Fake Alan

My parents raised me evangelical. I used to go to church, I used to pray and I used to follow the church rules. I didn’t enjoy it, but I followed them. Tattoos, as you might imagine, were a no-no. I did like them, though. I found them so beautiful. My family had no idea about that, of course. Sometimes, when I was alone, I would fantasize about getting one.

Once, dad was talking to an old friend, a woman who looked so similar to my mom that it was clear my dad had a type. Or maybe it was just a coincidence. Whatever. They were talking about college and from that the subject changed to teens and then tattoos.

“You know,” she said, “tattoos make you sick. They actually alter your brain because your body thinks they’re a virus so it kind of attacks itself. I have a friend who is a doctor and he told me that.”

I didn’t know if that was true, but my father nodded so it probably was.

That made me fucking terrified.

So much so that, years later, I was still thinking about that. I thought about how my liver would stop working if I were to permanently ink my body. Problem was, by that point I had already forged my own path and had, after getting my first salary, scheduled an appointment with a great tattoo artist.

I almost gave up. It was my best friend, closest thing I have to a brother, that encouraged me to go. He told me that he would even hold my hand if I needed it. I told him no. I hate people touching me. But I did ask him to come along. The tattoo artist found it kind of cute, her words.

She looked like what a tattoo artist looks like. She had one in her forehead, a lot in her arms and legs, and half of her hair shaved.

When she started, I was almost pissing my pants. There was no turning back. She drew a cute little fish, like I had asked her to, and after an hour or so, it was done. Blam. I now have a tattoo. In a strategic place. My parents don’t even know about it. The fish is easy to hide. Also easy to show off, if I want to.

I almost told my dad that I got it.

“I will never ever get a tattoo.” He said, kind of drunk. “But it would be fun to have a boxing glove on my arm.”

I feel like I should add that my father was a pro, before college, during his teen years. 

“Anyway,” he continued, “I know that’s the devil trying to steal my soul.”