A Memoir by David Blake
Tattoos aren’t meant for everybody and they’re too goddamn good for some people. – Lyle Tuttle
Lee and I had recently married. I was 25 and she was older by 5 years. We had purchased a half-acre lot in Woodside, a quiet residential community 45 minutes south of San Francisco. The lot contained a modest 800 sq.ft. cottage and some outbuildings. It was a far cry from the elaborate mansions to be seen in Woodside now, whose present or recent past residents include Shirley Temple Black, Joan Baez, Michelle Pfeiffer, Steve Jobs, Larry Ellison and Phoebe Hearst. We fondly referred to our hilly neighborhood of a hundred or so homes as the Slums of Woodside. It was anchored at the bottom by The Peanut Farm, a dive bar and biker haunt. We loved our neighborhood and took consolation that while our modest homes were founded on rock, all of those rich folks’ houses were on top of the San Andreas fault which runs right down the middle of the valley that defines the prime Woodside residential area. When The Big One comes, we’d tell ourselves, I know where I want to be.
One summer evening Lee and I arranged for dinner with two other couples we had become friendly with. We met at 8:00 at the Village Pub in Woodside, and after a leisurely dinner enriched by several bottles of wine, we called the bartender over to recommend after-dinner liqueurs. At 10:30 our waiter advised us that the restaurant was closing soon. Unwilling to end the evening, after some lively booze-assisted conversation, it was enthusiastically agreed by all six of us that we would get tattoos. All of us were tattoo virgins, friends and acquaintances were getting them, so why not? It seemed, at that moment, the obvious thing to do.
A short drive down Woodside Road took us to El Camino Real where a sign that said TATTOOS in ornate script adorned a brightly lit shop. We parked next to four Harley Davidson motorcycles and entered. Inside there were five people—the artist, who had a full suit inked onto his body, and four Hells Angles whose affiliation was clear from their jackets.
The artist politely asked what we wanted, and after we said we wanted some small tattoos we were directed to a wall covered with examples. While we looked for pictures of tattoos that we could live with forever, whatever conversation had been going on between the artist and the bikers was paused while they watched the six of us well-dressed suburban types nervously searching that wall.
Lee, my wife, was the first to identify a tattoo that she wanted. It was a small brightly colored butterfly which she wanted on her left breast at a spot chosen so it would be half exposed by a bikini top.
After some negotiations about price Lee was seated in a straight chair where she exposed the skin to be tattooed. The artist carefully sterilized his instruments, gathered the ink colors he’d be using and prepared to start. The other nine people in the room watched with interest.
At the first touch of the needle Lee let out a loud “ow!” The tattoo artist, who had seen all this before, paused his work. One of the Hell’s Angles walked over and said to Lee “Here, sweetie, hold my hand and squeeze hard when it hurts. That will help.”
As the artist prepared to restart his work, let me set the scene: It’s midnight on a Saturday night. We are in a room with fluorescent lighting so bright it hurts your eyes. It’s cold. There are rows of electric needles positioned carefully behind the artist. It bears a striking resemblance to a hospital operating room. My wife, most of her breast exposed, sits holding hands with a Hell’s Angel while I – completely unneeded here – attempt to sink into the floor.
The artist resumed his work. Later Lee said that squeezing the proffered hand did indeed help. The tattoo was duly completed and admired by all. It was truly a lovely bit of art, now in Lee’s possession forever.
The scene was repeated for each of the other two women, one of whom wanted her tattoo in a delicate spot that required the rest of us to avert our eyes while the artist carefully draped her mostly naked body.
I was the first of the three men to decline a tattoo but was quickly seconded by the two others. As we took our leave at 2:00 am the scorecard looked like this: three women with tattoos and three humbled men without. You can believe me when I say that we were reminded of our reluctance, or perhaps it was cowardice, from time to time in following years.