Tattoo Friendships

Overcoming fears and making friends along the way

I sat in my car for several minutes, building up the courage to enter the tattoo parlor. At the entrance, I took several deep breaths and thought, This is it. Don’t get scared now. (Yes, a line from Kevin in Home Alone when the burglars enter his house.) For me, stepping into a tattoo parlor is the second most scary thing I am free to do, followed by stepping into a weed shop. Third is liquor stores. Why? For one I lack significant expertise in any of these areas and really hate asking questions of anyone, especially strangers. Blend in, be invisible, don’t make a scene. That’s my motto and it has served me well. Also, from a young age my number one goal was to be good. Better than good. And because of that, I decided early on that liquor, tattoos, and weed would be my fast track to houselessness. I’m sure there’s some unresolved trauma in these thoughts, but that’s not the point of this story. The point is - walking into a tattoo parlor, for me, is some next-level, bad-to-the-bone, scary-ass shit.   

I opened the door to the shop and was immediately inundated with floor-to-ceiling skull tattoo art and blaring heavy metal music. The one employee, a large white man with intimidating neck tattoos, looked up at me, rolled his eyes, and then went back to his work. He was tattooing a woman’s entire arm with what can only be described as Wild Animals Running from a Forest Fire. I walked up to the front desk and waited, feigning a confidence that was in dispute with my inner dialog telling me to run like hell. After several minutes of standing there awkwardly, I realized I was going to have to take matters into my own hands. I made a little cough while I casually perused the skull art.

“Hi?” said Neck Tat, who had finally begun walking up to the front desk.

 “Oh! Hello! I see I don’t need my covid mask. So weird you know? Like you never know if you need it or not… ” I trailed off, embarrassed by my attempt at small talk.

 “What?” He asked.

 “Never mind. Hey - do you take walk-in appointments?”

 “For what?” He asked.

 “A tattoo. I have a gift certificate?” I awkwardly held up my $300 paper gift certificate that my son and husband had presented to me on Mother’s Day. And no, this is not exactly the traditional gift of brunch and flowers, but I always say, “What better way to say ‘thanks, mom!’ than a credit to the neighborhood tattoo parlor from your spouse and six-year-old child!” 

In truth, I had recently become entranced (OBSESSED), by the idea of getting a tattoo, and so, I guess the family knew that I’d never actually take action on it without a little nudge.

 “Yes, I realize you want a tattoo. But of what?” asked Neck Tat, looking annoyed.  

 “Oh! Right. Well, I was thinking some lines? On my forearm? Maybe two lines all the way around, pencil thin?” Why I was asking him what I wanted, I do not know.

Neck Tat responded, “I can get you in now if you want.”

“Oh! Lovely! Although I dew have an appointment in sixty minutes toime.” Out of nowhere my subconscious had decided that a sudden and mysterious British accent made sense for the edgy persona I was trying to project.

 “That’s the kind of tattoo you don’t want to rush. Those lines are hard to do and it’s a lot of pressure. You’re going to need to hold very still so we can get it straight.”

 “Ah. Yes, naturally. Well, I must say, I’m quoite free tomorrow. This whole weekend, really.”

“Give me your number. I’ll call around to see when we can get you in. I’ll probably see if Jack can do it. He’s been doing this for 20 years. If not him, me.” I gave Neck Tat my number, and upon exiting the parlor I cheerfully exclaimed, “Enjoy your day!” 

He said nothing back.

Later, Neck Tat called and we made a plan for the next day with Jack. That night, I scrolled Pinterest for tattoo inspiration. I had a general idea of what I liked (geometric and minimalist designs), and yet couldn’t shake the notion that whatever I got needed to have symbolism and deep meaning. After all, aren’t I well past the age of first-time experimentation with meaningless body art? Outside of the belly button piercing I had somehow (regretfully) convinced my father to co-sign at seventeen, I had never really been compelled to have someone permanently alter my physical appearance. And while I absolutely am thankful that I never fell for the tramp stamp craze that had claimed the lower backs of so many of my close friends, I can’t help but feel a little weird when suddenly, in my mid-thirties, I had become inexplicably obsessed with the idea of getting a totally random tattoo. I finally settled on a simple design of four horizontal lines, each about two inches wide and a quarter inch apart.

