It was a typical Friday, or was it Saturday, evening in a tattoo shop of the late 90’s / early 2000’s. Loud music, cigarette haze, and more people than you think you can deal with milling about hoping to get into one of the artists chairs before we closed.

I had been apprenticing for close to a year, with the last 3 months of full tilt “I’m going to get good at tattooing” mindset. Multiple days a week I was in the shop cleaning, watching the artists work, bringing in drawings to be evaluated, and finding friend or family to “practice” on. Every Sunday consisted of making needles for the shop, and every Monday morning was spent scrubbing tubes. All while working as a gas station attendant and a barista (even though that word didn’t have wide spread adoption yet due to the fact that Starbucks had yet to become the ubiquitous caffeine juggernaut). In short, I was living that apprentice life, it was exhausting, frustrating, and extremely rewarding.

This particular Friday, or Saturday, was St Patrick’s Day weekend. Which meant more than a few individuals celebrating their Irish heritage. In shop terms that meant helping those a bit too celebratory to find the door, and others find the sheets of Irish Flash.

For those unfamiliar with Tattoo Shops of a bygone era, Friday and Saturday meant you walked-in (thus the term “walk-in”) perused the Flash displayed on the walls or racks, choose your design, and waited for your name to be called and then ushered into the back where the magic was happening.

Working at a shop in that time, especially as the apprentice, meant making stencils, ensuring they were attached to the correct release form, keeping them in order, tearing down stations then setting them back up while the tattooers tattooed and took smoke breaks.

A soundtrack of Pantera, Slayer, Megadeth, and House of Pain (it was St Patty’s Day after all) is vibrating the walls, everyone is a buzz, and I’m hurrying about taking care of the tattooers and clients alike.

The shop owner, Ron, generally worked by appointment only but would occasionally take a walk-in when the shop was being overrun. As I’m tearing down his last appointment for the day he comes into his room (we had private stations, aka we were “new school”) and tells me to set up for an ankle. “K”, I respond, “didn’t know you were taking any of the walk-ins” as he leaves his doorway.

I get his station set up; worktop and bench covered, bottles bagged, clipchord wrapped and hanging just right, big glob of vaseline, machines set to the side, gloves and paper towels stocked. Check, check, check, and check. Time to go find which walk-in he’s doing.

He walks back into his room with a clipboard in hand, it is holding a release form and stencil. It’s a shamrock, maybe the size of quarter, Classic 90’s flash, simple and clean. He looks at me as he says:

“This is going on her ankle, don’t fuck it up”.

Wait What?

Obviously I have a completely perplexed look on my face, thankfully he let me know where I stood in this situation.

“You can do this, right? It’s going on the ankle so make sure to not tear her up.”

Stammering “Yeah, I got it”

“Cool, don’t fuck up, have Brian look at it when you’re done”

And with that I was about to do my first “professional” tattoo. I use the word professional even though I had completed much larger pieces on friends. Even though I had finished dozens of tattoos by this time. Even though this would be the simplest tattoo I had to do in the last month.

But this was the first tattoo I would ever make on a complete stranger, who was then going to pay me the going rate, probably $50-60, for doing it. The first tattoo on a crowded Friday, or was it Saturday, when the shop was a buzz, literally buzzing with coil machines running full tilt, people conversing, and music blaring in the air.

I’d like to say I knocked it out of the park, had her in and out of the chair in under 20 minutes grinning with her new tattoo.

The reality is it took me over 45min just to due the tattoo, and that was after screwing up the stencil twice, because I was so nervous.

I’d like to say afterward, when the shop closed the guys took me out for a celebratory beer and it was smooth sailing for years to come.

The reality is I have zero recollection of what happened afterward. I remember Brian telling me it “looks good” but nothing beyond that. No celebration, just another Friday, or was it Saturday, night closing shop.

I occasional wonder if that young lady got any more tattoos, or if I was so heavy handed she swore she’d never due that again. I occasionally try to remember what I tattooed after that, what the next step in my professional tattooing career was. And I can’t, probably getting business cards made after scrubbing the floor, again.

All I know is that little tattoo was the beginning.