At A Glance
Author	soze
Contact	soze@fork-bomb.com
When	A week ago
Artist	Jack K.
Studio	Primal Graphics
Location	Albany, NY

This story has a beginning and a middle, but no end. It originated as a journal outline, and became fleshed out as I wanted to record more and more of the story.

If you wanted a short and sweet reassurance that you could print out and hand to your mommy, this isn't it. But it's a good documentary of why I have become modified.

We begin when I was eighteen and a half. I had been shipped off to college at RPI, in a strange part of the country with hills and no thunderstorms. I was your typical geek-turned-bike-messenger-turned-geek-again: I had a laptop computer, a bike, and an attitude. I was pretty independent-minded; the one thing I was sure of when I hit college, though, was that there was no way in hell I'd ever join a sorority. I had even joked to my boss ten months prior that the only way I'd go Greek was if I joined a fraternity.

Words have a funny way of making you eat them. Not a week into my first semester of classes, a fraternity found me. Specifically, a co-ed fraternity. Precisely speaking, the Epsilon Iota chapter of Psi Upsilon. One was trying to drink soda in the dining hall through a fifty-foot straw they had constructed; apparently when I wandered up and told them they'd get better results using a sororiwhore, they decided that I would have to be drafted.

Of course I ended up getting sucked into the swirling eddy that is and will always be Psi U. The next year I had some pretty bad times: my great-grandmother, who helped rear me and for whom I am named, died, and it all went pretty downhill from there. My grandfather had a heart attack, I got insomnia and mono the following semester, and then when I went home to rest up the next semester my parents' house up and exploded on my twentieth birthday. Oh, and then my cat died, to top it all off.

But through e-mail and phone calls, my Psi U brothers kept up on me. They were that one guiding light that I needed to find my way out of the mess. A thousand miles away, and they were still taking care of me. I visited twice during that stormy sabbatical, and they even tried to visit during spring break but got shut down by bad brakes halfway there. When I returned that August, I did so with a vengeance. But no matter how many soapboxes I leapt upon, or how many shouting matches I had with the nightly news, Psi U supported and defended me.

When I became alumnimafied from RPI, I wasn't really sure of where I would stand with the house. There were some who had remained close even after a decade, while others simply disappeared, never to be heard from again. I was bored, disaffected, and resentful of my job, and these feelings seeped into my interactions even with my lover. But still the undergraduate brothers were forgiving and understanding. While I could not be around as often as I liked any more, I still felt the same bond with them as I had in college.

'Brother badges', pins that identify fraternal association, are often given to brothers of Greek societies. They often contain the letters of the societies along with some sort of picture representative of that society's ideals. Psi Upsilon's motto is "unto us has befallen a mighty friendship", and is symbolized by a handshake on our badge. According to psiu.org, the badge "is a diamond-shaped pin of gold. Within a gold border, a black enameled field bears the clasped hands, with a "Psi" above and "Upsilon" below." There is also a ring of roping between the gold border and the field.

When you first receive your badge, you want to wear it all the time. Some brothers have lost theirs due to this desire. While I wanted to wear mine constantly, prudence dictated that I should put it away in my jewelry stash for special events. But still, deep down I wanted some way to show on the outside what I would always be on the inside: a brother of Psi Upsilon.

Finally, this year sealed it. A special Psi U event would fall on the same date as my birthday for the first and perhaps only time. It just felt like the time was right; the tides were low, the moon was full, and the stars had aligned themselves. I wanted our brother badge tattooed on my body, seven inches tall on 'the chick spot': my lower back, where it would be least likely to distort over time.

But how exactly does one go about getting this tattoo thing done? The only two tattoo parlors I had seen before were Gates Tattoo and Jesse James Tattoo, both in Troy, NY, and both looked primordially skanky. If you can't stay sober past noon or at least sweep the sidewalk once in a while, you have no business touching anyone, let alone yourself.

So I set myself to do research. I had previously come upon BME for piercing stretching advice, and had become a member of Crazy Chameleon's Body Art Forums. From these two sources I found what I should be looking for in a tattoo artist and their shop.

I had moved to downtown Albany, NY, to do a pre-law degree at SUNY-Albany. Looking in the Yellow Pages I saw that there were four tattoo studios within walking distance of me. With some addresses half-memorized, I took my iPod and went for a jaunt with a manila folder full of brother badge graphics.

