Do Atheists Have a Place in America?

In the fall of 2011, I sought out a printer to print a collection of short stories I had written. The collection was entitled “Iambic Pentagram,” and contained a dozen short stories and essays, mostly satirical and humorous social insights and observations. One of the essays was called “Why I am an Atheist.”

There were two mentions of a Christian God in the essay. They were:

1. If I knew Jesus was truth, I would accept that truth. If I knew the Christian God was the God I ought to believe in, I would believe, just in the same way that if I knew any other possible God was the God I should believe in, I would worship that God.

2. I’m not mad at the world and I’m not mad at God. No matter when the world ends, hopefully God will know that with the rational mind he intended us to have led me to deny his existence.

That was my best and most genuinely honest approach at remaining open-minded and asserting to an audience that I knew would be partly Christian that I have no problem with Christianity or a belief in God. I simply do not believe in God. I understand that when some people hear the word atheist, they automatically attach a number of meanings to the word. For example, he must be a jerk and dislike religion.

I understand that. I have seen it happen and I have met the people who fit that exact description. But that is not me. And that does not describe many of the atheists and agnostics that I know. Have we not all met someone from a particular group that misrepresented the group as a whole?

Regardless of my “best and most genuinely honest approach at remaining open-minded,” the printer refused to print “Iambic Pentagram” because as the CEO of this North Carolina-based company told me over the phone, “You’re trashing my God and I need to put my foot down as a Christian.”

It would be difficult to argue the legal issue of his refusal to print my booklet. My limited understanding of legalities tells me that he had every right to do so. However, the fact that he blatantly misunderstood my statements as “trashing God” led me to believe that despite the safety measures I took, he still felt that as an atheist, I was anti-God and had a deep-rooted hatred for those with a religious affiliation. He was wrong.

Let us reverse the scenario. Suppose I were the CEO of a printing company which publicly also has no religious affiliation. One day, a Christian wants to print a booklet and one essay states, “I don’t have a problem with atheists, but my rationality has led me to conclude there is a God.”

That is not a controversial statement by any stretch of the imagination, but I were to refuse to print this person’s booklet, would it not make me seem like I am being a bit sensitive and perhaps anti-religious? Arguably, many more people would consider this latter scenario to be more unjustifiable as compared to the scenario that I actually experienced.

To get a better understanding of this issue, a 2007 Gallup poll showed that 53% of Americans would not vote for an atheistic presidential candidate. This statistic points us in the direction that there is a distrust of atheists in America. Unfortunately, the Gallup poll does not answer why.

There is perhaps a polarization in the American religious spectrum because oftentimes, the question boils down to, “Are they Christian or non-Christian?” In a sense, and of course not always, Jewish people, Muslims, atheists, and agnostics – and pretty much anyone who is not Christian, get lumped into the same category. In a Christian dominated country, this sense of polarization should not seem brand new.

Robert Sims, 22, a philosophy/religion and history major with a youth ministry minor at Flagler College identifies himself as a strict Roman Catholic. He said, “Ignorant and thoughtless people may certainly marginalize or negatively view the atheist or agnostic and vice versa. Unfortunately this type of person or this attitude tends to prevail as the majority among our contemporaries.”

Offering greater insight as to why the Gallup poll shows numbers that look unfavorably upon atheists, Sims stated, “I think that almost any person prefers people who agree with their opinions – be them religious, political, or otherwise – over people that do not agree with them.” This makes sense in a country where one practically must be a “strong Christian” in order to win a presidential election.

Jared Smith, 23, a Flagler College graduate with a degree in philosophy/religion and political science, has no particular religious affiliation. His response to this matter was, “In certain areas of the U.S. atheism is seen as a stigma, and I think that is a hold-over from the time when religion and morality were viewed as synonymous. But in more and more areas of the country, Christianity is becoming less of a presumption, and people are generally more open to their friends or colleagues being atheists.”

