Carlson uses a razor to shave the area where the tattoo will go and then squirts an antibacterial, yellowish liquid on Morton's arm.
Carlson wets the backside of the drawing then places it against Morton’s skin, and the outline of the tattoo appears on his right arm. Morton closes his eyes and leans his head back as Carlson begins his work.
Photo by Tania Betancourt
"Damn," Morton says. "That
looks bad-ass."
Morton clenches his teeth and widens his eyes as the sound of a dentist’s drill fills the room. Lori periodically glances at her watch, and during the times when Morton opens his eyes, she gives him a calm smile. Then she whispers so he can’t hear, “It’s all pride. If no one else was in here, he would definitely be crying right now.”
An hour passes, and Carlson has switched to colored ink. This means each contact made with Morton's skin is from a group of tiny needles rather than the one needle used for black ink.
“My arm is almost numb now. I can’t even feel the needles anymore,” Morton says. “Oh wait, never mind…now I can.”
“You need to sit still or this eagle is going to look like a chicken,” Carlson jokes, without laughing.
Carlson has his pattern of coloring in the outline and then blotting Morton’s arm with a paper towel down to an art. Tiny dabs of blood and colored ink are spread on the pile of paper towels in a nearby trashcan marked “hazardous.”
When it was time to add the red ink, Morton’s eyes widen as he looks at the tattoo, seeming to contemplate whether or not his arm is covered in blood.
A half hour later, the pain which Morton kept referring to as a bad sunburn is over, and Morton looks up at Carlson who is removing his gloves and washing his hands.
“Alright, man,” Carlson says. “Take a look.”
Morton slowly stands up and holds his arm in front of the long mirror to his right.
“Damn,” he says. “That looks bad-ass.”
He flexes his muscle and flashes himself a satisfied grin in the mirror.
Carlson begins to bandage up Morton’s arm as he explains to him another set of rules.
“Do not, under any circumstances, take off this bandage until tomorrow morning. I promise you it will still be there when you wake up.”
The two shake hands, each looking pleased with the new addition to Morton's arm. “Take it easy, man,” Carlson says as Morton hands him a tip.
A confident Morton walks back through the art gallery, passes the walls of ink and strolls by the black leather couches to the front door. He looks happy with his decision and says he is eager to call his dad. Making his way down the sidewalk, Morton seems to stands a little taller.