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Tattoo Tales from Mike Malone |
In either late 1971 or early '72 I worked for
Zeke Owens at Ace Tattoo Co. in San Diego.
As I mentioned before, Zeke was a gambler
and enjoyed horse and dog races. It was
a short drive to the border. Mexico offered
open betting on horses, dogs, and jai lai,
if you could understand the fast-paced
game.
The war in Vietnam had the military
humming for tattooers and as a bonus
there was not only the Navy base but a
Marine Corps boot camp close by. I was
kept very busy, especially on the days
when Zeke felt the urge to gamble. One
afternoon a fellow around 30 came into the
shop, clearly a civilian. I could tell he had a
few drinks in him but he was polite and in
control of himself. He was quick to select
a generous-size design and as I tattooed
him, we talked.
He was a farmer from Iowa, in California
on holiday. He told me he was here by
himself, and the reason he’d come to San
Diego was to get some tattoos. He had
been in the Navy and had gotten a couple
of tattoos while he was in boot camp. He
knew San Diego was a tattoo town and his
goal on vacation was to get more tattoos
than some guy back home. The guy, he
told me, had several tattoos and was
someone he felt he needed to best in the
tattoo department. It sounded crazy and
profitable to me so I told him I was ready
and willing to help him with his quest.
When we finished, he paid me from a big
roll of cash. Later, I noticed all the bills he
had paid me with were silver
certificates. Silver notes had been out of
circulation for quite a while at that time,
since about 1964, if memory serves.
Over the next two weeks, he got over 25
tattoos. Hardy did a couple, Zeke had a go
at him as did a few of the other tattooers
working in town - Al Miller, Tiger Bob, and
Tahiti Felix, to name a few. Still, I was his
favorite, inking 16 or 17 of his new tattoos,
all paid for in silver certificates. This led me
to believe the money had been stashed for
a long time, a mystery I never even asked
about. My greed was healthy enough for me
to not want to rock the boat. I was fearful
that if I started to ask questions about what
the deal was with the silver notes, I would
scare him off. If he wasn’t a bank robber
who had hidden away a fortune, he was a
gold mine...or at least a silver mine.
During his stay in San Diego, I worked a
24-hour day, something I've never done
again. I’d come in about 9am on a military
payday to take care of shop business and
walked right into a bunch of sailors looking
for tattoos, so I went ahead and started
tattooing. The business kept up and when
Zeke strolled in about 2pm, the shop was
hopping. We both tattooed through the day
and well into the evening.
At some point, I looked up. It was dark but
we were even busier than ever and the
night flew by. Finally, at midnight, it started
to slow down but we stayed and didn't finish
cleaning up until about 2am, both beat to
our socks. We were getting ready to split
when through the door walks the farmer.
He was sporting quite a drunk and we were
quick to tell him we were just getting ready
to close. He began to complain bitterly and
he pointed out a big mermaid design he
claimed he wanted on his chest. It was a
huge design and the thought of doing it
nearly crippled me. Zeke also refused the
work.
The design was $75, which was a lot in
1972 but he offered to pay $100 if we
would tattoo it right then. Zeke was the
boss and he turned the farmer down again.
The farmer offered $125 and Zeke said,
"Okay, you got a deal." Then Zeke turned to
me and said, "Put it on him."
I nearly started to cry. I was blind tired
but I was the apprentice and Zeke was
the boss. It was past 9am when I finished
the tattoo. At least Zeke didn't leave me
alone to wrestle the tattoo on the drunken
farmer. He stayed around shooting pool in
the arcade, waiting for me to finish. It was
really something. I don't regret doing if
only for the bragging rights.
Later the next week, the farmer came in
one afternoon to bid me goodbye. He was
returning to Iowa to rub his friend's face
in with his new tattoo collection. He said
he still had an open spot on his back he
wanted to fill in. "Okay, sure," I told him.
"What do you want?"
"You pick," he said agreeably. "I trust you;
do whatever you want, surprise me."
He had a deal. With his back to me I
carefully drew an ear of corn and around it
wrote, "BORN TO RAISE CORN." He asked
what I'd decided on but I said "You'll see.
You're going to love it." He was happy to
play the game he had started.
Finally, I finished and gave him a hand
mirror to see the tattoo in the big mirror.
I was sure he would find it funny and cool
but it was not to be once he got a look at
the tattoo, his face dropped into a scowl
and he went ballistic.
"What the fuck did you put corn on me
for?! I hate fucking corn! That's what I do
year after year! Grow that shit and you
tattoo this on me! It's like a curse!" he
ranted. "Now I guess you want money for
this bullshit!"
"Hey," I insisted. "You said I could tattoo
what ever I wanted. Now pay me." "Here,"
he shouted, flinging a twenty and a five-dollar
silver note at me. "I thought we were
friends and you just think I'm some asshole
farmer." I stood there with volumes to say
to this humorless sodbuster but thought it
best to keep my mouth shut for fear of a
fistfight with the infuriated plowboy.
I still wonder where he got those silver
certificates. Somewhere, in flat cornfields
of Iowa, those bills had been stashed away,
God knows why, until the day the farmer came to town.
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