In my day (I can’t believe those words escaped my lips) tattoos were a sure sign that a woman had sold her soul and was going to hell in a handbasket. But there came a time in November, 1980, when my first tattoo was the only thing that actually kept me from going to hell. I had just taken a position as director of the Department of Pastoral Care in a Catholic hospital that was owned by the very sisters I was expected to supervise. In short, the situation was painfully untenable.
One November night, I drove home in the dark wearily wondering how long it would be before I stopped counting the days I survived. I passed a shopping mall, and impulsively turned into a craft store, where I purchased a hooked rug kit to occupy my lonely spinster hours on cold winter evenings. The next morning, I rose before dawn, climbed into my Saturday uniform of coveralls and a T-shirt, grabbed the Columbus, Ohio, phonebook and headed for the car. I, who rarely did anything impulsively, sped to the first listing for tattoo parlors. There it was, in the center of an area where urban decay had already unraveled what had once been stately mansions, and was now weed and trash strewn vacant lots. The tattoo “parlor,” was a decrepit manor straight out of a Charles Addams cartoon. Undeterred, I pushed my way through the wrought iron fence and sailed up the steps.
There my courage flagged. The dim narrow hallway walls inside were covered with pictures of available designs and the price of each. I must have been standing with my mouth agape when the door again opened and admitted two very lovely statuesque women and their pimp. He made arrangements to pay for their tattoos and then left.
The two women turned to me. “Is this your first tattoo, “one asked. “Yes,” I meekly squeaked. “Then we will help you,” the other woman said. “Would you like to see mine,” she added, as she unbuttoned her silk blouse to reveal a magnificent American beauty rose extending from her collarbone to her opposite hipbone. I managed to stammer that it was a glorious tattoo, but that I had decided on the only one I could afford, a tiny $25 butterfly. It wasn’t that I had a theological fetish for butterflies. My stairway to hell had a $25 limit.
“Next,” called the tattoo artist from behind the curtain just off the hallway. “It’s your turn,” said the two angels. “You’ll see; it will be fine.” I entered the cubicle, a tiny room with a dental chair, a tray with the tattoo tools, and a stool. The artist introduced himself, then gestured to the chair where I was to recline. I realized suddenly that the process would entail unbuckling my bib overalls and lifting my shirt. As I did so, my gaze rose to the wall inches in front of me. The artist had painted all 4 walls as well as the floor and ceiling with a huge Golgotha: Jesus gazed reproachfully at me from the cross, his blood pouring down the wall and covering the floor. I was sure then that that I was going to hell, but I was going with a $25 butterfly on my breast, so help me God.
Undeterred, I thought conversation would distract us both. “You certainly are an artist,” I whispered. “Well, I believe the Lord guides my hand,” the tattooist declared as he worked. “And what do you do,” he asked. What was I to say? “I’m a hospital chaplain”? Nope. That would have led to a conversation I wasn’t ready for. Again, for once in my life, I took the safe way out: “I believe the Lord guides my hand, too,” I announced. And I have never looked back with regret.