We’re turning down a different passage in my memory archives cottage today. Yeah, I said cottage.
It’s a childhood thing. Think Beatrix Potter. And here’s the story (not very Beatrix...erm, ahem):
I used to design tattoos many moons back. I also have them. Hence the term “timelessness” in my title. People often ask me if I regret them (some really offbeat ones actually touch them at the supermarket). I don’t regret my chops. I didn’t even think that much about what I wanted in terms of design on my body – I have a friend who is a brilliant tattooist and he spent four hours on each one, and when I shuffle off this planet I’m sorry I can’t take them with me. What did my mother say when I got my first one? “Well, at least I’ll be able to identify your body with that tattoo on your arm...”
The terror, you ask? Mully, my friend the tattooist, had just opened up shop two doors up the drag on the street where I managed his sister’s grunge and antiques outlet. The problem with that was that the tattoo “mafia” demanded a percentage of the profit from anyone who opened a tattoo parlour on the mafia’s turf. Mully had been fighting Lucky’s guys off for years and kept clashing with them and ending up in hospital with serious injuries, much to the dismay of his family and friends, as well as loyal clients who wouldn’t go to Lucky’s little chop shop. And the mafia “big boy”? Kevin, based on Rocky Street in Yeoville, Johannesburg. I’d heard legends about this guy, one of which was the tattoo of a tear he had on one facial cheek. Well, boo hoo. He called the shots. And some of those shots happened back in Durban. And I’m not talking figuratively, either.
You get the picture. Not a gherkin to be pickled with, this Kevin.
One morning I arrived at the shop, hung-over and grumpy as usual. I opened up and plopped our wares on the pavement outside, hardly noticing the menagerie of motorcycles parked across the street. In my thirties, I like to call it “selective observation” because for an artist, there’s a lot I don’t notice. It must have been around 10:15am when a skinny mullet head with a denim jacket (in retrospect that was a badge of some sort on the back) walked into my shop and asked where Mully was. I rolled my eyes and said he was probably late again, but that he should be there shortly. He shrugged and said thanks and left. This was nothing unusual since Mully was nearly always late for appointments, if he pitched at all, so his clients generally came to his sister’s shop for explanations.
This particular day I was designing a sheet of tattoos for him (tattooists call it a “flash”). I sat sketching up dragons and flying snakes when the mullet walked back in. He stood beside my desk and asked if he could use the shop phone.
“Ja okay, as long as it’s not long-distance.” He said okay and stepped behind me and picked up the phone. While he waited for someone to answer, he leaned over my shoulder and commented, “Nice flash.” I perked up and thanked him. “Yeah, I’m designing it for Mully – those bladdie Hell’s Angels keep stealing his flash every time they beat him up.” I clucked my disapproval and shook my head.
Suddenly he responded to someone on the line. “Howzit, Kevin. We got Mully. What do you want us to do with him?” Now, I’ve had two of what’s referred to as bowel movements ever in my lifetime thus far. One of them occurred here. Just the movement, mind you. Let’s not upset the sensitive readers here. The other is another story, which you’ll read about sometime soon. I know I swallowed really hard and broke out in a small sweat. Bear in mind, it’s no picnic keeping the drawing flow going when a Hell’s Angel is standing behind you on the phone to the “main honcho kanonee” up in Joburg who decides your friend’s fate any second. But continue to cross-hatch those dragon scales I did. The mullet paused and then said, “Ja, okay...uh huh...okay. Cheers”, promptly put the phone down and sauntered out of the shop, thanking me for letting him use my phone.
“Hey! That wasn’t a local call, buddy!”
Must’ve been the shock. All I know is I lit up a cigger and made calls. Mully’s sister, his mom, friends....anyone who could get there immediately and help him. I shimmied my way along one wall of the shop and snuck a peak out of the window, where my goggling eyes took in a nightmare scene.
The Hell’s Angels were all standing around and I couldn’t see Mully anywhere. I did see the leader of the pack, however - a massively fat being who was so large he couldn’t fit into jeans and bulged instead out of track suit pants. His thighs were so plump that he had to lean one foot on the ground at a time as he squelched his monstrous buttocks on his Harley. I learned later that his name was Tiny.
By the time Mully’s sister screeched to a halt outside the shop, the gang had already shipped him off in the back of a scrap heap of a car to Lucky’s chop shop.
The tension. The tears. The terror.
It’s years later now, of course, and I can happily report that Mully got away with no injuries on that occasion. I heard a couple of years ago that Kevin was stripped of his title of president of that particular chapter of Hell’s Angels and the rule was that he had to have a big black line tattooed through all of his chops. Can’t imagine what they did with that tear.
I’m currently compiling a book of stories like these, so would heartily appreciate feedback from you lot out there. Throw in a comment, by all means, please!
