sense finally kicks in, I don’t know how safe it is to get tattooed in Mexico, my mind is full of images of dark dirty back rooms and dirty needles, have I gone completely crazy?
Carlos got one, so it can’t be that bad, he’s impulsive, but he’s not stupid, but then I don’t know where he got his done either; I’m sure Mari did her best, but would she really know a safe place to get a tattoo?
I’m just beginning to change my mind when we pull up at the curb. Being that Carlos was only gone an hour, he can’t have gone far, so the likelihood is that this is the same place I tell myself.
Turning to the driver I ask if there are any other tattoo parlours locally, he looks at me blankly before saying yes in a questioning tone. I’m convinced he has no idea what I’m saying and it does anything but fill me with confidence. I motion for him to stay while I check it out, stepping out of the cab and heading to the front door. It looks relatively acceptable from the outside, with posters of different designs on the front and a simple sign hanging above the door saying Tattoo.
Inside, it’s air conditioned and smells of antiseptic, again another good sign; the walls are a clean white colour and the floor is covered in impeccably shiny white tiles, so far so good.
At the reception desk I’m met with a heavily inked man, with a long beard and more piercings than I care to count, it’s a little unnerving, but I’m not sure I could expect anything less in these surroundings.
“Do you speak English?” I ask.
“Yes, little” this was not the reply I was hoping for. Taking the picture I scribbled out myself when Carlos was asleep, from my bag, I show it to him and then point to the inside of my wrist.
“Yes” my bearded friend says confidently, leading me through to the back, where an even more colourful man awaits. They speak to each other, disconcertingly in Spanish, before sitting me down on a plastic stool. The second man fumbles about in a draw for a minute before producing a much neater version of my sketch.
“Yes!” I grin, happy that they have something better to work with. My wrist is quickly wiped with what smells like pure alcohol and then without a word, stands up and leaves the room.
Sitting in this clinical environment, I’m suddenly hit with a wave of nausea, I’ve never had a tattoo and I’m not the best person at handling pain. It’s not even as if I’ve really thought this through, I wanted to do something special to show Carlos how much he meant to me; but in my excitement it’s quite possible that I’m overlooking a much less permanent and painful way of doing that.
My heart starts to race as the walking piece of art returns, still without speaking, I guess his English is even more limited than the other one’s, he takes my wrist and presses the transfer on, holding it up to my face and waiting for me to OK it.
Can I really back out now, I’m stuck in a back room with an intimidating man that doesn’t speak my language and my route to the door is blocked by another equally undesirable guy. The answer is no, no I cannot.
I nod and give him a weak smile, setting him off preparing the ink and the tool, which incidentally looks like a small gun, he repeatedly turns it on and off, filling the room with a buzzing noise, similar to a dentists drill, that puts my teeth on edge.
Finally he takes hold of my hand turning it palm up and exposing my inner wrist, pausing with the needle gun one centimetre from my skin he looks up, “Yes?”
Oh God, this is it, I’m really going to do this, it’s going to hurt like crazy, I’m probably going to faint, I take a deep breath and blow out all my fears, “Yes” I reply.
The second the needle makes contact I instantly regret it, it hurts in a way I had never imagined. The only redeeming thing is that he seems to work in five second blasts, so I know if I count slowly to five, by the time I reach it he will have stopped, if only for a second.
Every now and then the pain wins out and I scrunch my eyes closed against it, struggling