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Tattoo Tales from Mike Malone |
Whenever tattooers start telling stories about their adventures in the biz, the subject of clients passing out while being tattooed is a common theme. Passing out is not an everyday thing but it does happen. The clients usually work themselves up anticipating the worst and by the time the needle makes its first few lines, they break into a cold sweat. Their color changes from normal to a greenish-white. They will normally deny feeling awful, not wanting to expose their frailty.
At this point, the tattooer should start trying to reverse the situation or he will soon have an unconscious client. If you have room, it's good to lay the client down. If space will not permit, getting the head between the knees will have the same affect. Getting blood to the head is the point; color soon returns, and they start feeling better. Or not. In extreme cases, the client goes all the way out.
1. Most important, don't let them bang their melon on the way down.
2. Be ready for all sorts of unpleasantness. Loss of bladder and bowel control is not uncommon, and pee-pee and poo-poo both can happen. I've seen hundreds of people sit through a tattoo in wet pants and worse, in a very few cases.
3. Have a vessel of some kind ready as vomiting is a normal part of this festival of body fluids. Ignore this rule and you may wear your client's lunch. In thirty-odd years of tattooing, I've never been vomited upon (thank you, Jesus!). I did have my foot peed on while in sandals but that's another tale.
4. Be ready for anything. Very often a person who has fainted will come up fighting. I've been punched and elbowed plenty. I'm ashamed to admit that once while trying to keep a sailor from banging his head on the way down, I took several hard shots to the face and body. Finally, I blew it and when I was sure no one was looking, I gave the semiconscious trasher a solid left to the ribs.
This pass-out story took place in San Diego, 1972. I had been tattooing in New York City until Ed Hardy came for a visit. Ed and I had met only once before that but had been writing and calling each other a lot. Even then, Ed was a powerful, creative young tattooer so when he offered me a job with him in San Diego, I didn't have think twice about it. I gave up my apartment and headed for the West Coast.
Ed had been working with another powerhouse young tattooer, Zeke Owens, but a fight of some kind sent Zeke packing. I found in a few short months that Ed was near impossible to work with. His intense approach to tattooing was hard to live with and I decided to move on. Zeke heard about the breakup and put out the word he wanted to see me.
Zeke had been less than friendly to me while I was working for Ed so I was surprised he wanted to see me. He told me that my work was kindergarten quality but if I was willing to improve, he would let me work with him at Ace Tattoo Co. I jumped at the chance to work with Zeke. He was, hands down, the best shop tattooer I'd ever seen, in many ways better than Sailor Jerry himself. So began one of the happiest years in my career.
The tiny shop was tucked in the back of a pinball arcade at the corner of State and Broadway in San Diego. It had belonged to an old-time lady tattooer, Painless Nell. Nell had shared the tiny shop with her one legged sister Ruth, until her death a few years before. They must have been some team. the two old gals had tattooed for years in the back of the huge arcade. I tattooed there a little less than a year and the noise nearly drove me over the edge. tattooing ten or twelve hours a day with a dozen or so old time pin ball machines going full tilt, got old quick, lucky I was still romantic about tattooing and would have put up just about anything.
Zeke and I became friends. I found him to be great guy and a generous teacher - I learned a lot from him. Zeke was also a gambler and enjoyed the races in Mexico, both dogs and horses. I was left alone a lot to care for Ace Tattoo myself.
One afternoon, four young black sailors walked in the shop. They were in street clothes though most sailors came to town in uniform. Sailors were not allowed to leave the base in street clothes. If they wanted to wear street clothes, they had to rent a locker off base and keep their civvies there. They would change at the locker club and hit the streets. These guys were all dressed sharp, but the self-appointed leader of the group was dressed to kill. He wore a pair of yellow slacks and a yellow-and-green plaid coat; the outfit was topped off with a yellow stingy brim hat with a green band.
He was by far the most outspoken of the group. He was a head shorter than me but marched right up in my face and said "Say, my man. How much to write 'The Mighty Hawk' upon my arm?" He copped a foppish stance as he spoke to me and I nearly laughed in his face. He clearly amused his pals with his outlandish behavior.
I quoted him a price and of course he let me know I must be insane. No, I'm just real good, I lied. His friends assured him that my price was the going rate and after a lot of fuss and posing, we struck a deal. I got him in the chair and he warned if I got any ink on his "fit" (outfit) there would be hell to pay. I gave him the sure, yeah-yeah routine and we went to work drawing the letters on his arm.
Of course, I had to change them three or four times until he and his boys all agreed that it looked "bad." I started to work and from jump, he started complaining. I was hurting him, he griped, and asked if I knew what I was doing. One of his boys who had been tattooed before assured him it was normal for it to hurt. He sat and ground his teeth while I traced the first three letters, then it started. His skin went cold and he turned from a medium chocolate color to a military olive drab tone. I asked him if he felt okay.
"I'm okay, just fine, don't worry 'bout me, it's cool," he assured me so instead of stopping, I kept tattooing. Sweat started rolling down his face and he started to yawn. His pals were getting worried at the changes in their fearless leader. He told them he was cool too and then slowly slipped into unconsciousness. He was out like a light.
I got hold of him and lowered him to the floor and started to splash his face with cold water when the idea struck. As I tried to bring him back to the world, my mantra became, "Are you okay, Mighty Hawk.? Can you hear me, Mighty Hawk? Mighty Hawk, do you feel like throwing up? Just relax, Mighty Hawk.."
Once his pals were sure he wasn't in any real danger and had only fainted from fear of this unknown tattooprocess, they joined in the fun. For the next half hour, his friends and I Mighty Hawked him no end. By the time I finished, I believe he was wishing he'd never named himself the Mighty Hawk. I bandaged up his new tattoo and thanked the Mighty Hawk for his business.
The sailors left the shop and turned toward State Street, I heard one say "Man, it looks like the Mighty Hawk fell right outta the sky." As they walked out of sight, we enjoyed a last laugh.
I wonder if he ever grew into the name.
The End.
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