In the Gallup poll, just 7% of Americans would not vote for a Jewish presidential candidate and Mormons got a harder blow with 24% of Americans refusing to vote for them. The question of course then is, what often separates atheists and agnostics from those with a religious background? Why do the numbers jump to a startlingly 53% when atheists are brought into question? A person refusing to vote for an atheist or agnostic may easily claim that those who are not a member of a traditional organized religion (i.e. Christianity, Judaism, Islam) lack a moral fabric.

Many people not only find a moral compass in a religious environment, they believe it necessary to have a religion in order to have a moral foundation – and to not be associated with a religion means to be without morals. Is the statement “No God, no morals” a true one? Of course not.

I’m not saying that refusing to print my booklet is “religious intolerance.” But you have to ask yourself why people without a religious affiliation continue to be looked down upon by people with one?

Carving Your Way

Did you hear that? It sounded like the closing of a cave door collapsing into the ground from a cave occupied by a cave dweller. It sounded like a special effect from an Indiana Jones movie. Stick with me now. I’m going somewhere with this.

It sounded like someone was dragging a shovel over the cement. Remember the sound of shoveling snow? The shovel scraping against the driveway? It was like that, but slow it down. Yes, like that, a slow shovel scarily scraping.

This is what I really heard: The sound of his knuckles dragging. Walking down the street, one hand in hers, the other cave-dwelling appendage draped to the ground carving an imprint of his path making the sound of an ancient Egyptian slave pushing pyramid blocks. His knuckles leaving a Hansel-and-Gretel trail so we can find the destination of a slow thinker.

He grunted something inaudible to my distant ears, probably inaudible to anyone’s ears. She laughed and clenched his hand harder.

One of those laughs when the person doesn’t find something funny but they laugh because they are trying to appease the other.

One of those laughs that makes you want to advise the person to stop trying so hard.

Their sweat mixed together in each other’s palms, converged in the crevices and valleys of their life and heart lines. She looked up and to her right, deep into his eyes and thought, I hope he likes me; I’m insecure and I’ll suck his dick so he’ll like me. He looked down and to his left, deep into her eyes and thought, I’m going to fuck the shit out of her. Her transparent, white shirt and black bra underneath conveyed you’re not paying enough attention to my tits.

In order to convince her and the people around them he was intelligent and moral, he wore a white polo shirt with khaki shorts. Most everyone was convinced. They let him right in the door without checking any ID. Put on your church pants and everyone thinks you’re the one guy who follows the Ten Commandments.

Waiting for the white hand at the crosswalk, they kissed. Troglodyte DNA infused into her accepting mouth. More DNA to follow later; same location, different source.

Wondering what I did last night. Trying to piece it back together. I don’t remember pouring another glass of Jameson, but I did and the glass somehow made it into the sink intact. I try to piece it back together, but it’s difficult because all I can remember from last night is shards, fragments, like only receiving a few pictures from the entire roll dropped off at the photo booth.

Some touch of madness seems to take over when you see things other people don’t. And I do see many of those things. Yeah, I said it. I see things many other people don’t. You might. You probably have before. But let’s face it: lots of people do not see these things.

It could be a particular idiosyncrasy, a particular trend, whether that trend is an undercurrent in our society or culture, or whether that trend is a prevailing, obvious one sweeping the nation, gathering idiots into the tornado that will no doubt leave them on the ground, shattered in pieces of moronic fragments. It could be a trend with tangible goods, a trend with colloquialisms, a trend in behavior. It doesn’t matter. Like I said… gathering idiots into the tornado that will no doubt leave them on the ground, shattered in pieces of moronic fragments.

Don’t worry. They’ll gather themselves back up, glue themselves back together with false pretenses and some front that irrational people find charismatic, then wait for the next trend tornado to take them wherever they can’t take themselves because they lack the will power to do something on their own, make their own decision, or ignore the trend in the first place and be an individual, manifest the principium individuationis.

