I don’t have much time to write today, as I’ve only got a few minutes before I take off from the lobby of my friend’s hotel for dinner. I’ve been too busy eating ramen and walking the mall and wandering the Air and Space museum to have had much downtime to write.
Oh, and I was also busy getting a tattoo.
One of my best friends had suggested that we get matching tattoos and today we finally did it. When she told me what she had in mind over the phone, I couldn’t help but smile because it perfectly summed up me and her and our relationship.
She picked out a design from an old typeface and booked an appointment last month, an appointment for today at four o’clock.
First we ate breakfast and then we walked the mall, checking out the Dying Gaul at the National Gallery. We popped into the Air and Space museum and wandered the Apollo exhibit before jumping in a cab for coffee and Krispy Kreme glazed donuts right across the street from the tattoo parlor.
I was too tired to be nervous about getting inked for the first time and besides, I knew it wasn’t going to take very long. The symbol was only going to be about an inch by an inch and I figured even if it hurt that it would be over quickly.
As we sat in the waiting room, I watched my friend starting to get nervous, even though she already has a half-dozen tattoos. Watching someone else get anxious is usually enough to make my anxiety kick in, but for whatever reason it didn’t.
After a few minutes of waiting, the artist came out and greeted us with hugs. She came recommended by a friend from my college years who lived in the area and who went to school with her. Turns out they grew up together in Panama and had been friends since middle school.
“He’s like my brother,” she said.
We went over the design and she held our wrists to get an idea of the size before she took the artwork and shrunk it down on the xerox machine. In a matter of minutes she had the decals in hand and I gave my friend a hug before the artist led my friend to the chair.
I sat in the waiting room and chatted up my friend’s girlfriend. It was nice to have a couple of minutes alone with her after only talking to her in the company of my friend and we talked about New York and my idea of moving there and other things.
Less than twenty minutes later my friend emerged from the back, holding out her wrist so I could see the permanent mark she had just received.
“Your turn,” she said, smiling at me.
I walked to the back and sat down in the chair while the artist prepped her station. She methodically wiped down all the surfaces, changed gloves, unwrapped a new needle and set out the ink.
As I sat there and watched with my arm outstretched on the little table in front of me, I found the ritual reminiscent of shooting up. There was all of the prep of getting a shot of dope ready and when she finally shaved my wrist and swabbed it down with alcohol, I could feel a tingle run up my arm.
When she finally pressed the needle at the end of the gun to my skin, I could feel the same anticipation I used to feel when searching for a vein to register a shot of heroin.
Except there was no chemical reward at the end of the tattoo gun, just a hot feeling that ran throughout my skin and up my arm. My brain kept looking for the high that never came and instead a flood of images came with the pain.
Searching for a vein.
Finding it.
Pulling the plunger back just enough to get a bit of blood in the syringe.
And the feeling of pushing it home until it disappeared into my arm.
In living breathing color, I was reminded of what all those things felt like as she held my wrist and worked me over with the gun. My friend sat behind me and rubbed my back as I watched the gun move over the lines and spit black ink underneath my skin. After a couple of minutes, my mind emptied out completely and I was totally present with the slight pain of the needle and before I could even get used to the bliss that came from having no thoughts whatsoever running through my brain, she was done.
It hurt less than I thought, though to be fair it took her longer to set up to do the tattoo than it did to actually use the gun to ink me. When I stood up, I gave my friend a hug.
“I love you,” she said.
“I love you too.”
And now when I look down at my wrist I get to be reminded of the love between us.
I think about my friend every day, as something always seems to remind me of her, but now there is a talisman of our relationship that I get to carry with me. Something that’s always there, just beneath the surface of my skin.
Just like her.
This is a mark that will be with us until we both turn to dust, a reminder of one of the people I care about most.
“I have scars on my hands from touching certain people” J.D. Salinger once wrote.
And now I have a tattoo on my wrist from someone who has touched my heart in a way that has changed me forever.
I wouldn’t have it any other way.