The next afternoon, I found myself growing increasingly nervous as my appointment approached. The fact that I’d be walking myself back into that tattoo parlor for round two of awkward chit chat in a British accent with Neck Tat and his buddy Jack was almost too much to handle. I waited in my car for a few minutes, considered calling in to cancel, and then repeated the Home Alone mantra. Upon entering this time, I walked straight to the front desk without hesitation, and coughed loudly over the blaring heavy metal music to signal my arrival. Neck Tat was working on a new client, this time a balding middle-aged man in a wife beater, light-wash denim, and moto boots. Like the lady the day prior, he was also getting his entire arm covered in ink. However, this man’s vibe was more Eagles-Caught-in-Barbed-Wire-and-Maybe-Truck-Tires. Neck Tat looked up and upon recognizing me said, “Oh. It’s you.” 

Now listen, I know this isn’t Ann Taylor Loft, but seriously? The dude literally haunted my dreams last night, and he can’t even mutter a proper hello?

He let me know that he’d notify Jack of my arrival, and went back to his client. This left me once again perusing the wall-covered skull art with only the blaring music to keep me company. After a while, a man entered the shop. He was in his mid-forties, sporting cargo shorts, a t-shirt from some 90’s alternative rock festival, glasses, and a graying goatee. On his heels was a woman facetiming on her phone, speaking Filipino. He walked up close to me and yelled, “ALEXA! Play EMINEM! I FUCKING hate Godsmack.” Then he looked at me and said calmly, “So. What are we doing today.”  

As Alexa began blaring The Real Slim Shady, I shouted, “Well, I have a photo from my Tattoo Inspiration Board on Pinterest. See?” I pulled up the photo and began describing it. “Notice how it has these four short lines, but see this one? It’s off center just slightly.”

“Yeah, I see that. But that’s not what you want.”

“It-- It’s not?” I stammered.  

“No,” he said. 

I didn’t know what to say, so I just stood there helplessly. 

He sighed. “Your gift certificate is for $300 and that’s going to take me ten fucking minutes. I can’t charge $300 for that, and the gift certificate is one time. Use it or lose it. You need to think real hard about this. Maybe come back later when you’re sure,” he explained, walking back toward the door.

“Oh! Well. That’s totally fine! I don’t care! I’ve thought real hard! All night actually. I hardly slept last night because I was thinking so much about it...” I trailed off, realizing how desperate I was sounding.

“I can’t fucking do that. I’m not some fucking guy that rips off his fucking clients. Best I can do is give you two tattoos,” he replied.

“Ha. Oh. Well. Um. I mean, I like hearts? Maybe a tiny heart?” I laughed nervously.

“So you want some fucking lines and a fucking heart? That’s still not worth $300,” he said.

At that moment, I realized I was going to have to establish some dominance if I was going to get this tattoo. Knowing there was no way I’d be able to bring myself into the parlor for a third time, I said, “No. I want the lines. Just the lines. Today. Now.”

He looked at me in surprise. “Well then,” he said, looking me over. “Let’s fucking go.” He grabbed a tablet from the front desk and sat on the loveseat in the lobby, beckoning me to sit next to him. As he began drawing out the lines and asking me about my preferred dimensions, he said, “Man. I just feel bad. You’re getting ripped off. At least let me buy you a beer after this.”

Needing to set some #metoo boundaries, I said, “Hey it’s all good! Don’t worry about it. My husband (cough, cough) bought me this gift certificate because I’ve been talking about getting a tattoo for a long time, and originally I thought it was going to be bigger, but since I don’t really know what to expect, I decided a more simple and smaller tattoo might be a good start. So it’s totally fine. No beer needed. I’m fine! This is fine.” I chuckled nervously, hoping to mask my anxiety.

“Wait. Is this your first tattoo? Do you not have any tattoos at all on your body? Like, at all?” He asked.

“Well… no,” I responded sheepishly, feeling very much like the female 40 Year-Old Virgin, and also embarrassed about his use of the word body.