That’s why I despise the cave dweller: no fucking principium individuationis. He accepts that which is given to him and never seeks anything out that he can call his own. He fades into the background. He is the background. He lacks the mental and intellectual stamina and courage to separate himself. He thinks he is bold because he bought his opinions and cozily fits right in. I think he is weak because he cannot formulate his own or stand apart.

How disappointing is that? To live life without authenticity, disingenuously, fooling others and even worse, fooling yourself. We are all going to carve something during our short time on this planet.

One man carves the ground with his knuckles; another man carves himself with his ideas.

The Taste of Dirt

Parts of this article were originally published in folioweekly (Jan. 26, 2010) entitled “The Corner”

Finding homeless people requires little more effort than driving down the road and knowing the usual intersections where you find them working; however, my first day in searching for a homeless man or woman turned up nothing but vacant intersections.

Clouds filled the sky as far as the eye could see, and the rain, showing no signs of slowing, seemed persistent in closing business for the homeless for the day. Their job, which is thankfully tax-free, involves nothing more than a sign and some patience, but as I learned, is still held in check by rainy weather.

Homelessness is a true underground culture, one that the majority of Americans only see from the outside, like tourists at a marine aquarium; their faces pressed against the glass, questions popping in everyone’s heads about survival and desires, the seemingly and perhaps cutthroat nature of a people without rules or protocol. Or maybe not at all.

Eventually, the light turns green and we drive away, passing other exhibits on the way to our office or home, usually leaving our memories of the homeless person at their work site.

The face, the clothes, the sign held by a homeless man evokes various responses in all of us; oftentimes, disgust and dislike for what we may see as a lazy, drunk, or just plain disheveled human being; while other times, we may feel sympathy for a man or woman without food, shelter, or healthcare. We offer a few dollars and hope it is used wisely, and not for drugs or alcohol, vices we often pair with the face of homelessness.

When walking past a homeless person on the street, or stopped at a red light where a homeless person flies their sign, a term I learned recently meaning to hold your sign out to the public in hopes of receiving a monetary donation, I always wonder how much of what we believe is assumption and myth. Are the homeless cutthroat and not to be trusted? Or is that just the blurted out stereotype from the person in my passenger seat? Are they really hopeless and helpless, deserving of our charity? Or is that just another stereotype muttered from the person in my backseat? I don’t know. I’ve never been in their position.

I found a homeless man named Dennis Hartman flying his sign on San Marco Ave. in St. Augustine in front of a park and landmark carousel just down the street from the Vilano Bridge. The intersection that Dennis worked had a traffic light that condensed traffic into one spot that made him unable to be missed, a strategic location by any business man’s standards. If you drive by this T-shaped intersection, you will see Dennis. A white beard, stained yellow; two coats on with the second layer being a black and yellow plaid coat. Even in a hot Florida December, he wore two, long-sleeved coats. He wore blue jeans, black sneakers and a black, cotton cap that snugged tightly against his head, resting just on the top of his ears.

I approached Dennis, who is 50 years old, while he held his sign. His sign was made on a small, square, folded up piece of cardboard with a hole in it, flimsy and frail from water damage. It read: “Out of work homeless veteran (God Bless America).” He lives under Vilano Beach Bridge, but calls it Hospital Bridge. “I don’t know why they call it that. There’s no hospital there.”

When he’s not flying his sign, he spends his time in the nearby library reading Antiques, Time, Newsweek, and Scientific American. “I go in there and read all the time…believe me, I’m well read.”

In front of the J&S Carousel, with its red and white roof and gallery of revolving horses, Dennis and I spoke while sitting on top of the old rock wall while parents stood watching their children. Christmas music played in the loud speakers, loud enough to understand the messages and lyrics of Christmas cheer and glee. Children not on the carousel slid down slides and swung on swings, their laughter enough to turn any atmosphere positive.

Now, we are all provided at least one bad Christmas in a lifetime, but I immediately wondered how the Christmas music being played in the background would affect Dennis’ attitude and paradigm. Can a person withstand one more year of a homeless Christmas? Days before Christmas, I’m stressed due to my own financial constraints, but I’m not homeless. And I’m not asking for money on a street corner. Certainly, there is some wisdom to be found here.

