Tattoos booze & Oil field blues
These stretched out nearly barren plains, scattered houses and farms; some just a few feet from caved in roofs and dry rotted boards of their past generations.
Sunrise is nice but a West Texas sunset can be an ocean of flame you rarely see so clearly in most of America.
I found my footing at a Town & Country gas station, belly rumbling as I emerged from the car, eyes darting back and forth so fast you’d think I was a meth-head.
Odessa, Texas had a couple different reputations, one we all know and I don’t want to get into for the 8 billionth time, but that movie and the Texas legend of politeness prevailed to most.
The people I worked for mostly told a different tale. No movie stars, but dreams of hitting it big loom in everyone’s head. I wasn’t here to pull money out of the ground but from the pockets of those who do. They told those tales of the millionaires and the hard roughnecks that helped them get there.
As with any town of transients, the good are overshadowed by the hustlers, grifters and gangsters that fall behind the fast burning cash, bar room brawls and drugs. I was regaled with stories of cartel drug wars and death. What I found to come was a mixed bag of chaos.
Ordering a couple of burritos and putting my last bit of cash towards my gas tank, I headed out for my torn up little RV a friend let me borrow for the trip while reminding me his father had it when he was a boy some 70 years ago.
Well taken care of? Not in the slightest, but it mattered not. It was damn near free and the slightly sketchy RV park I found on Craigslist was priced like I went back to the 1990’s.
Who am I to complain?
I went to work in a shop, now swallowed by the progress of time and settled in to discovering the Permian Basin. Time marched forward and I was blessed to slowly meet the wide variety of personalities that made up the tattoo industry out here; and as with any business you try to not get sucked into all the dramatic parts while sitting on the sidelines with popcorn enjoying the show. I’ve watched as artists evolved or burnt out as we do everywhere else, so in a sick way it reminded me with every failure we were all connected.
Our reasons differ but our passions for tattooing, for creating beautiful things by cutting flesh apart is a sacred dance no matter the continent, so even in a casual acquaintance or shop brethren it made me proud to see the shops grow in their own ways and just tip my hat to the ones that once were.
Every time I leave she welcomes me back with open arms, some don’t get that hospitality. Over the years I’ve met dozens of guest artists that come show love with their creativity and exuberance for the wild west, yet very few stay. Many of those who do, don’t stay long, even when your shop is full and happy a person can find it hard to set their roots into the Earth of the Permian Basin.
Yet if you ever leave her she’ll be burned into your mind and soul. I’ve found a lot I didn’t know was out here mixed with the dust storms and egos of the same magnitude.
I found new ways to struggle. New pain. Through it all, I found new love and new resolve. Surviving oil busts and the Covid malarkey, this little town of chaos can always throw a big city amount on your shoulders.
All I can do is tattoo. Soccer moms to CEOs, roughnecks to linemen, cops and drug dealers. Their faith, beliefs, hopes and fears come forth when my needle rips flesh. Mostly those things don’t align every time with my views, but I’m a tattooer. I listen.
As lines embed into your skin, I listen.
As the pain opens every nerve in their mind and body, the weight of their world is lifted. My answers are never perfect, but the moment is, as I wrap their new badges of honor and pride.
For that moment in this town, my scraggly roots dig a bit deeper in the caliche, seeing happiness cross the face of each sponsor of my art.
It doesn’t take the world to be happy, just a moment of pain.
