|
|
 |
Tattoo Tales from Mike Malone |
In 1982, Kandi Everett and I were tattooing in the new China Sea shop. We had moved from the original location to a roomier spot across the street.
One afternoon, I was in the shop with Kandi when the phone rang. The voice at the other end was a woman who was not at all comfortable speaking English - living in the islands, you get use to hearing Asians wrestling with English and by her accent I was sure she was Japanese. She asked to speak to "Mr. Malonely," an interesting take on my name I'd never thought of before.
"I'm Mr. Malonely," I told her. She said that she and her husband had just come from San Francisco where they had been visiting with my pal Ed Hardy. Mr. Hardy had given them my number and told them to be sure to visit me while in the islands. I was sure that they were traveling Yakuza passing through and wanting to see my shop or perhaps he was a Japanese tattooer, but she made no mention of tattoos at all, just that they would like to visit my studio.
 A couple of hours later, into our shop came a most unusual trio - surely they were from Japan. The woman and one of the men were well into their fifties maybe sixties, and the third man was about thirty. The woman was by far the most unusual of the three, dressed in a black dress that was the style when I was a kid. She wore a white hat from the same era, sort of a pillbox affair, and was very thin. Her hair was dyed jet black and her skin was white, as if she had never been in the sun, but her eyes were the stopper. She had large black eyes, her eyelids top and bottom were either made up to be very dark or were that way na urally. Vampire, I thought instantly. She was the only one of them who spoke any English.
She introduced the older man as her husband, Dr. Fakushi. The good doctor was shorter than his willowy wife and dressed in a suit that was from the same era as his wife's outfit. He was a chubby little man who bowed and shook my hand. The third man turned out to be their son. He was a younger version of his dad, dressed in slacks a nondescript shirt and a green ball
cap. The son was very quiet, wore thick glasses, and gave the impression of not being all there, perhaps even mildly retarded. At least, these were my impressions.
Mrs. Fakushi told me that Mr. Hardy wanted me to have some photos she had in her purse. Once I got a look at the photos, it all fell into place. In one of the very first photos, Dr. Fakushi and my pal Ed standing in front of a big stainless steel tray. Both of them were holding up these thick grey-looking blankets with Japanese tattoo designs. I realized they were human skins. I nearly went into a swoon.
There was Hardy with his eyes a little crossed, a move he did when trying to look nuts. His eyes are naturally set a little too close together and when he crosses them just a tiny bit, his alter ego the rat was reveled. I could tell he was about to break into peals of laughter when the photo was taken, thinking of how I'd be blown away when I saw the shot of him and the mad doctor each holding up a huge hunk of wet yakuza hide.
Hardy is one of the most premeditated jokesters I've ever met; he has no equal. On one of his trips to Japan, Hardy had chased down a famous tattoo story. It seems that Dr. Fakushi's dad was a pathologist in a medical school in Tokyo and had started the collection of tattooed skins. Now his son had not only filled his dad's shoes at the medical school but had continued to add to his dad's strange collection. Hardy had run him down and got to visit the collection.
Maybe "visit" isn't the right word. He actually got to put on the white lab coat and the rubber gloves just like the good doctor and handle some of the pelts waiting to be preserved by the tanning process. In the wet state, they were much thicker than one would imagine. Hardy said they were heavy, like big wet sweaters.
The Fakushi family visited for about an hour. Mrs. Fakushi took many photos like any good Japanese tourist. Before they left, the doctor talked to his wife in Japanese about something that seemed to be urgent. Mrs Fakushi asked me if the doctor could see the back piece Ed had told him about, moretrickery from Mr. Rat.
Some years before that Hardy had put a huge black carp on my back. We had planned the piece so the fish would be of unequaled proportion, and it was a giant. When I pulled off my shirt, Fakushi laughed clapped his hands together, and began to carry on in Japanese. His wife told me how impressed he was with the size of it. She asked if it would be okay if he touched it. Why not, I agreed. As he gently ran his hand over my back he spoke to her almost in a whisper.
What did he say, I asked her. He likes it very much and he likes how white your skin is. She replied. Suddenly, I realized he was sizing me up for his collection.
I told Mrs. Fakushi to listen closely and tell the doctor exactly what I say: If anyone takes my tattoos off me when I die, they would have my obake (Japanese for ghost) to deal with. I want my tattoos to go with me when I go to the western paradise.
There was some nervous laughter when she told the doctor my promise. When I got them a cab and bid them goodbye, it was a genuine relief to see them go.
(To hear Hardy's side of this tale, see the "Pranks" issue of ReSearch Magazine)
|
|
|
|
