STUDIO CITY TATTOO
It was Saturday morning, the day after my middle school graduation. My mom and I were standing in the kitchen discussing the summer and my upcoming high school career. I'm her firstborn, so high school was just as exciting and new for her as it was for me. She mentioned that I do something new with my look. I wanted to dye my hair; she suggested an ear piercing.
At first, I was shocked at the thought. I had the attitude of superiority that most teenagers did, but still knew that I was only fourteen. I thought she meant a second piercing on my earlobe, a standard next-step to the piercings one has. I joked about a nose ring, which I didn't really want, and she said, "what about a cartilage?"
I thought about it for a while before responding. "Wouldn't that hurt?" I asked. "The pain passes like that," she responded with a snap of her fingers.
I imagined my first day of high school: sitting in class, texting before the teacher got up to speak, with a high bun and an earring in my cartilage. I would look so cool. I was set. For a month, I obsessed over it, pleading to my mom to take me -- it was her idea, but she wanted to make sure that I was positive before the damage was done. I did all my research and found a tattoo shop near my house with five stars on Yelp. My impending improvement was the main topic of discussion with my best friend Allison and I wanted to make sure that she was with me when it happened; she came over my house every other day throughout that month.
Finally my mom decided that the waiting was over. Allison and I slid into the back seat of our SUV with my heart pounding harder than it ever has. I don't know what I was so nervous about; I was ecstatic about my first additional piercing and fully understood that the pain would be over in a second. We pulled up in front, put two quarters in the parking meter, and as I walked into Studio City Tattoo I instantly discovered a justification for all my fears and nerves.
The smell. I was bombarded with an overwhelming cloud of nameless odor that was empty of anything I had ever known. My nostrils stayed flared as I looked around the dark, pirate-themed tattoo shop. Ship's wheels adorned the walls, and one large candlelit chandelier hung in the center of the shop. Walking up the ramp from the entrance to the front desk, I wondered if I really needed this piercing. It was as if I believed the lingering smell was a manifestation of pain endured by past clients. At first I thought it was the smell of tattoo ink or antibacterial solution, both things that would make sense. My mom was filling out the form at the front desk and Allison and I sat down on a treasure chest that functioned as a bench. She leaned over to me and whispered, "It smells like beer."
We were fourteen, and didn't have much experience with alcoholic smells. "Is that what that is?" I whispered back. We confirmed with my mom, and although I thought identifying the odor would calm me, it only intensified my nerves. I began to panic. Why would it smell like beer at a tattoo shop? Shouldn't they all be perfectly sober at work? Of course, the men do look like the majority of their daily calorie intake comes in the form of cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon, with distended bellies and thin hair that needed a washing yesterday. But beer at work? Do they throw crazy pirate parties after hours? My head was reeling.
I was pulled back to reality when Alex came up to me. He was 6 foot 3 inches and skinnier than me with tattoos and piercings everywhere, including barbells between his eyes and diagonally through the skin of his neck. "Hey there, I'm Alex." I shook his hand. He was soft spoken but explained in detail how the procedure would go. I wondered if I was his youngest client.
I followed him to the very last chair. Allison and my mom weren't allowed to come with me; they stayed behind a chain rope (also in pirate style), taking pictures of me from afar. I surveyed the surface of the concrete floor between us, looking for spots of glistening stickiness, which I imagined would be the dried up beer. There was nothing. I felt a pinch in my ear, and then it got very hot.
I looked into a handheld mirror at my tender red ear, approving of the new silver stud. I was thrilled that the experience was over. Surprised that it didn't hurt as badly as I had expected, I thanked Alex and led my mom and Allison out to the car. We stopped on the sidewalk long enough for them to examine my ear and ask about the experience. "It was totally fine," I responded.
A piece of metal in my ear is not all that tattoo shop gave me. To this day, the smell of stale beer makes my heart race and brings an inexplicable flush to my skin. I dreaded High School beer-pong parties. College parties in Brooklyn during the summer aren't much better. I adamantly dislike walking down the west side of 3rd Ave. in the east village; Bar None reeks.
This smell activates the kind of nerves that don't dissipate no matter how many times I tell myself I'm okay. That summer afternoon, a certain chord struck in my fourteen-year-old brain. I've gotten multiple ear piercings after that one, and I have lived to tell the tale. It's not the needles or the pain that scares me; it's that smell. I find it funny that I've come to associate something so seemingly meaningless with such fear. Maybe it's a good thing I'll never know any pirates, real or wannabe.