Dennis spoke politely and acted unassuming. His eye contact with me suggested openness and honesty. It would be hard to believe he has any enemies, or ever has had any enemies, besides of course, circumstance. But even he didn’t seem to be angry at his circumstances, just willing to work with them. I asked him the questions I had always wanted to ask any homeless person I walked or drove past.

How many years have you been homeless?

“God, since, 1999.”

What was the last job you had?

“I use to own my own business. I owned a mechanic shop.”

What happened to the mechanic shop?

“Divorce is nasty. The only one who wins in that is the attorneys. She got everything. Pretty much.”

Are you originally from St. Augustine?

“No. I’m originally from Pennsylvania. Then I did ten years in the marine corps, lived in California for 23 years, rode a bicycle out here from there.”

You rode a bicycle here from California?

“Yeah.”

That’s pretty impressive

“No, it was fun.”

Do you think divorce is the main reason that you’re homeless?

“Oh, yeah. Well, actually, when I rode my bicycle out here, I had seven thousand dollars on me. That’s all I had left. And then, I came down here and I took a trip around the south, and I still had two thousand dollars on me. I was on my bicycle. I was in the Cherokee National Forest up in Tennessee. My bike got stolen. It’s silly me. I left my wallet and everything on the bike when I went to check out the white water. I had to hitchhike back down here. I had nothin’.”

Can you tell me what your worst experience has been being homeless?

“Worst experience? Every now and then I use to live under another bridge. The rats would jump on you, but other than that, I have no bad experiences. One thing about this town is that you cannot possibly starve. The people here are real good. Sometimes it takes more time than others to make a little money, but they’re real good out here.”

Have you accepted yourself as being homeless or do you have hope for the future to reestablish yourself?

“Well, the economy has got to turn around, ‘cause I’ll tell you what. You can sit down there at the labor hall with forty people lookin’ for two jobs. You know, a lot of people don’t want to hire the homeless anyway. So, once the economy turns around, it’ll be good. Yeah, I’ll go back to work. I’ve got no problem workin’.”

Do you still have a family that you speak with or any connection to your past?

“No,” he said, without going into details or offering any clarification.

What opportunities are available to you as far as shelters or anything else designed to assist you?

“The only thing I’ve seen is the St. Francis House. You’ve got about two thousand people in this town, or in this county, that are homeless, and they’ve got a shelter that holds 28 people. So, what are you gonna do? I mean, you can go down there and eat, but you’ve got to find a place to sleep.”

Do you see a division between the homeless and the non-homeless?

“Let me tell you this way. At one time, I was halfway to being a millionaire. Money doesn’t mean nothing to me anymore. I mean, it’s a nice thing to have, but it doesn’t really mean that much to me. I’ve been there, done that. Right now, I scrape by, whatever I can get, but it’s like, you know what? These people out here are real good to us. So, I can’t complain at all. I even go talk to the guy who operates the carousel. I go out there once in a while, give him a couple bucks, and say, ‘Let the next couple kids right free,’ these people have been good to me out here. Treat them right. Kids are our future.”

There is a common belief that a lot of homeless people are drunk or on drugs. Do you see a lot of that?

“Yeah, there are. I don’t want to be drivin’ around the people downtown. They’re pissin’ in the bushes, urinating in the bushes. You know, stuff like that. I don’t want to be around that. Half the people that eat at St. Francis House aren’t even homeless. There’s a lot of people out here that try to play like they’re homeless, and they’re not even homeless.”

Dennis took a dirty, stained white wash cloth from his inside coat pocket, blew his nose, put it back, then continued.

“There’s a lot of us out here that are.”

Are you here often?

“I’m here almost every day. I make my ten, twelve dollars. I’m good for the day. If I don’t show up at Subway, they’ll put my picture on a milk carton.” He laughed to himself, knowing his joke was based on a sort of truth. I couldn’t help but laugh with him.

