Margold Meets the Tattoo Artist

Chapter 10


That afternoon he went back to the bar and talked to the bartender about the tattoo. The bartender told him that it was not a shop on the street, but an “underground” place where they did the best work in town. That was okay with Margold, so long as he didn’t catch anything. No problem, the bartender assured him.
He led Margold down the street and around the corner to a door without any kind of markings. The bartender knocked, someone looked out a little opening in the door, then let them in. The person led them to the top of a dark stairway into another door. There was a
small shop with a chair and a table for customers to lie on while being tattooed, and walls lined with jars of ink and drawings of tattoo designs, and photographs of those who had been tattooed. The bartender introduced Margold to the tattoo artist Clyde, then left.
“Nice place you have here, Clyde,” Margold said.
“Thanks, man,” Clyde said, looking Margold up and down. “My man Nick says you want a tattoo.”
“That’s right.”
“Ever have a tattoo?”
“No.”
“The first time can be a little painful, but it ain’t that bad.”
Clyde the tattoo artist, a man about sixty, long gray hair in a ponytail, numerous tattoos, a beret, and a few teeth shy of a full load, smiled and motioned for Margold to sit down.
“I’ve looked into it,” Margold said. “I think I can take it.”
“I s’pose you can. You one big some-bitch.”
Margold chuckled. “That’s what they tell me.”
Clyde got serious. “Why you want a tattoo, man? You no spring chicken.”
“Fair question. Let’s just say I’m having a mid-life crisis.”
“Nick said you gonna die.”
“Well, Nick’s telling tales out of school.”
Clyde gave a semi-toothless grin. “Guess so.”
“We’re all gonna die,” Margold said. “I might go sooner than I had hoped.”
“Good’nuf. You know now, that this shit is permanent.”
“Of course.”
“Got anything in mind?”
Margold reached into his pocket and pulled out a picture from a magazine he had folded up. “This,” he said, handing the picture to Clyde.
Clyde looked at it and handed it back. “That’s one complicated bit of work, my friend. Bruegel’s The Triumph of Death. Great painting.”
“You know art,” Margold said, surprised.
“I ain’t always been a toothless piece of shit hillbilly in Nworlins pumping ink into people’s skin.”
“I didn’t mean . . .”
“I know it, don’t worry. Looks is deceivin’. I studied art history as a younger man. The Reader’s Digest version is that it didn’t quite work out. So here I am.”
“This is art,” Margold said, waving his arm around toward the tattoo designs. “Makes perfect sense to me.”
“Mighty kind of you to say so, but it ain’t the Louvre.”
“Well, I practiced law, and I ain’t on the Supreme Court.”
Clyde laughed. “I had you for an educated man, maybe even a shyster.”
“It’s hard to hide what we are. It comes out through the skin.”
“Yessir,” Clyde said, exposing his abbreviated row of teeth in a grin. “Ain’t it the truth.”
“Now, can you do it, Clyde?”
Clyde looked at him for a moment. “Take your shirt off.”
Margold obliged.
“What the fuck happened to you?” Clyde asked, seeing the still unhealed wounds from the O-kee-pa.
“O-kee-pa,” Margold said.
“You mean that Indian ritual where they stick stuff in your skin and haul you up on a rope?” Clyde asked with excitement, awe, and eyes the size of silver dollars.
“Yep.”
“You did that?”
“Yessir.”
“They pulled you up on the rope and everthin’?”
“Yep.”
Clyde shook his head. “Goddamn. Anyone who can do that can get a little ol’ tattoo. And I’m gonna do it for a good price. Now let me see your back. You want it on your back, don’t ya?”
Margold turned around. “Yeah, I think that’s the best place.”
Clyde examined Margold’s back. “You got one big fuckin’ canvas here, son.”
Margold laughed.
“Oh yeah,” Clyde said, “we gonna have some fun.”
“So you can do it?”
“Abso-fuckin-lutely. Give me a couple of days to come up with a drawing. I can’t reproduce this thing exactly as it is, but I should be able to get the gist of it. Once you approve the sketch, we’ll get started.”
“Sounds good.”
“I’ll call you when I’m ready.”
“There’s one more thing,” Margold said.
“What’s that?”
“On my chest I want a cross from nipple to nipple, and down to my crotch . . .”
“No problem.”
“. . . with a big hand in front of it giving the finger.”
Clyde laughed. “You’re an artistic some-bitch.”
“I want the hand to be about half the height of the cross, and I want it all to be very 3-D.”
“No problem. I specialize in 3-D. Look at them snakes over there.” He indicated some photographs of tattoos on the opposite wall.
“Perfect. Great work.”
“Thanks, man. Artists always like praise. And by the way, it’ll be a grand for the sketches, and I’ll give you the price for the work when we get together to look at the drawings. And that grand is due in advance.”
“Fine,” Margold said, counting out the money. “See ya in a couple o’ days.”