Suddenly his demeanor softened, and he said, “Ohhhhh. I see. This is all making a lot more sense…” he thought for a moment, and then added, “Well, in that case, my wife and I are buying you a fucking beer when we’re done,” he said, pointing to the Filipino woman on her phone. “What’s your name?”

“Lindsey.” I mumbled, surrendering to the beer. “And yours?” I asked.

“Jack,” he responded. And as Eminem began crooning about vomit on his sweater, Jack waved me over to the tattoo chair and began scrubbing my arm with a cloth soaked in rubbing alcohol. “What kind of music do you like?” he asked.

“All types. Truly. People never believe me when I say that, but it’s true.” I responded.

“That can’t be true. Country?” he asked.

“Sure, it’s not so bad,” I said.

“Shania Twain?” he asked.

“What?! Oh my god. Of course not.”

“Well then you don’t like all types. How about Bieber?” he suggested.

“Yes, absolutely.” I said.

“I fucking hate Justin Bieber. I thought I liked you, but this is a problem.”

“I don’t know what to tell you,” I sighed, placing my soon-to-be-tattooed arm on the armrest.   

“Do you swear? Like, say ‘fuck’ and shit?” he asked, setting all his materials on the table beside me.

“I do. But not in front of strangers.” I replied. At this point in the small talk shit storm I had found myself in, I realized I had better start doing the question asking. “So. How long have you worked here?” I asked.

As he prepared my arm and his tools, he began sharing his life story. “I moved to the Phillipines maybe five, six years ago? No fucking reason. Seemed like as good a place as any. Get this. First day there, I ask the cabbie to take me to a hotel. I didn’t speak the language, so you know where he fucking takes me? A fucking whore house. I was like, ‘What the fuck, man? I said I wanted to go to a hotel!’. Fucking guy didn’t understand me, so I sit there. Then this fucking whore from the whore house jumps in the cab. Fucking place thinks I want to take a fucking whore to a hotel!”

“Wow. Seems crazy to move somewhere where you didn’t know the language!” I offered.

“Yeah. But you know what I did? I started going to the fucking bars. That’s the best way to learn a language. Pretty soon you pick it up, you know?” Jack responded.

“Totally. I mean, that’s what I was always told in Spanish classes in high school and college. You really just have to immerse yourself in the culture.” I said.

“Exactly, man. So there I am. Going to the bars, learning the fucking language. One day I meet my future wife on the bus. We became friends and she helped me learn, practiced everyday. I picked it up pretty quickly after that.”

“That’s great!” I said.

“Yeah, but after a while I started getting into more and more trouble with some secret service fuckhead. I tell ya. He started fucking threatening me. One night his whole fucking gang tried to fuck me up. Then some of his fucking politicians came to my wife’s property. Asked us if they could feed the farm pigs on occasion. I was like, ‘Fuck no, man! You think I’m stupid enough to let these fuckers drop off human remains for the fucking pigs?’ Fuck no I’m not.”

“Huh. Crazy!” I offered, not knowing where to take this conversation next.  

“Well, right when I got to the Phillipines, I started fucking his wife. He didn’t like that.”

“Wait, whose wife? The secret service guy?” I asked. 

“Yeah man,” he said.

“I can’t imagine he would like that. Seems like a bad person to befriend, you know?” I replied.

“He wasn’t my fucking friend, I was just fucking his wife!” he said.

“No, I get it. I was making a joke that it seems like maybe you shouldn’t be, uh, hanging out with the head of the secret service’s wife.” I said.

“What, you think I knew I was fucking his fucking wife?!” he exclaimed as he began tattooing my arm. I looked away, afraid to watch. “Oh. Right. You’ve never done this. It really doesn’t hurt. You ever been scratched by a cat? It’s like that. Without the itching. Should be really quick,” he said.

I looked down as he began the process. He was right. It really just felt more annoying than painful. I watched as he etched four straight black lines into my forearm, wiping away the excess ink between each line. When I looked up, I realized that Neck Tat was hovering over us.

“Hey man. You think in a bit you can do that face tattoo I’ve been wanting?” he asked Jack.

“Yeah, sure man. Although I’m not sure how I feel about tattooing your face. What if you regret it?” Responded Jack.