Is there any claimed territory among homeless people? Is this considered your spot?

“This is pretty much my spot. I got another guy down here who wants to fly it now, but we share it.”

How many hours do you spend a day out here on average?

“Depends whether you have a good day or a bad day. On a bad day, I’ll be out here for eight, ten hours; good day, I’ll be out of here by noon. All it takes is that one car. I get my laundry money, a little something to eat, and I’m good for the day.”

Is there anything else you’d like to add?

“No, I think you’ve pretty much covered it.”

As I was preparing to leave, another man was crossing the street to the opposite intersection. The man he said that wants to fly his spot. His clothes looked fresh, his hair was well groomed, and he walked with a cane, but this other man didn’t look homeless. He looked like he should be greeting people downtown, using his big, contagious smile to ask tourists if they need directions. Either this guy is homeless and has a really good sign to hold, or he has a comfortable life and no shame in flying a sign.

“He’s coming to fly the other corner,” Dennis said, as we watched the man unconvincingly use his cane to walk down the sidewalk, a smile on his face built for an election. “He’s going to fly his sign. He just came out of the blue the other day. Then, he started laying down the rules, what’s it’s gonna be like here: 30 minutes on. I’m like, ‘Dude, it’s not gonna be like that.’It’s not territorial. I do share this corner with people, but this guy comes out of nowhere and says how it’s gonna be. I’m like, ‘Dude, you don’t understand, this is not how it works. I don’t know what town you’re from, where you came from, but it doesn’t work that way. It’s not gonna be your rules,’” and then he paused.

“I don’t mean to vent at you,” he told me, apologetically.

No worries. I’ll be seeing you soon, I’m sure. Dennis stood up from stone wall we were sitting on.

“Ok. I’m gonna fly this, get a couple more dollars, then I’m good for the day.”

Now, sometimes I have felt so poor that I could have sworn I could taste dirt in my mouth, but this man knew dirt. And he was happy and content with himself despite that dirt. Quite honestly, I was very surprised that someone in his position could be so appreciative of what he had. Many of the people I know who are more affluent than he is are not as with-it and well thought out as he is, let alone so content.

I stood up to walk away and Dennis walked closer to the road, just off the sidewalk, where he would be more visible to stopped traffic. He unfolded his sign, and held it up. I’m sure he made enough money to do what he needed to do. When I drove by just a minute later, he was gone, the children still playing in the playground, the Christmas music still pouring out of the carousel speakers. Everyone will be back tomorrow.

Big Bird Smoking a Crackpipe

Originally published in the Jan 2010 issue of Tattoo Guru Studio Magazine

Money may not bring happiness, but the lack thereof will certainly bring unhappiness. There is something about having my bills paid on time that leaves me with a sense of contentment.

How many times have I been standing beside my car at a gas station filling my car up when a man approaches, explaining his plight, “I’ve lost my wallet and was hoping you could give me a few dollars for gas.”

My initial thought is usually “bullshit,” but I usually give a few dollars, never more than five, feeling that if I’m going to let this guy scam me, he won’t scam the hell out of me. Just a little scam, and it makes not much of a difference considering I could do without the five dollar bill and if this guy is telling the truth and he really needs gas to reach his destination, I’m more than happy to help someone out who is down on their luck. I knew one day I’d be on the other side of the line.

Well, almost. My girlfriend was kind enough to lend me twenty three dollars to make the three hour trip from her house back to the shop I work at. Considering I had just realized my bank account balance had a minus sign beside it, I would have been asking strangers for whatever they could spare, a couple dollars perhaps, maybe five, just enough to get me home. Having been in their position so many times, I’d have to explain, “Listen, I know what you’re thinking. I’m probably lying, right? But I’m not, and I’ve been in your shoes many times…just a few dollars…” My pride would not be sacrificed.

