It's NOT Jake....And He's NOT From State Farm
Last night, I had another one of the amazing adventures the likes of which only I, Molly Bee, can get herself into. I have a couple of spots on the tattoo that I got in November that I would like touched up, so I called the place where I had it done and asked for my Tattoo Guy, Jake. The reception lady said that Jake had moved to another parlor, was kind enough to tell me where, and said that I should contact him there. I called the new place and they told me to just stop by and Jake would take a look, so off I went.
As I got closer to where Google Maps said the place was, I noticed that I was not in Kansas anymore. The neighborhood got dodgier and dogier until I arrived at a sketchy-looking bldg with even sketchier looking clientele loitering around outside. It was getting dark and raining a pour which didn't help the ambiance a bit. But I parked the car and took a deep breath. I tried to remember how well it went with the 'gangstahs' I met in Target a few weeks back. Don't judge a book and all that, so I set out for the shop.
You know in the Westerns when the stranger comes to town, goes through the swinging saloon door and everyone in the place spins around, pistols drawn and it's so quiet you can hear a pin drop? Yeah. It was like that. I thought, "So this is how it ends. I did not see that coming!" What if making friends with 'gangstahs' only works if I'm on MY home turf (Target). The place was packed wall-to-wall with patrons. I was the only one not wearing a Harley t-shirt or leather. And I don't have even one facial piercing. Talk about feeling like I had brought along an overcooked linguine noodle to a gun fight!
After a couple of tense moments, the natives went back to playing poker, wooing Miss Kitty, and drinking sarsaparilla, and I asked the nearest guy to me for Jake. Jake came out to talk to me and I realized that I had never seen this giant man before in my life! He looked equally puzzled to see me! After I few minutes of discussion we discovered that the man who did my tattoo was JACK. (I knew I shouldn't have tossed that business card!) but JAKE couldn't have been sweeter and we discussed what I wanted done and he gave me advice and told me to call Jack, who still works in the posh, sterile, hygienic parlor that I called in the first place. A couple of the other artists, chimed in and I realized that I had broken my own rule, I had judged on looks. These rough-looking, pierced, tattooed guys were polite, articulate, friendly, helpful and very good at their jobs. I looked at some of their work and each one was an amazingly skilled artist.
I thanked them for their help and got back to my car safely. (I still drove home feeling like I'd barely made it out with my life, more because of the neighborhood than anything else, but that was unfounded because there was a STRONG police presence everywhere. ) I laughed to myself when I thought about what it must have looked like from their point of view, when Miss Prim and Proper with her little, pink, wrist tattoo came timidly through the door. Probably one of them is writing a blog post about it right now!
As I got closer to where Google Maps said the place was, I noticed that I was not in Kansas anymore. The neighborhood got dodgier and dogier until I arrived at a sketchy-looking bldg with even sketchier looking clientele loitering around outside. It was getting dark and raining a pour which didn't help the ambiance a bit. But I parked the car and took a deep breath. I tried to remember how well it went with the 'gangstahs' I met in Target a few weeks back. Don't judge a book and all that, so I set out for the shop.
You know in the Westerns when the stranger comes to town, goes through the swinging saloon door and everyone in the place spins around, pistols drawn and it's so quiet you can hear a pin drop? Yeah. It was like that. I thought, "So this is how it ends. I did not see that coming!" What if making friends with 'gangstahs' only works if I'm on MY home turf (Target). The place was packed wall-to-wall with patrons. I was the only one not wearing a Harley t-shirt or leather. And I don't have even one facial piercing. Talk about feeling like I had brought along an overcooked linguine noodle to a gun fight!
After a couple of tense moments, the natives went back to playing poker, wooing Miss Kitty, and drinking sarsaparilla, and I asked the nearest guy to me for Jake. Jake came out to talk to me and I realized that I had never seen this giant man before in my life! He looked equally puzzled to see me! After I few minutes of discussion we discovered that the man who did my tattoo was JACK. (I knew I shouldn't have tossed that business card!) but JAKE couldn't have been sweeter and we discussed what I wanted done and he gave me advice and told me to call Jack, who still works in the posh, sterile, hygienic parlor that I called in the first place. A couple of the other artists, chimed in and I realized that I had broken my own rule, I had judged on looks. These rough-looking, pierced, tattooed guys were polite, articulate, friendly, helpful and very good at their jobs. I looked at some of their work and each one was an amazingly skilled artist.
I thanked them for their help and got back to my car safely. (I still drove home feeling like I'd barely made it out with my life, more because of the neighborhood than anything else, but that was unfounded because there was a STRONG police presence everywhere. ) I laughed to myself when I thought about what it must have looked like from their point of view, when Miss Prim and Proper with her little, pink, wrist tattoo came timidly through the door. Probably one of them is writing a blog post about it right now!
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