Chapter 7
Inked
Santa Cruz, California
March 8/9, 1987 (Sunday/Monday)
Hyde looked at the thick black volume of tattoo samples in quiet. They knew not to bother him, not because of
any fleeting concept called fame, but because that was his M.O. and they recognized it. Sure, thanks to the
news and media there were people who would ask, "Weren't you the one who?" not the person who
interviewed an under-the-radar band who had some much publicized shenanigans in Times Square that pissed
the over 45 crowd off, but also the overly religious sect as well. No, it was the, "Wait…you kind of resemble….."
kind of resembled? That was as ridiculous as it was insulting and since his metamorphosis as someone different
entirely it did start to wane like a moon phase. His faithful dog Sid was in the backroom being spoiled rotten by
the owner's mother Gladys, who knew of and respected his instructions. The 2 artists were working on their
customers as the smoke from his cigarette rose up from the big green glass ashtray. He pushed his sunglasses
up as far as they could go. The owner had one dog a little black pug named Murphy. He tried not to let it bother
him as the small dog devoured that gross smelling dog food up from his little plastic red bowl.
It was so fucking degrading of a spectacle for the dog let alone the human.
Are you defying me?
-No, leash. -
Snap – Chains on a leather band bouncing off the decaying bathtub that was filled with the waste that couldn't
be disposed of.
The stench of the environment made him go in and out of consciousness.
Let's see if you'd like to go another 2 days without the food or water that I provide.
Where's my brother dog?
No tricks…no treats.
If it weren't for the sound of the idiot in the chair screaming over the needle, Hyde would have stayed frozen in
his confined thoughts. He thought if the customer was only going to scream don't get a tat, unless they were
liquored up.
Dumbass.
There was always something, an event, smell, piece of clothing, a simple song, anything that could bring it all
back. It might as well be 10 years ago and his best friend thought he was a jackass. Okay, maybe he was a
jackass, but not for the reasons they thought. Everyone had him so clearly defined which was impossible
considering he didn't even know the whole person he was. How could they all possibly know? He knew what he
wasn't, but he was on a desperate internal search trying to find out who he was and where he fit in, in this
world. He walked up to the desk and took a piece of unlined white paper from the pile and a pencil from the
pot leaf shaped holder.
The Indian sitar themed music stopped and there was this dead silence where the music should have been. He
sat back at his spot at the table and proceeded to draw. He started in light strokes, but as he regained his
confidence back after his mind betrayed him by the past.
The pencil marks started to get more enhanced. It was an Angel wing, he hoped it was feminine enough, but
then again, did gender matter in Angels? He drew a tiny 8 on the edge of the left wing.
If it was on its side it could be the infinity symbol. He wasn't sure what he wanted, but on
the edge of the right wing he wrote his best cursive 'J'.
Going to Canada would be good for everyone involved. It was how he justified no visits on holidays or other
special occasions. It wasn't good for anyone if he was there; deep down they had to know that.
"Hey, S.J." said Siobhan one of the artists on duty.
She had bright pink hair in a pixie cut and she wore a dog collar with diamond shaped stones around it .
On purpose.
But she was cool and she didn't ask any questions.
That's why Hyde was hoping if he timed it right, she would be the one to do his tat and not Mick who always
tried to push the standard skulls and roses types of tattoos, not that there was anything wrong with them, but
they were reminiscent of the mainstream bands that were now in the the Top 40 or wannabe copycats.
Siobhan was the one who did the cross on his right arm and she actually read what he wrote and talked to him
in intelligent sentences, but they never crossed a line with each other and she referred to him by his
professional name. "What can I do for you today? I'm almost done," she leaned in to whisper, "with Mr. 1st
Scaredy-Tat."
"I'm still working on my sketch."
"Okay. See you in a bit."
He went back to the paper. What was she thinking wanting to go out with a no-good person like himself? She
might still be alive today living her upper-middle class dream of being a housewife and mother in the suburbs
trying to keep up with the Joneses if she just stayed away from her constant schoolgirl fantasies. Hyde didn't
doubt Forman's love for her, and that really wasn't the issue. It wasn't about love. It was about the choices one
made in their youth and her thinking it was all about forever at least Donna didn't have those notions like
Ja-Jackie.
He let his mind flex on her name.
Donna knew a woman couldn't be defined by rings and the men acting to keep them a certain way,
Forman wasn't going to want Donna to achieve her true potential, because her true potential was to get the
Hell out of Point Place and to have the career that he did. He often wondered if he chose the roads he did as
tribute to his friend? Hyde wasn't big on ceremony, but the mind works in ways that he couldn't fully
understand, it amazed him, when it didn't frighten him.
Hyde was going to let Siobhan determine whether or not if the 8 should be the number or the infinity symbol.
Hyde was a good customer and important to a certain genre of music that when the crying tat guy paid and left
she gave him a bottle of beer.
He could use one; he hadn't had a drink in an hour and a half, maybe it would stop his brain from going
down roads he wished would stay closed.
"Thanks. You were done quicker than I thought you'd be."
"That's because we had to stop."
"Just out of curiosity, Siobhan, what is he getting?"
"A skull with a scroll ribbon with his Mother's name on it."
"Cliché/Cliché" They both said in unison
She laughed, "What did you want done today?"
He showed her the paper, but was not about to go into any other details over his sketch.
"Cool…."
"I did have one question," he finished his cigarette, "The number 8 or the infinity?"
"I like the idea behind the infinity sign."
So did he, but he wasn't about to verbalize it.
"Do you think we can finish this tonight? I'll decide later if I want it to have color. I have to be at the airport early
tomorrow morning."
"Where are you going, S.J.?"
It was going to be the right answer to her, that's what no judgment was all about, "Canada…."
"Then let's get you set up," she directed Hyde to the chair as ever the faithful Sid came in after eating his steak
on a plate and sat at the floor joining the little pug Murphy to watch Hyde get his latest dose of fresh ink.
He couldn't wait to feel the prickly feeling of the needle on his skin, it was going to sound strange coming
from his psyche, but then he wasn't surprised by it at all. It was an ache that he could control that he had to
satisfy in the recesses of his mind that so desperately needed to feel the sensation of physical pain.