I speak with artists from shops in my city, in cities hours away, in cities in other states, and many agree: business is slow; horribly slow. And I’m sure not every artist is standing in a gas station somewhere asking for five dollars, but I believe that many don’t have the influx of money we saw even two years ago. I remember tattooing so many clients in one day that we’d have to turn people away so we could eventually go home and sleep, but now, I turn no one away. If you come into the shop, I will tattoo you. Our shop minimum of sixty dollars is a barrier that can be broken simply by telling me, “I only have fifty dollars.” Ask the guy whose hand I tattooed “Blessed” on recently for twenty three dollars. A few months ago, I learned a lesson about blowing off people with money.

I was standing outside the tattoo shop with my girlfriend, saying my goodbyes to new friends I had just made, a couple who also partnered together as filmmakers. The man, Brian, had just returned here from New England after moving away a decade earlier. He was unfamiliar with the area, the people, the places, its culture, and he seemed unable to grasp the idea that Port Saint Lucie is the same place he left it. I told him, “Believe me.  You’ve missed nothing except a few new strip malls.” The heat seemed to eat away at our bodies like a disease. Our skin was glazed over with sweat and the heat was inescapable.

The thing I have realized about people you don’t want to run into, is that you will always see them in the worst possible and most undesired situation, either that, or you will see them just as you were about to unknowingly escape the situation altogether. As we neared our goodbyes, inching closer and closer to concluding the conversation, a yellow bicycle nonchalantly rolled in our direction. The filmmakers stepped out of the rider’s way as he passed us. Moments later, I felt the direct heat of someone’s stare from behind me. I turned around and saw the man on the yellow bicycle. Our eyes meeting immediately ignited the opportunity for him to speak. I say man because he is old enough to buy cigarettes, and henceforth, that will remain the only reason I use the term “man” when referring to the person riding the yellow bicycle.

“Ay, man,” he began. I already knew where this was going. The feeling a skirt-clad young lady feels when a man overtly changes his direction to approach her and start a conversation.

“You do tattoos?”

“Yeah, what’s up?”

“You do gang tattoos?”

“Not really,” I told him, even though we would because we’re here to make money, not provide a support center for confused and disgruntled youth. It was pretty obvious that he’s no stranger to drugs and these conversations usually don’t lead to anything besides someone trying to impress me with fake gang stories.

He rolled his bicycle closer to me. Despite the intense heat, he wore sagging jeans and an oversized sweatshirt. His boxers were the only barrier between his dirty ass and the bike seat. His hat sat crooked on his head. His eye contact with me was never interrupted and though it never relented, he never seemed intimidating. He had that blank druggie stare like he was just coming off a decade long high on any drugs he had heard about in a rap song and the permanent effect made you think he might snap at any moment and shoot us for being near him. His arms already had flash tattoos of clowns holding guns surrounded by smoke, faded from years of cooking at a fryer. He spoke long and drawn out, expecting his audience to be patient while he conveyed his idea, like an enlightened pothead expressing his views on how bad war is.

“How much would it be for a sesame and some guns?”

Like you, I also wondered what the fuck a sesame is. Usually, “sesame” is followed by a noun indicating the object. Like seed. Seed would work here. Does he want a sesame seed tattoo? I don’t know, and while standing in the burning summer sun on my day off with friends, I don’t care what a sesame is.

“It depends on how big it is, how complex it is, where it goes, and so on. We’re closed today. You’re better off coming in another day.”

“Does Mike tattoo here?”

“Yeah, he’ll be here later this week. Swing in on Saturday and talk to him.”

I told him to come in on Saturday because I’m off on Saturdays, and we in this shop like throw the odd clients to each other as a sort of practical joke.

“Oh hey, Hannibal Lecter, Shannon would love to do this tattoo. Let me go get her!”….

Not getting the hint, he continued on, “Well, I want to get this tattoo here,” he blabbered away as he reached into his pocket and carefully removed a poorly preserved black and white printout of the entire Sesame Street cast. It looked like a letter a soldier had carried with him throughout both World Wars, dragged through the snow, rubbed into the dirt, and trudged through the water, half-soaked in blood and sweat.