• Lucky Tattoo. Wow. In a drunken fit I once swore that I would never get a tat in a parlor named "Lucky Tattoo". Seemed like bad mojo to me. But I didn't like the looks of the place, so I didn't bother going in. If I don't feel comfortable approaching the place, I certainly won't feel comfortable once I'm inside it.
  
  
• Tom Spaulding Tattoo. There was nothing but flash as far as the eye could see on these walls. It looked mangy, and had exceptionally poor lighting. Cheap flourescents give me insta-headaches. I didn't go into this one, either.
  
  
• Primal Graphics. This was the first shop I went into that had a review on BME. The decor did not scream "just pick some flash and give me $50 already", and showed that the artists wanted to feel comfortable in their office, too. Jack, the tattoo artist there, came out from behind a wrought iron gate separating the lobby from the workspace, looking somewhat sleepy. He looked at the artwork I handed him, rubbed his chin a bit, then announced that he could do it. Jack showed off his portfolio with quiet, groggy pride. He asked me questions, wondering why I wanted to have it done and how long I had been considering it. He quoted me about $200. I thanked him, got a business card, and went on down to
  
  
• Lark St. Tattoo. The studio was clean, and well-lit, and there were several artists hanging out behind the counter. They had a good reputation, and a couple of reviews on BME as well. But the cheery feeling ended there. I was still vaguely in business mode from the morning, wearing a blouse and suit pants and speaking in a more formal manner, and the artist who came up to talk to me treated me as if I were a leper. Upon seeing the artwork I wanted done, he immediately declared it "impossible", and claimed that if it were to work he'd have to redraw large parts of it. He didn't ask any other questions, except being somewhat doubtful that I was in fact a fraternity brother and this wasn't some sort of pra nk. I think he quoted me around $250.

I. Felt. Awful.

It felt as if some vital part of me had just been shat all over. I walked the three blocks home not hearing my headphones. I wasn't sure if Jack at Primal was putting me on about whether he could actually do this, or if I was being realistic at all, or if I really ought to get this done in the first placec at all. Summoning up some courage, I asked the Body Art Forum about their impressions of my experiences. But I'd have plenty of time to consider the question, it turned out; not ten minutes after returning home, my father called. My grandfather had passed that morning. Aside from that being very sad and a loss to humanity and all that, it was a logistical nightmare. I would end up at the Psi U event on Saturday, then immediately flying out on the red-eye Sunday morning to Chicago for thirty hours to bury Grampa, then flying back Monday afternoon to the warm, welcoming embrace of midterms. I did not sleep for a couple of days in there; I kind of lost count.

But this snafu gave me plenty of time sitting in airports thinking about what to do. In the several days that passed, the Body Art Forums members had responded: "Go for the one that you feel you trusted the most"; "Go with the first guy, youve seen his work and he didnt give you any @#%$ talk". My lover suggested that I go with my gut feeling.

As you can see above, I chose Jack at Primal. I liked the vibe off of him, and when he looked at the pic of the brother badge he got the "artists' eye" look. You could watch him visualize putting the piece to canvas; what tools he would need, how he would have to approach it. I dropped by Primal Graphics on Friday the 12th and left him a print-out of the intended artwork. We set an appointment for 4pm the following day, Saturday. He asked for no deposit.

Early Saturday afternoon was spent in a whirlwind of errand-running and getting stuck in the St. Patrick's Day parade. I had my wad of cash, a fresh shower, and a brief agonizingly girly moment of trying to decide what to wear. I chose green BDUs and my WaxTrax! Records shirt and my trusty combat boots to help reassure me. I had asked my lover to come with; we stopped and had burgers first, and picked up a couple of sodas in case we got thirsty in the shop.

Jack was there as promised. He looked infinitely more alert now that he was about to do work, and took me in the back. He declined my offer to remove my shirt for tattooing; instead he simply tucked it in around my bra to keep it out of the way. The badge design had to be stenciled twice, and Jack ended up touching it up with a felt pen. My lover confirmed that it was drawn on straight, and then I sat down into the chair.

"No, it's not like a cat scratch at all," Jack told me while trying to describe the pain. He then offered to do a test run with the tattoo machine using just water to give me a taste of what it would feel like. I agreed.

