Chapter Three - The First Year and a Few Travels

 

Chapter Three – The First Year, and a Few Travels

 

            We entered into our first full year in the new shop in Welland. As the business slowly gained more and more customers and reputation, I also grew as an artist and as a person. I began to become quite philosophical with my new passion for tattooing, and almost every minute of every day was somehow consumed with a desire to grow and make progress. I didn’t simply grow as a new tattooist, I matured from an older teen to a young man. I graduated from simple and typical tattoo designs to some more and larger elaborate pieces, though I was certainly far from mastering the skill. I had much work to do, but had accomplished much in a fairly short time. There was much for me to learn, and I was willing to be taught. Cheech took me under his tutelage, and I strived not to disappoint.

            Day-to-day operations and chores were left to me, as I proved myself responsible very early. As well, being one of the only other artists in the shop, and with Cheech’s day job and home life taking much of his time, the decision to make me responsible for many tasks was eventual. I also took a genuine interest in the daily operations, as I seen them as my duty and an opportunity to learn as much about the industry as I could. The various tasks were the basis for a routine and ethic I maintain to this day about tattoo shops and their operation. This learning curve I was on was beginning to sharply ascend.

This was not to say that this year would be without its glorious feats. We had been fortunate enough to attend a few smaller tattoo conventions and expositions, as well as manage to work at a couple too. This was where my love for tattooing on the road had its seeds planted, and I would not be able to relive such memories until many years later. We had found ourselves attending events in Guelph and St. Catharines, Ontario, and a major show in Toronto as well, which we would end up working at as well a year later. But the culmination of these events would occur when we attended a convention in Philadelphia.

            Philadelphia is a misnomer, as the actual event was held not far from the City of Brotherly love, but in Cherry Hill, New Jersey. This was the first time I have travelled outside of Canada as an adult, having done so numerous times with my family as a child. A short flight from Buffalo brought us to the convention, and it would be an eye-opening experience for me. Never before had I seen such a wide assortment of people, all shapes, all sizes, from all over, but all with one thing in common: a love for tattoos. I spent much of the weekend hanging about the hotel, spending most of my time receiving insight from two tattooists I had befriended from the Bronx, as well as causing general tomfoolery cruising the lobby bar and hallways. To be around so many people with so many different personalities, yet still the same common love for ink, was uplifting and inspiring.

            We spent much of the weekend browsing the booths and collecting business cards from hundreds of tattoo shops around the US and Canada, as well as the rest of the world. A thousand accents and a million faces did I meet, all with the common denominator being our passion for tattoos. I had never been amongst such a large collection of interesting people in my life beforehand. Bikers, punk rockers, new-school greasers, old-school hippies, heavy metal rockers, body-pierced shockers, even regular people, had congregated on this posh hotel, and the staff and management had no idea how to deal with the latest guests. Stories circulated about how a waiter had been rude to one of the convention’s guests, and this had caused almost every participant and attendee of the event to boycott the restaurant located in the hotel lobby. The bar staff had been wiser to treat the latest guests with much respect and top-notch service, and they had surely profited from the tattooists and tattooed alike, as the lounge was packed the entire weekend from open to close. One story circulated about how two chambermaids had entered a hotel room, thinking it was unoccupied, and found the guests still in the room. They were apparently very large bikers, and this had intimidated the two maids, offering profuse apologies at the disturbance. As they were leaving, one of the bikers noticed that one of the maids had a small tattoo located near her ankle, and, after remarking on her tattoo, presented her with a $50 tip. Afterwards, I am sure many of the hotel’s staff learned to no longer judge a book by its cover, though I am also sure that the hotel will probably never host a tattoo convention again. Though no major incidents had occurred between the tattooed and the regular guests, as this was a rather nice hotel, management was ill-prepared with how to react with this apparent mob of tattooed freaks.

The weekend was otherwise fairly routine, except for a fire alarm on the second night’s stay that had sounded bringing a fleet of fire trucks, as well as a small army of policemen. I assume the show of force was due to the fact that a tattoo convention was being held in a nice hotel. Surely some tattooed ruffian had pulled a fire alarm and caused this disturbance, or, if there actually was a fire, the police would be there to prevent any looting caused by some marked miscreant during any confusion. In fact, I found out later, the fire alarm was tripped by a broken water pipe on a floor not occupied by any guests of the tattoo convention. After our flight home (as we chose to fly from the Buffalo, New York, airport as it was closer to our hometown), we also were searched at the border by customs officials. Upon re-entry into Canada, and proclaiming our citizenship, we had been asked the purpose of our visit to the U.S. When we replied we had been at a tattoo convention, both our luggage and persons were thoroughly searched. Events such as these only illustrated to me the prejudice one might receive because his skin is tattooed or pierced. It was not the first time I had encountered this, and I am sure it will not be the last.

            Our next major excursion brought us to the city of Toronto a few months later, only a couple hours jaunt across Lake Ontario. I’ve always enjoyed this city, its vibrancy surpassed by no other cities I had seen in Eastern Canada. One million neighbourhoods jammed together in an endless splay of neighbourhoods that remain changeless for years. We planned to spend the entire weekend in Toronto, as we had obtained a booth at the convention and were pleased to be participating. This was the second annual event, and we only foreseen good times and camaraderie amongst our new brothers and sisters. We were fortunate enough to get to see and become exposed to many different artists and shops not only from Ontario, but from many other countries as well. The celebrities of the event that year were two burly and heavily body-pierced Austrian gentleman, as well as two very lovely latex-wrapped waitresses who were employed for the weekend of the event. They were affectionately known as the Rubbermaids.

            This weekend was a great weekend for myself: I not only got to attend an international event, but was able to participate and tattoo at such a convention. Not even two years beforehand, I had not even thought of even handling a tattoo machine, and here I was, a new kid amongst elder peers doing his best to represent. I could only see forward, and dreamed of a life devoted to the pursuit of art through a medium that could literally last a lifetime.

            More than anything, the most I remember about this trip was one of our last evenings during the convention in Toronto. Myself and Cheech had decided to share a few drinks in our room after the day’s show, and relax and enjoy this evening before heading home in the morning. A long heart-to-heart talk ensued that led to an alcohol-fuelled discussion about the shop. Cheech admitted his pride in my work and how far I had advanced myself in such a short time, as well as his dreams for the future and where he seen me in it. But, he also cautioned me on where I could improve, then ending the pep talk with claiming that he felt that perhaps I could be a better artist than him in time. I should also make you aware that Cheech was not a drinker, as he had been banned from alcohol by his wife for his behaviour while under the influence. He appeared a lot rougher and slightly meaner while drinking, and I sensed a slight amount of intimidation in his voice, even though he praised my efforts and work. This was not a side of him I had seen before, and it made me anxious, though I felt pride that he acknowledged my efforts.

            The first summer had come to an end. We had a year in Welland under our belts, and things were good. I had gained popularity, was doing something I was passionate about. I was learning more, doing more, and earning my worth at the shop through responsible efforts. I was growing, and could only grow more, knowing that the only limitations that were before me were my own, and that I alone could surpass them. To surpass them would only mean more concentrated effort on my part, which I was more than eager to do. More importantly, I was filled with a sense of zeal and wonder. The world was open to me, my path in life was clear. The road ahead looked good, but tiny cracks began to splinter beneath my fast-moving wheels.