He held it up so I could see it. “Oh, cool,” I said, not thinking it was cool at all.

“I wanna get like, this whole chest piece, but I only got two hundred dollars. Can you do it for that much?”

“I’m sure we can work something out. Maybe you can come back later this week and talk to someone and get it all planned out.”

I cast him off as being one of the many people who just wants to talk about getting tattooed, but never wants to spend the money to do it. He’s not the first person to have this approach, and although it may not be wise to deal with a new person based on experience with another unrelated person, I decided to. I’m not here to discuss morals and ethics. Like many people in South Florida, I just want to get the fuck out of the sun and conversation with a nut only makes the experience more miserable.

He reminded me of a miniature lookalike of Doogie Howser M.D. who walked into the shop one busy Friday night and told me that this weekend would be the real highlight of his existence: his gang initiation, and in celebration and honor of this stoic experience, he wanted to get a back piece, with guns, bullets, and a multitude of other gang related images, most certainly to make his mother proud, proving his manhood on his 5 foot 6, hundred pound frame. Quite honestly, I barely heard anything he said in the whole twenty minutes he spent conveying some thought or another because the music was so loud my coffee was rippling. I didn’t believe his story for a second, but I love going along with people in these situations, letting them think that I’m in the passenger seat of the story, eagerly awaiting the next gun fight, stabbing, or drug-related accident. I don’t call people out like I did when I was younger, now I just sit with my ears wide open, waiting to see how far they’re going to take things. The second time hundred-pound-Howser showed up, he wanted an ICP hatchet man; the third time, a swastika tattooed on each eyelid. People like this don’t often get the tattoo; they just enjoy talking about it. And I go right along with it never advising him that he shouldn’t let his alligator mouth get his mockingbird ass in trouble. These are just confused kids whose ideas on how to live are derived entirely from television and shitty lyrics. I listen to their stories like one listens to a child’s story of fantasy and adventure that is the product of imagination. That’s the cutest story ever!

Just minutes into the discussion, the man, still sitting on his yellow bicycle, saw me as trustworthy and decided to let me in on the secret of his tattoo, knowing I wouldn’t screw him over and get the same gem tattooed on my own chest. A big favor here, revealing the Holy Grail of tattoos:

“I wanna get like Big Bird up top here smokin’ a crackpipe with the bitches and the hoes hangin’ all over him an’ shit holdin’ two guns. And then I wanna get Elmo with all like muscles an’ shit, like huge muscles, an’ The Count givin’ the middle finger, and the Cookie Monster with the muscles holdin’ a knife, an’ weed leaves falling everywhere and then I want the guns and the smoke and the bullets, black bullets,just like flyin’ everywhere.”

“The bitches, the hoes, the guns, the bullets, did I get everything? Oh, muscles and a knife. Got it. I’ll go whip this right up!”

By the time he got to the part about Big Bird smoking a crackpipe, I summoned my greatest willpower to contain my explosive laughter, which as I am sure you already know, only makes you laugh even more feverishly. And so I did. I let it out. But to make containing my laughter even harder, I could not look over at my friends who were themselves turning around to hide the air bulging from their faces. Never acknowledging our uncontainable laughter, he must have thought that we were laughing at a joke made earlier, because surely, Big Bird smoking a crackpipe is a monumental idea only to be taken seriously.

“Ok, well swing in later this week and someone can definitely help you out!”

I said goodbye to my new friends, unlocked the door to the shop and walked inside, expressing with urgency to this young man that I had “to check the meter.”

I looked outside as he rode away on his yellow bicycle. Confident that I would never seem him again, I was proven wrong when he returned the next day and the next day after that. I didn’t see him on the second day, but on the third, I saw his yellow bicycle sitting outside the shop with him on top of it. I believe “fuck” was the first word to come to my mind. By this point, he had decided to add blunts, boxing gloves for Big Bird, and a banner with the words, “Pimp My Hoes.” Testament to a gang life he claims to have lived through. “I use to be a hardcore gangbanger,” he tells me outside, “that shit’s no good.” ….

