Spilling over with the gregarious confidence that came, after I played with risk and claimed victory, soon after I took my first pill I had other exclamatory statements to make of my youth; if only for things to remember.
Coasting a come-down from a weekend I couldn't remember much about, except for the feeling, by mid-week I was ready to start looking for my latest projection of myself, to exclusively separate me from the rest.
'Why don’t you get a piercing?'- comes a microwaved brainwave from Sammy on the Cross Trainer.
I speed up going nowhere; racing the line of gym machines next to me.
I want to show them something and never be able to go back again I whisper from the couch of my mind as Freud takes notes and I dream up something in Ink.
‘I think I’m going to get a tattoo Sammy’
Raised eyebrows- drawn on with a blunt pen, She reaches across my machine and stalls me with a grab; a gesture of intimacy I don’t want from my gym buddies- who now considers us co-conspirators:
‘Heyy have I ever shown you my Tinker bell’
The muscle men from the corner draw near; one’s still clutching a dumbbell. Fuck, I hope that isn't a pet name for her Fanny.
Sweating and full of grandeur-for beating me to something, she rolls down her joggers- pointing to a pix elated sketch of little Tink, drawn on forever; clumsy, captured in bleeding blue ink.
‘What do you think?’
4 weeks waiting. I manage the next level on the stepper.I take the call from the gym, alone, counting squats down to tonight’s party.
'I think we have a cancellation Esme', she drawls with an intake of her fag: 'Have you ever been tattooed before?' She’s on me, before I reply; self-derisive fangs drawn at the first timer:
‘Because, you know, we only do Bespoke Art here. If you want a Tinker bell it might be worth going somewhere else’.
I’m in.
.Hope waits for me outside – curious but not convinced.
The man that poses at reception itches his full sleeve as he signs me in- he doesn't want to catch what I've got. He points me to the corner- first timer’s keep out the way here.
Take a pew love,he gestures arrogantly at a flat injured cushion. I pick it up dropping stuffing all over.
‘erm I think your cushion might need a rest ’
My short hand humor lands beside the cushion flattened out by his silence.In a gesture of equality I stand up tall as I can manage-at 5ft instead, occupying myself in a portfolio full of flowers and miscellaneous bullshit.
‘She’ll be with you when she decides’- he declares ominously.
I give him a swift quarter smile for the wide open rudeness he’s greeted me with- and the semi that’s just appeared in his trousers. Oz disappears behind the curtain- to fix himself a camomile and a wank.
30 minutes counting and she decides she’s kept me waiting enough.
‘So I've drawn a mock up for you. She produces a large feather that she slaps onto my stomach spit licked on, floating down me.Hope peers in – already the outsider. She gives me an effusive thumbs up I just see, over the top of the ivory wax skulls guarding the window- from the ordinary outsider.
Out the back, the female tatooist lays me out on her block; ready for carving.
I hope this isn't a mistake.Committed to whatever it is now, I make myself comfy sliding up and down the bench covered in cling-film- no more than sweaty meat now.
I look up and notice we've got company.
Next to my bench are two other guys-, Bikers; on the road to their next lot of tattoos. Crowded chests- bared- eyes flat, the tough guys look straight ahead, full of imitated casualness, both resting their loped, hairy knees on an overflowing bin; full of bloody tissue and drawn on dreams. Sat up straight and still- in poses that died out with finishing school, the pair try hard to embrace the experience- holding off pain in their latest initiation to being considered original.
I bet they were born cool.
'I want this covered up darling' -one of them growls pointing out with a stubby ringed finger to a childish hand written sign balancing on his over-hang: ' No pain no gain'.
I try out a laugh; little releasing some of the anxiety I had about my tattoo being good enough-for old age.
One of their tattooists pauses for a sip of Nescafe- with a frothed top, and the biker breathes out a barely audible sigh of relief - darting a look over at me- caught out.
His friend taps his boots in a futile gesture of looking entertained; joining in with the off key gargling rock on the stereo- produced by the tattooists brother- from rehab.Off again, the needles judder over his belly flab, spraying blood and punching skin. Listening in I find out he’s making memorial for his mother- he didn't care for much.I smile over and it’s returned with a wink. Today we are all in this.
'I will be able to bear this won’t I? how much is it going to hurt'
someone drops me a never end of string.
She peers over at me curiously- dropping the needles that look like barbs. In a tone laced with irony -she speaks to me- just once: It's just like a shark attack sweetheart…….you won’t feel much.
I lie out the tattoo in silence- following suit with the others. Making my first small gain since I got here, keeping this part of experience all myself.countdown and no hand holding I pass through the biting vibration and deep scrawling over and over –totally into me: My pain, my gains, something to tell the grand kids about.
I sneak a look downward, brimming over with pride and pain.
Fuck this hurts.
At some point he can’t take much more either and one of the bikers asks for a lolly. ‘Can I have Black Currant please love’.I cast a look over at the huge bowl of treats- laid on for customers - who know they are there.What a bitch for not offering me one.
I take time off from concentrating on getting through it and look enviously over at the help he’s getting. Happy bearded sucks at the Chuba Cap, with an occasional bite down when they go over a sore spot.
No lollies and an hour later- and I’m done.We wrap things up with a few solemn words about aftercare.
'Stay out the fucking sun and don’t go swimming'.
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