Before you read this, let me warn you that it contains graphic descriptions of bloodletting, body mutilation and, most offensive all, the vain, self-indulgent rantings of a young man. Readers of delicate disposition may not make it to the end and are advised to go to the comics section.
I just got a tattoo. It's a small, emerald Chinese character. It means fortune. It's on my left shoulder blade, which means I can hide it from my mother and any future bosses.
I've wanted a tattoo since I was 14, and had to overcome a great obstacle to get it.
Like many of you, I can't stand the sight of needles. And blood makes me woozy, too; in fact, I could only get halfway through "Interview With the Vampire."
Then why get a tattoo? Fashion? Rebellion? Delayed adolescent Angst?
Here's why: I'm 22 years old. I can tie my own bow ties. I have more suits than jeans. And, the clincher, I own (gasp) wingtips, hand-cut and hand-stitched in England. Before I got my tattoo, I didn't feel like a twentysomething. I felt old. Really old. As if I were in my 40s.
But I thought if I could peel away those layers of gabardine and wool to reveal a tattoo, then hey . . . maybe I can still be hip and rebellious.
I had always thought tattoos were worn only by mechanics, Marines, Hell's Angels and Tonya Harding. Not anymore. I decided it would be worth facing the needles. Worth the blood, the pain.
The pain. It was excruciating. Lots of people say getting tattooed doesn't hurt. There's no blood, they say. It's like a bee sting, they say. Friends, don't believe them. They lie.
Well, OK, I admit it doesn't hurt as much as, say, getting lanced through the head with a flying lawn dart. Admittedly, I have pretty wimpy skin. I have to rip out all the tags in my shirts, and cashmere gives me a rash. But getting tattooed isn't like receiving a bee sting, either. I was just hoping there wouldn't be a lot of blood.
The Great Southern Tattoo Co. sits on the west side of Route 1, in College Park, across from a Volkswagen dealer and a few doors down from a Hardee's. It's a small, nondescript building, and I drove past it the first time. Well, actually, it's so nondescript that I drove past it half a dozen times. You'd think people who spend their days carving letters into people's backs could take a little time and carve some letters onto a big piece of cardboard and hang it outside. I had to stop and ask the employees at Hardee's where I could get a tattoo. They all gave me funny looks.
Inside was a large room and four or five anterooms, where the actual tattooing took place. Apparently the Great Southern Tattoo Co. was in demand that day; there were lots of people milling around. That was good. I also didn't hear any screams for mercy coming from the anterooms. That was good, too.
In the big room, panels of tattoo designs lined the walls. From these the discriminating tattoo connoisseur could choose his or her design. Great Southern did the usual stuff, and from what I could tell from the samples, did it quite well: peace signs of all sizes, ancient Mayan fertility symbols, the yin and yang, images of pretty, bosomy girls. The management also invited clients to bring in custom designs. Anything you wanted inscribed on your skin, they could do.
I was introduced to Dee, a young woman with a nice smile and pretty eyes. I wanted to tell her that spiked, purple hair and spider-web tattoos went out of fashion last season, but she was the One With the Needle so I didn't dare. She shared one of the anterooms with her mother, who, as it turns out, owns the company.
I told Dee about my aversion to needles, especially when they are pointed at me. And that blood made me faint of heart.
"Will there be much bleeding?"
"Oh no, the inks we use are great. The colors won't bleed into each other at all. . . . "
"No, no, forget the colors. I meant me. Will I bleed?"
As Dee started with the procedure, she told me how it worked: A sterile, single-use needle pricks the skin and injects the ink up inside it. The skin then remains permanently stained. The needle is hooked up to a mechanical motor, driven by 60,000 volts of electricity, which cause needle to meet skin 975,000 times every second.
OK, maybe those numbers are a little off -- I had tuned Dee out by then. I'm not sure, though, if I consciously tuned her out. I may have entered the first stages of neural shock, which would explain why, at that point, I began hallucinating.
I spent the next minute or two fighting visions of menacing lawn darts, then the ringing of a phone shook me from my delusions.
One ring, two rings . . . the phone was sitting on Dee's workstation. My worst nightmare had come true.
My tattoo artist was about to tattoo me and have a phone conversation at the same time!
It was someone named Michael. Michael was wondering if Dee wanted to go to a concert. Dee was wondering what band was playing. I, however, had more pressing questions. I was wondering how deep the gash in my back would be when the needle slipped.
It's a funny feeling, being interrupted while getting tattooed. I guess it's like going in for triple bypass heart surgery and later finding out your doctor took a break halfway through to squeeze in nine holes of golf.
I think Dee stopped impaling me while she talked to Michael. Then again, I'm not really sure what happened because those lawn darts came back again.
After a few more grueling minutes Dee announced that she had finished. The whole thing had taken only about 15 minutes. I was still alive, still breathing. I walked shirtless into the big room and looked in a mirror. I felt elated and empowered. I now had both a good-looking tattoo and bow ties; I was a complete, balanced person. I had defied my fear of needles. I had paid for my tattoo with sweat, pain and, most important, with blood. Well, I tried to pay with blood. Dee wanted my American Express card.
She then gave me a quick smile, a handful of her business cards and a stack of bumper stickers: "Tattoos on Board," "Tattoo Artists Do It With Sharp, Pointed Instruments" and, my personal favorite, "We Tattooed Your Mother."
Speaking of mothers, if anyone reading this knows mine, let's keep mum about this little adventure, shall we? She's a rather delicate woman. I'm not sure how well she'd take it. Besides, I'll tell her next week. Right after I have my nose pierced. That'll probably hurt, too.
7+ I just hope there's not a lot of blood.
HOWARD HENRY CHEN is a former intern for The Sun. He now writes from Bulgaria, where he scouts around for tattoo parlors in his free time.