“I’m sure it isn’t,” I tell him, trying to sound sincere and not like a pretentious douche. I honestly don’t know what else to say to that. It’s like when someone told me that I should cut down on my salt intake as I dumped a good tablespoon all over my tortilla chips.

“It’ll raise your cholesterol.”

Yes, I’m sure it will. Thank you.

As we stood outside, listening to vague stories about his past life as a gangbanger, I noticed he was now dressed for the weather in a wifebeater. He was standing close enough for his body odor to infiltrate my nasal passages.

“Go ahead and take off your sweaty sweatshirt. Make yourself at home. Can I get you any deodorant? A douche? A fire hose?”….

This is an ambitious tattoo. How Big Bird is supposed to be smoking a crackpipe and holding two guns astounds me, especially while wearing boxing gloves. I’m sure this man does not often cross paths with logic and rationale, but his presence, although awkward and laughable, does grab you. What’s funny to admit, is that by day three, I had become use to him. Like a rash, that although I would prefer it not be around, I don’t mind it so much now. His ideas are foreign to me and would be considered childish to most, but once I let my guard down, listening to him speak became an interesting visit into someone else’s world. In other words, it’s like watching COPS, but I now saw him as innocent and with only good intentions, despite his admiration for crackpipes, blunts, and a muscled out Elmo.

His third visit was all it took to get the tattoo ball rolling having set up an appointment with the shop owner. The man gave my boss the faded picture of the Sesame Street characters and my boss made the appropriate notes, “Blunts…smoke…bullets…muscles an’ shit…”

“That’s real straight,” he tells me, after sealing the deal with Mike. “That Mike dude is real cool. He’s gonna hook up my tattoo.”

“That’s pretty cool, man,” I said, this time meaning it. He was sincere, you couldn’t deny that, and sometimes I’m so starved of meeting sincere people that this guy became alright.

A few more minutes of meaningless conversation and he rode away on the yellow bicycle, anxiously awaiting his sesame and guns. And sure enough, a week later this man was walking around with Big Bird smoking a crackpipe tattooed on his chest along with all the other characters tattooed on him from his beltline to his chest, a two hundred dollar outline that took an hour and a half and had the same quality as if he was paying twice that.

A few things changed from the original idea however. One, he changed the banner reading “Pimp My Hoes” to “Pimp Daddy,” feelings that “Pimp My Hoes” was too hardcore. While my boss was tattooing the words Pimp Daddy on him, he looks up and asks, “So, what is a pimp daddy?”

“Um,” I began, “I think it’s someone who gets a lot of girls.”

“Oh, because I thought it was someone who has prostitutes.”

“Yeah, maybe that too.”

More interestingly, I realized just hours after the customer left that my boss didn’t add “the bitches and the hoes” hanging all over Big Bird.

“Hey, Mike, you forgot to add the bitches and the hoes on that guy’s tattoo,” I told him.

“No I didn’t. His mom said that was too much for the tattoo.”

Too much for the tattoo. Blunts, bullets, crackpipes, the desecration of a famed children’s’ show. I agree, sexist and chauvinistic imagery would be too much.

Now, this could have been my two hundred dollars if I hadn’t blown him off and I’m not going to tell you that I regret blowing him off because all in all, I really don’t, but if everyone had blown him off, no one would have made the money and he would have gone to another shop. My boss got his idea, drew it up, did the tattoo and got the money. No attitudes, no stress. Just a simple everyday transaction. Among many things, our shop prides itself on being clean, always doing solid, consistent artwork, and never giving customers bad, rock star attitudes. And because of my boss’s mentality, one that urges the notion of giving everyone the attention they deserve (within reason, this shop employs no suckers), he won’t be standing at a gas station, asking for a few dollars, hopefully five. And aside from this occasion, neither will I.