Back in 2007, shortly after I'd celebrated my five-years-cancer-free anniversary, I got my first tattoo. I anguished for months over the design, and finally decided on a simple black tribal design consisting of two geckos head to tail, curving around a roman numeral 5. The design was perfect. The execution was a disaster. The artist I'd chosen in Phoenix decided to "improve" the design—without asking, and as he was in the process of inking me—by adding shadows and highlights. By the time I realized what he was doing it was too late, and my perfect design was ruined. (If it sounds like I'm still bitter after all this time, it's because I am.)
There wasn't much that could be done about the abomination that now resided on my left bicep, but I swore that from that point forward the only person who would ever ink me again was Erik Rubright. How or when this would happen had always been a question since we lived about a thousand miles apart, but if it was meant to be, somehow, somewhere it would happen. And if it didn't and it meant I would never get another tattoo as long as I lived, so be it. It was better to live with that than risk ending up with another indelible piece of crap as a permanent part of my body.
Ben and I had the pleasure of meeting Erik and his partner, Robert, in person about nine months ago, and it cemented in my mind the fact that no one would put ink to my skin again unless it was Erik.
As my ten year anniversary began to loom large, I started thinking about what I wanted to do to mark its passing. Five years ago—prior to actually getting that rotten ink—I had anticipated adding to the original piece as the years ticked by, but now that I was approaching that ten-year mark, it no longer appealed to me. On the other hand, I couldn't come up with any viable alternatives either—or at least nothing that appealed to me to such a degree that I would want to make it permanent.
Shortly after Erik and Robert were in Denver I ran across a piece of Doctor Who art that really spoke to me. It was an almost cartoonish picture of the Tenth Doctor (David Tenant) standing in front of a semi-stylized Tardis against a pale blue, star-studded background. It was the tenth doctor. It was my tenth anniversary. I'd found my next tattoo! I sent it to Erik and asked if he'd be able to do it. He responded that he could, and that he would file it away for such time that he would be able to personally apply it.
This has been percolating at the back of my mind for some time now, and when Ben and I started discussing possible vacation plans this year, a trip to Erik's studio in Arkansas naturally came up. I ran the idea past John, an internet friend I've known for close to a decade but had never met—asking if he would be willing to join us in Bentonville. He jumped at the idea.
So last Sunday, John hopped on a plane heading south; Ben and I loaded up his new Kia, and headed east…
(to be continued)
🙂