Humor

In Your Ear — Rob’s Tattoo Parlor

By Tom Hoerr

Summer 2003

Historical Summer 2003 article. Dates, prices, services and contacts describe the source period; current availability has not been established.

There I was, sitting in “Rob’s Tattoo Parlor” in South Beach, Florida.

It was a March Saturday evening, warm by Miami standards.

The crowd was a-buzzing and the music was blaring.

It was all, the music, that is, coming from cars trolling the road, First Street, packed with Generation X’ers and their younger counterparts, all on the make. And I was in Rob’s, enjoying every bit of it. How I got to Rob’s is another story.

The first wife and I like to get out of town when we can. That’s nothing against town, mind you, just that as Uncle Zeke used to say, “there’s a lot to see out there.” It’s sad, actually, that Zeke who said (and fervently believed) this has been locked up in the State Penitentiary for over 20 years now. Thank Heaven for cable t.v.! Anyway, the first wife and I take turns picking where we’re going to go. And it was her turn this time.

She suggested South Beach and I, ever the agreeable sort, said, “Great, where is it and why would we go there?” It turns out that South Beach is the Art Deco capital of the world. People go there from all around, just to see the architecture. That appealed to me, plus we could drive an hour or so and see a Cardinals’ spring training game.

In no time at all, we were booked and on our way to the airport.

The flight was uneventful, far more so than was getting through security at Lambert. How was I to know that a cigar-cutter would resemble a pocket knife as it passed through the x-ray machine? Of course, they asked for permission to go through my luggage, which I readily granted.

After only a couple of minutes of sorting through my dirty clothes (we were running late and I figured we’d wash in Miami), he found the cigar-cutter.

It could have been handled easily, but these security people have no sense of humor at all. How could he have not understood I was being sarcastic when I said, “You’re not very skilled at all, or you would have seen the letter openers hidden in my wife’s luggage.” Isn’t it obvious to you that I was kidding?

I mean, if I really had done that, I sure wouldn’t have told him.

He should have understood that.

He didn’t.

A missed flight later –— fortunately there is more than one St. Louis-Miami flight each day — we were on the plane.

There are over 200 Art Deco buildings in South Beach: office buildings, hotels, condos, and retail, all gleaming and in various shades of pastels. Think Central West End with Art Deco, then imagine the Central West End and Delmar Loop merging and you get the picture. Aside from the fact that even a hovel would cost six-figures, there must be some zoning restrictions for South Beach.

Each and every person I saw, every one, except for the first wife and myself when we walked by a mirror, was under 35 years of age, and was trim and tanned.

It was like being at an Anorexia Convention. Richard Simmons would have felt fat (and normal) in this crowd.

They were all, regardless of gender or race, a nice buttery cocoa shade; their gleaming white teeth presented a nice contrast when they smiled (which was all the time).

I would love to have the Botox concession at the South Beach Walgreens.

I never saw anyone in the ocean (or the hotel swimming pool, for that matter) but everyone, except the first wife and yours truly, was always wearing a swim suit. People walking up and down the boulevard had on swimsuits, the clerk at the front desk of our hotel had on a swimsuit, and even the policemen were wearing shorts, which could work as a swimsuit.

The swimsuits, alone, were worth the flight.

My handkerchiefs have more material than just about every swimsuit I saw. Bikinis were commonplace and thongs weren’t unusual (and I don’t mean the thongs that you wear on your feet!). Given how much little material was used and how much was uncovered, they shouldn’t be called a swimsuit at all; smst would be more fitting. Or maybe just s-t, maybe s.

But swimsuits and tans, along with discernible and countable rib cages, aside, the most memorable thing about my journey was the tattoos.

They were everywhere.

Each and every single person had a tattoo, honest.

After the second day, the first wife and I did a sort of visual scavenger hunt. Whether we were walking, shopping, or eating, we tried to find someone without a tattoo. (This was a lot more fun than looking for licence plates on cars from other states.) We never succeeded!

I am not exaggerating: every person had a tattoo.

I became a sort of tattoo connoisseur. Tattoos were on lower arms, upper arms, hands, shoulders, necks, thighs, upper rear tooshes (I think that’s a medical term), calves, and feet.

The only places that I could see that I didn’t see a tattoo were foreheads, eyelids, and noses.

Some of the tattoos were tiny, a few were gigantic, and most were medium-sized; you know, between a breadbox and a widget. Before this trip, I, silly me, hadn’t realized that tattoos came in colors too. Wow. Mom and God are big in tattoos. So are snakes, musical instruments, lightning bolts, skulls, and geometric designs.

The guys had these same pictures only occasionally you’d see a tattoo of a motorcycle, football, or car. One guy had a tattoo that started on his neck and went down across his chest, ending near his navel.

It was of a mermaid playing a guitar, musical notes wafting across his stomach, with a hand from Heaven, coming down from the clouds, reaching to touch her. Man, I wonder what he was smoking that night? One young girl with hair as blonde as a yellow crayon, and just as natural, had a 9-inch tattoo on her upper thigh that, I swear, was of Dan Quayle.

I would recognize his smile and vapid look anywhere.

Now that’s being a dedicated Republican!

My favorite, however, was on a guy with some girth, probably a weightlifter.

He had an American flag on his front and back, the same tattoo, but the effect was that he was wrapped in the flag.

I almost saluted him. So, ever the researcher and wanting to vindicate my Times of Skinker-DeBaliviere expense account, I decided to investigate, taking the first wife with me.

There were many tattoo parlors on First Street, but I decided to visit Rob’s Tattoo Parlor.

It seemed clean and was next to a Hagen-Das.

We walked in and Rob looked up. “No, no tattoo for me,” I said, “unless you can tattoo some hair on my head.” Rob didn’t have much of a sense of humor.

He must be related to the security guy at the airport.

I asked him if I could spend a bit of time there and just watch.

He seemed a bit suspicious but then my press card, disguised as a $10 bill, did the trick. “Sure, find a seat,” he said and went on about his business. Rob is an artist, make no mistake about that.

I came away impressed with his ability to draw just about anything and enamored of his patience (his pen never waved despite the pain he was administering).

I was there a bit over three hours and he “beautified,” as he put it, six people, four women and two men.

He did a shoulder eagle, a leg snake, a back composite of a sunset and clouds (this one took almost an hour), an arm pennant and armored knight, an ankle geometric design, and a dragonfly in a hidden place. You may wonder how I know about the dragonfly tattoo in the hidden place. Well, here’s a hint.

I saw the pain that these folks experienced and I’m a natural coward; no tattoo for me.

The first wife, however, is a brave soul and the first wife is a dragonfly aficionado.