“Dude. I’ve been wanting this face tattoo for like five months now. And as long as you don’t tattoo a dick on my face, it’s cool man. Plus nobody else is around later,” suggested Neck Tat.    

“Don’t make me laugh, man. I gotta get these lines straight as fuck.” Jack pointed to my tattoo, which he had begun re-tracing with the needle.

Neck Tat looked at my arm. “Nice.”

“Come grab a beer with us first”, said Jack. “I have to get this poor girl a beer because I’m ripping her off. Can you believe she’s paying $300 for this shit?!”

I watched Neck Tat assess my new tattoo, and then respond, “That’s so fucking shitty, bro. I’m down. Just promise me you’ll do my face after.” He then walked back to his client in the moto boots.

Shortly thereafter, Jack sprayed my tattoo with an adhesive bandage, and I wandered back to my safe place of the welcome desk and skull art, near where the Filipino woman was still facetiming on her phone. I waited as Jack admired Neck Tat’s work on the arm of Moto Boots. With Love the Way You Lie blaring in the background, I decided to capitalize on this sudden distraction and make my move for the exit. “Well, thanks again! You have a good one!” I shouted to Jack as I slowly backed toward the door.

“Wait! We still gotta go get a beer!” he said, laughing at my absentmindedness.

Pretending to suddenly and very casually remember this plan, I responded, “Oh, that’s ri—” but was interrupted by the three people who had just walked into the shop.

Neck Tat and Josh looked up from Moto Boots, and both began excitedly approaching the threesome for high fives and familiar greetings. As the five of them caught up, I slowly creeped into the corner of the lobby, only about five feet away. The group had formed a circle, and while I was definitely on the outskirts of it, I found myself very much a part of this tattoo parlor friendship reunion. 

Jack embraced one of the new trio, the only man in the group. “Show me the progress, man!” 

“It looks, like, so good. Take off your shirt, babe!” yelled his wife, a voluminous sun-burned woman wearing both a neon and cheetah print sports bra that were each struggling immensely to hold back the massive weight of her breasts, a pair of spandex biker shorts, and sneakers.  

The other woman, a substantially-larger but exact replica of Snookie from the Jersey Shore, wore drag-style and thick false eyelashes and a very long braided ponytail that started at the top of her head. “Yeah! Show them!” she exclaimed. 

At their encouragement, the man ripped off his shirt, revealing two gigantic wing tattoos covering his pectorals, and large eyes on each of his dark brown shoulders. Jack and Neck Tat got close, admiring the tattoo work. The three men began discussing the intricacies of the shoulder eye artwork, while the two women began scrolling through Snookie’s phone, gabbing about their Facebook feeds. I watched and listened to them, unsure whether to stay silent or chime in with the occasional smile and head nod. Naturally, I did both over the course of the next five minutes. 

“You guys got time to give us a Besties Tattoo?” Cheetah Print asked Jack. “We want matching tattoos, me and her!” she said, pointing to Snookie. 

“Nah, I gotta do this guy’s face later. And we’re going out for a fucking beer. I owe this girl a beer because I ripped her off on her fucking tattoo.” He pointed toward me, the first time anyone had acknowledged or noticed my presence since the trio had entered the shop.   

“Oooooh! Shots! Let’s go take some shots!” Said Snookie. 

“Let’s see it,” said Shoulder Eyes, glancing toward my arm. 

I revealed my forearm to the group and they all got close to take a look.    

“Can you believe I had to charge her 300 fucking dollars for that shit? For her first tattoo,” said Jack. 

“It’s not --” I tried to explain myself, gaining back even a shred of dignity, but was interrupted by Moto Boots, who had just moved from his tattoo chair to our friendship circle. 

“Hey man. I gotta run. I’ll call you in a month to finish this sleeve,” he said to Neck Tat. They said goodbye, and Moto Boots exited the shop. I wistfully stared after him until the door finally closed, securing my fate that I’d in no way be leaving this shop in the near future. 

