He kept his expression neutral. “Got an idea what you want?”
I shook my head. “Not really. Something that works in three R’s, for you and Ram and Rome. Doesn’t have to big or elaborate. Just three R’s with a cool design or whatever. You’re the artist. Surprise me.”
He had a pad of paper and a mechanical pencil and he leaned over the counter and began sketching. “Sure. I think I can work up something. Give me a minute or two.”
I nodded, and went over to a long narrow table up against one wall, with folders full of photos of previous works done by each of the tattoo artists—work by Remington, Juneau, and the young man who was here, Tomás, and two more, whose names were Rip and Anya. I spent a few minutes perusing the folders, and then Rem called me over.
“So, here’s what I was thinking.” Ram spun the pad around to show me his proposed tattoo.
It was an equilateral triangle with the words “wisdom,” “courage,” and “serenity” in calligraphy inside the triangle; I recognized this design as a fairly common one among recovering alcoholics, and I appreciated what he was doing by incorporating it. Around the outside of the tattoo, on each face of the triangle was a large, stylized R, each one slightly different from the others.
Using the pencil, he tapped the R that matched up to wisdom. “That’s Ram.” He tapped the R that corresponded to serenity; “that’s me,” and finally, the last R, above courage, “and that’s Rome.” He shrugged. “At least, that’s how I envisioned it. Each can mean each of us, or whatever. Meanings are usually more in the eyes of the beholder.”
I let out a breath, looking at it. “Wow. That’s perfect, Rem. I love it.”
He eyed me. “Yeah?” He glanced down at it. “I wasn’t sure if you’d want a sobriety tat, or if it was just a general new phase of life thing.”
“It’s everything, Rem. Sobriety, health…you boys.” I traced the words inside the triangle. “Those are the center points of AA, but I guess the further down this path I go, the more those three ideas, wisdom, courage, and serenity, become important to me beyond just being sober.”
Rem glanced at the back of the room. “We have a private room, if you’d rather go in there than be out here.”
I shook my head. “Nah. Out here is fine. Nothing I have to say can’t be said while you’re inking me.
The man in the chair getting inked by Tomás nodded at me, and lifted his arm; he had a full sleeve, with Tomás working on the other arm. He tapped a spot on his bicep. “That tat, there—the triangle. AA and NA. How long you got?” He was a burly, bearded guy wearing a biker gang cut on a leather vest; he was about twenty years younger than me, but looked like he’d lived just as hard as I had.
“A little over a year,” I said.
He nodded again. “Six years for me. Best thing I ever did. I’d be dead or in jail if I hadn’t gotten clean. Good work, brother.”
“Thanks. You too.”
I sat down in Remington’s chair while he transferred the design to tracing paper, and then moved to sit on his rolling stool.
“So, where you want it?” he asked, holding up the tracing paper. “It’s kinda big. Had to be, to fit the words and the R’s.”
I held out my right bicep. “Here? Nice classic spot.”
Rem nodded. “Easy enough.”
And so, he got to work tracing the design onto my skin in a tattoo artist’s marker, showed it to me for approval, and then began inking it.
I waited a while, until I’d gotten used to the stinging of the needle and the noise of the gun. He was leaning close enough that I wouldn’t have to speak too loudly to be heard over the gun or the music; I waited, too, because it was Rem I was most worried about, in terms of reaction and potential rejection.
After twenty, almost thirty minutes, Remington paused, pulling the gun away and looking at me. “This really about the tat? Or you got something on your mind?”
I sighed. “Obvious, huh?”
“Well, you said it was important.”
“It’s about the tattoo, but there’s other stuff I want to say to you. Things I’ve had on my mind for a while.” I hesitated. “Having you do a tattoo on me, that one in particular, it’s…it means a lot to me, son.”
Remington took his time answering. “I’m glad to see you staying sober.”
“Had doubts it’d stick, huh?”
“Of course I did,” he said with a shrug, wiping ink away. “Who are you sober for?”
I watched him work as I answered. “Myself. Had to be. But it is also because of you three.”
