true identity hidden from an amalgamated nemesis. Respectable companies typically held “no visible ink” policies, and even with mainstream acceptance, those policies are still inked in handbooks. Oh, the irony–now that would be a cool tat.

Parlor rituals became all too familiar–the shaving of hair, the buzzing of needles, the scent of blood and bacitracin on newly minted tattoos–memories as indissoluble as the ink itself. The artists, conversations, and shops, all remain integral parts of my psyche. At a parlor in Las Vegas, Nevada, a friend of adult film star Jenna Jameson inked my right shoulder. “I once saved her from…” oh, the stories he shared. An artist in Levy, Arkansas inked his first piece on my shin. Twice he needled the outline–heavy-handed strokes exposing inexperienced hands. A thousand years from now archaeologists will excavate a mysterious tibia heralding the number 13. From the Sunset Strip of Los Angeles, California, to a dive shop in Huber Heights, Ohio, my travels have been landmarked one tattoo at a time.

My pitbull’s loyalty has unwavered, and he’ll ride till our last days. My tattoos serve as a memoir, and like the wounds of an old lion, each have a story to tell. They are a photograph book, a diary, an indestructible flash drive. Others may find their faded state unattractive, but to me they are the same exquisite works of art that leapt from needle to flesh during each session.

The fogless bathroom mirror reflects a confident, experienced man. A decorated man of character. Two alien lovers, hungrily embraced, centered in a blazing sun. Tired, yet pressing souls. My pupils dilate at their resilience, my fingers trace the outline. My hand covers the ink, not with regret, but with pride. A salute to the artist who created such a fine chapter in my book of life. The dragon of permanence may never be caught, but the chase will continue until the mirror stops reflecting. My journey has been a lush landscape full of color and exuberance, and my skin will tell you all about it, after I’m gone.

—Rex