After several more minutes of conversation between the Tattoo People, while I awkwardly attempted to blend in, Jack finally exclaimed, “Let’s go!” He opened the door to the shop, and we all filtered out into the warm sunlight. I served as the final member of our strange parade, with one hand in my pocket because that’s what Alanis would do. We walked down the street - one that I’ve wandered many times in pursuit of treasures from the antique shop, or a new book from the local independent bookstore - and stopped in front of a dive bar where I’ve historically been known to pick up my pace a little when walking by. 

Upon entering, I followed my new friends to the bar as my eyes slowly adjusted to being in a dark and windowless room. Jack said, “I've got this chick’s beer because I just ripped her off with her tiny first tattoo,” as he pointed me out to the bartender. He then wandered over to the jukebox, to select an Eminem-adjacent playlist.  

The bartender, a very attractive woman with both arms covered in floral tattoos, looked at my little tattoo lines. “Aww. Poor thing,” she said. “What will you have?”

“I’ll take a Corona, please.” That felt like a casual and safe bet. While I much prefer an IPA or stout these days, they take me much longer to drink, and my plan was to exit this social experiment hellscape as soon as possible. She handed me my beer, and I wandered over to Cheetah Print and Snookie, who were already ordering their second shots. “Oh nice! What are you guys having?” I asked, attempting authentic friendship. 

“Shots, duh! Rum!” said Snookie excitedly. 

“Ah. Cool.” I said, falling flat. They began chatting with the other patrons - the regulars, as it turns out, so I took that as my cue to move on. I walked up to Jack and Shoulder Eyes, to join a conversation about Ryan Reynolds. Finally! I thought. A topic where I can share my domain expertise!

“-- Dude, I’d totally be a top for Ryan Reynolds. Who the fuck wouldn’t?” Said Shoulder Eyes. 

“Love that for you!” I chimed in, attempting to show my openness. God dammit Lindsey. Get it together.

We talked about attractive male movie stars for a while, and then Cheetah Print walked up, placing her third shot glass and phone on the table. Shoulder Eyes looked at her lovingly, and said, “Yeah. But I only have eyes for you, babe.”

“You got that right,” she said. “I don’t got that roast beef shit. I keep my shit RIGHT”. 

I thought, Surely we can’t be talking about her vagi— when Snookie approached. “What are we talking about?”

“We’re talking about roast beef - hell, you know if I had that problem, I’d be going to the E fuckin’ R. I don’t give a DAMN if it’s the fourth of July or not! I’d be getting that shit fixed STAT,” said Cheetah Print. 

My new friends all erupted in laughter, but they got quiet when Jack asked, “Man. How you gonna pay for that? That’d be expensive as shit.”

Yes! Another area where I can share my domain expertise! I thought. “Yeah - that’d be a cosmetic surgery. Insurance won’t pay for that,” I said. My new friends then stared at me, speechless. Well, that killed the mood, I thought.

Cheetah Print finally began to respond, “Well, I’d figure out --” but she was quickly interrupted by the bright sunlight that was being shone into the bar through the entrance door that had just been propped open. 

A woman entered and began shouting. “Does anyone know why the tattoo parlor down the street is closed?! I have an appointment, but nobody is there!”

Suddenly, Jack and Neck Tat locked eyes from across the room and both screamed expletives in unison. 

“Mother FUCK!” yelled Jack. 

“SHIT!!” yelled Neck Tat. 

“Did we have appointments this afternoon?!” yelled Jack. 

“Yeah, we did but I completely forgot about them!” responded Neck Tat. 

They each threw down their drinks and ran out the door. Shoulder Eyes, Cheetah Print, and Snookie all exchanged glances, seemingly unperturbed by the sudden change in scenery. For a moment they were quiet, and then they began laughing. After a minute, they each got up and walked up to the bar for another round of shots, not giving me a second thought. 

As I reflected on what had just happened, I looked around and took in my surroundings. There I was, finishing a Corona, alone in a dive bar where I’ve historically been known to pick up my pace a little when walking by. But now I had four brand new tattooed lines etched into my forearm. Did I blend in to this scene? Fuck no. Was I immediately houseless? Also no. 

I got up and placed my empty Corona bottle on the bar, and gave the bartender a friendly nod of acknowledgement. I walked out of the bar and back into the sunlight, feeling accomplished. I thought, Did I just tackle my second top fear of the things I am free to do? Fuck yes I did.