Zach came to me tattoo-free, not a mark on him, and sometime a few years ago he got his first tattoo. Since Zach is not too keen on pain I didn’t think he could do it, so when he presented his new tattoo, I was impressed. Mind you, it was small and not very detailed, but I thought, “baby steps.” Since then Zach has spoken about getting another and talked about the possible designs: guitars, skulls, trees, birds and the devil. He opted out of the devil idea just in case he ever landed in a Catholic hospital or any other religious institution. It would definitely look bad. After much deliberation he settled on a raven for his upper arm — tough yet beautiful. (As with all Zach stories it just gets funny from here.)
So when the design was finalized and waivers were signed, the tattoo artist came out with the drawing that was to be transferred to Zach’s arm. IT WAS HUGE. I’m pretty sure I mentioned this fact as he was descending the staircase to the chamber of torture, but good ol’ Zach had signed off on it. I also mentioned that it would also take at least three hours — if he was lucky. He was undaunted. What a guy.
I followed him down the stairs until he was settled and then I decided to hit some nearby thrift shops while I waited. About an hour later I decided to check and see the progress. Oh my. The first thing I heard was eardrum-rupturing death metal blasting so loud that I couldn’t even hear the tattoo gun. There was Zach, obviously in pain, sitting in the chair with eyes as big as saucers — could have been from the “music” or from the bleeding mess he had on his arm. After our good friend, Dooley (real name), sopped up the blood, I could see that all that had been accomplished in an hour was the outline. Thanks be to God that Dooley was a smoker because that afforded Zach a momentary break from both the torture and the death metal.
I left two more times, only to come back to find Dooley (who moonlights as a bass player in a death metal band) smoking and Zach pacing. It was during the last break that Zach had decided that his tattoo was “good enough.” Trying to convince Zach to let the man finish was like talking down a jumper. In the end he did the right thing and they kept going. Three and a half hours later it was done. Dooley had turned off the music and was wrapping Zach’s arm up with gauze when I walked in. Zach was in shock and somewhat angry after his ordeal. I tried not to laugh. I’m still not sure what he thought would happen. I did warn him. We paid Dooley and walked straight across the street to a bar. After silently drinking two beers in rapid succession he managed to talk about how awful it had been. And of course all I could do was laugh. Thanks for the memories, Dooley.