That needle stung. It stung like a rash. And the vibrations that everyone seems to describe weren't just vibrations. They were thuddy like a rubber whip. It was certainly not the worst pain I have ever felt (that is reserved for when the adrenalin wore off after I destroyed my knee in a snowboarding accident in 1998), and it was bearable, but it sure was unpleasant.

The outline was not that bad. Being able to tell exactly where in the design Jack was outlining was fabulously amusing to me. Only when he started outlining the roping did I realize what I'd really gotten myself into.

We took a break for sodas and a pee run. I came back to see Jack filling up tiny reservoirs with ink. He showed me the shade of gold he wanted to use, and I okayed it. Then the real fun began. Over and over on the same square inch of skin with that buzzing machine. We chatted about recent events; Jack said he thought Howard Stern was leading a fucking revolution, and I agreed.

It was right about then that my endorphins began running out.

I started to feel the needle more and more. It wasn't just a buzzing irritation any more; it was causing outright pain. I gritted my teeth and bore it. When Jack would gently wipe my back down or squirt it with cool cleanser, it was a godsend every time. He kept checking up on me after I fell silent; asking if I was okay, if I wanted a break. We only took one when his ink wells ran out. For a comparison of the monotony of tattooing pain, try listening to a full CD's worth of Good Charlotte or some other pop band. The needle moves further along the groove, but nothing really changes. It's still going, and you're still hurting for the foreseeable future.

And then finally, suddenly, it was over. That final wipedown before the A+D is like jumping through a sprinkler during a heat wave. It's more refreshing and invigorating than any shampoo. Then Jack applied a layer of A+D, and taped it up. He told me to wait a couple hours before removing the bandage, then wash it with soap and water and then put a very light layer of A+D on it. Don't scratch, soak, bang, harass, spindle, fold or manipulate it. Don't roll around in feces. That sort of thing. I shook his hand, paid him $200 plus a $40 tip for his bedside manner and expertise, took a pile of business cards with me to pass out at the Sinn Fein party we were having next week, and then I was off...

..bitching all the way down the street because when I'd put my messenger bag back on I slapped it against the edge of the irritated area. My stupid pride had kept me from making one whine, bitch, or moan in the tattoo studio, but in front of my lover I have no such restraint. My mother taught me how to curse like a sailor and I used every word I knew and made up a couple along the way. When I got home I took my PowerBook to the couch and played NetHack while leaning forward. After about an hour I was about to lounge about more easily on my side. I sent my lover out to get the A+D from Hannaford, and when he returned the next round of bitching ensued.

I am not normally one for washcloths. I have a poofy thing that I use with some Jergens in the shower, and that's pretty much the end of it. But I do still have a couple laying around from college. So, with my provisional blessings, my lover slowly peeled off the bandage (which was soaked with lymph, A+D, a bit of weeped ink, and a couple touches of blood), and promptly instituted a fresh round of loud swearing in the kitchen while the cats looked on in amusement. You see, my set of towels from college also turned out to be some of the roughest terrycloth I had ever encountered. Good for exfoliating, sure, but it felt like this washcloth was exmusculating my back! The best description is that it's like swabbing a gasoline burn with a Brillo pad. My lover ended up bracing me upright so that he could finish the job. I promptly put baby washcloths and baby soap on the shopping list for the next day.

The day afterwards my back was incredibly sore. Not road rash sore, but fell-off-a-third-floor-balcony-onto-a-handrail sore. I walked very slowly that morning. That lessened over the next couple of days, and then The Itch began. When you get The Itch, that's when it feels like a bad sunburn. It takes all of your self-control to not scratch or pick at it. Keeping up with the A+D regularly helped with that a lot. About a week after I had gotten the tattoo done, I switched to Lubriderm lotion because the A+D felt too heavy for the last few flakeys I had left behind.

But now that it's healed up, I can twist around in the mirror and see my new brother badge. It's always with me. I don't feel as self-conscious when I'm naked anymore. It just feels right.

So was it worth the two and a half hours of pain? The research? The money? Hell fucking yeah. And now I'm even considering having more artwork done around it; it looks so lonely! But my brother badge will always be first, and most important, among my ink. I thank Jack, and BME, and my lover for helping to make it happen.