Chapter Four � A Sudden Halt

 

I spent over a year and a half in the Welland shop, tattooing clients and making the endless rounds of parties and events, and thoroughly enjoying myself. I was a man-about-town, and enjoying the notoriety I had achieved. Things on the road of life were going smoothly along, with neither a bump nor jam to impede my path. But, cracks began to appear in the roadway, and they turned into a pothole which sent me into a ditch.

            The cracks began appearing not long after our first year in town. The thrill of renovation and relocation had long faded, and we had begun to settle in. The endless social gatherings I would attend had begun to tire me, and weigh heavily on my persona. I was no longer so eager to engage with everyone I encountered about my tattooing, as most that met me did so with the precognition of my job and were anxious to seek me out first. Often this would occur at times when I had least wanted to talk about work, as I was either too occupied, or too inebriated, to want to continually discuss tattoos. I could no longer go to any event or place in public without being recognized as “the guy that does tattoos”. I would immediately be bombarded with questions as to how much, how big, what it would take to cover something, what I thought about an idea, if I’d like to draw up a design for them to check out, as if they were doing me a favour. It is not as though I did not appreciate the attention by any means, but I grew tired of the same conversations over and over again, no matter how politely I would attempt to exit these conversations. I found myself no longer enjoying going out and socializing, and began to withdraw into strip clubs so as to avoid conversations with most and enjoy my time with little bother from others (as well as to enjoy the sight of naked women). This would eventually lead me into trouble.

            Cheech had also begun to change. More often, I began to see shades of the demeanour I seen that night in Toronto. This difference was that this time, it was not as aggressive, nor alcohol-fuelled. I began to hear tales from him about his dissatisfaction of his daily workplace at the mechanic’s garage. As well, I suspected that things were also getting under his skin at home, and, with the added pressure of trying to find what spare time he could at the tattoo shop, I also assumed the strain began to wear heavily on him. This began to affect our working relationship in ways that would eventually unfold, and not in the best of scenarios.

            I started get sick the whole scene, and my passion for tattooing, though still apparent, started to diminish. Going to studio, I felt at times like I was walking on eggshells. Outside of the shop, I was still being bombarded with inquiries about tattoos. I retreated into endless nights of bars and strip clubs, until eventually I was offered an opportunity I would not have imagined. I was given a job as a DJ in one of these clubs.

            This would lead to many new adventures in my life that I am afraid I cannot go into here. The many escapades I would have over the next couple years employed at the club have no place in this story, and, perhaps, I might get into them at another time. For now, I will concentrate on the few details I feel are necessary for this story, but mention that this would result in a turning point in my life, and for the worse.

            I began to spend more and more time at the bar, as we had also begun to enter a slower period for business at the tattoo shop. Cheech became more and more unsettled. I began to enter into a period of life where everything revolved around one of these two places, and I no longer went out to socialize outside of work. My days began at noon, and ended well into the late night-early morning hours. Home was where I went to shower and sleep. Everyone knew me or of me, yet few rarely seen me anymore.

            As if things couldn’t become any worse, the hammer fell on Cheech: his wife had come home one day, according to his story, and simply stated that she no longer wished to be married to him. Just like that. I am sure there is more to the story than he would let on, but this caused us both worry. He was afraid that perhaps his wife would sue for divorce and then attempt to take his shop from him. This would lead to a sense of desperation at the shop, one that I would attempt to quell, foolishly, every night at the bar with alcohol and hard drugs. Cheech, now free of his wife’s rein, also began to drink, and as I have witnessed before, I knew that an unfriendly side of him would become more apparent. I was no longer into the passion of tattooing as I had once been, and neither was Cheech.

            Soon, I would get the call that, in retrospect, I knew would come. I got a phone call from Cheech one day gruffly informing (to put it politely) me that I was no longer welcome at the shop. He felt that I was spending too much time at the bar, which I was, and under the influence of too many things, and that it had affected my abilities and dedication to the shop. Coupled with his own problems, the decision for him to let me go was not unfounded nor did I complain very much. I showed up at the shop with a co-worker from the bar and his truck, and promptly packed up what belongings I had there and carted them away. I had my job at the bar anyhow, and had become very tired of tattooing and what I had felt were its detrimental effects on my social life. Me and Cheech parted ways, I had packed my tattoo machine and other mementos of the shop away, and thought I was done. The road had come to an end and I had hit the ditch, though I wouldn’t realize it until much later.