Tattoo or not tattoo…

Tattoo or not tattoo…

When we first consider the word ‘tattoo’ we think of many things. We are not thinking of the diminutive tuxedoed sidekick of Mr. Roarke on Fantasy Island. Also we might consider the slow drumbeat of the sound of retreat on some British garrison. Here we are looking at the modern phenomenon of the covering of many bodies, male and female with colorful inked pictures and words. In the days of yore, many of the men who went to sea would return with a distinctive tattoo on an arm or leg. Sometimes a picture of a fish, or maybe a buxom woman or sometimes a big heart with the word – Mother- in the middle. Few would go to the extent of old Queequeg, right hand man for old Captain Ahab. (for those that did not get that far in the book, Q’s body was covered in tattoos.) Many a soldier or sailor returned from Vietnam with a tattoo commemorating the time there. Most were just on the forearm or leg, some maybe on the chest or back. The science fiction writer of Fahrenheit 451 and other tales, Ray Bradbury, even wrote a story called the Illustrated Man, about a circus performer covered in tattoos. It was conceived as science fiction, but today it has become reality. We have men and women of all walks of life who are walking tattoo billboards. The young gentlemen who have them arrayed on their legs, have to wear shorts in all seasons to display their art. You spend that much money and you can’t keep it covered. Girls have to wear short tops to show off what they have imprinted just above their tailbone or sleeveless tops so everyone might view the colorful pictures inked on their shoulders. All these exhibitionists have something to say, and since they spent so much money on saying it, they must share it with the rest of the world. Thanks for sharing.

But you might be saying to yourself, so what about all this tattoo nonsense, when did it all begin? And where will it all end? The answer to the first question, is not easily accessible on the internet or in most books. It is a mysterious tale which has been hidden from sight for many, many years. During my time in the Orient, I had a chance encounter at a roadside restaurant in northern Thailand with a wizened, befuddled old man.  He told me that for the price of a bottle of Mekong whiskey and a pack of cigarettes, he was willing to share a tale that stretched back for many centuries. Being young, and having nothing but time on my hands, I asked him to proceed.  The old man lit up a Lucky Strike and began to sip his whiskey. The more he drank, the easier the words came to him as he began to recollect the story. It was back in the ancient world, near the kingdom of Mesopotamia. In the small country of Lesopotamia, which had succeeded from the larger kingdom some years earlier in a bitter civil war.  The ruler was King Tahtmohotep, first of the Carrington Dynasty. He was a strict military leader and ruler of his country. Since they were always threatened by their larger neighbor to the north, King Taht had to keep a large standing army and a fleet of chariots ready for battle at any time. Now his son, and heir to the throne was a ner-do-well of the best kind. He spent his time thundering over the desert tracks in his favorite chariot, accompanied by his pack of hooligan friends. They would spend time hunting any wild animals that came across their path. They would shoot their arrows or fling their spears while trying to bag some big game. The prince was always the best marksman and had his artist slave, Monk, paint pictures on the side of his chariot, depicting his latest conquest. He even named his chariot, Mabel, after his girlfriend, and had Monk paint a highly stylistic portrait of the buxom Mabel on the side of the chariot.

Now, on a normal Saturday night, the gang would be all hopped up on fermented pumpkin wine and riding around the block terrorizing the populace in their out of control chariots. This one memorable Saturday, the prince and his pals eventually repaired to one of the royal palaces in the suburbs. They sat around playing a game of Dudoo, which was a card game involving spitting and drinking shots and hoping you were not the last one out. As that person had to go sit in the outhouse for an hour. This night, the Prince was so intoxicated, that he started rambling on about how he no longer had any more room on his chariot for the pictures of all of his conquests. One of his friends, Prince Donamocous by name, suggested something totally out of the box. He told the prince : “why don’t you get old Monk and all of his inks, and have him print a picture on your arm or leg?” Well, even though he was pretty drunk, the prince thought this was a little nuts and wondered how the picture would stay on his arm. When he took his occasional bath, it would probably wash off. Nevertheless, they called for Monk to report on the double to the palace. One of the miscreants, pulled Monk out his bed and got him over to resolve this critical problem. Once he was suitably awake, and aware of what he was being asked to do, he decided to put on the old thinking cap (which they did have at the time, to enhance the thought process) and come up with a solution. After a period of time, Monk came back to the prince and gave him his idea. “My prince, I have a way that I can give you a beautiful portrait of whatever you want and put it on your arm or whichever limb you might chose. This portrait will stay for as long as you live.” The prince was very excited and told Monk to proceed. But Monk hesitated. “there is one small drawback to this….it will be a little painful when I apply the picture. I have to use some sharp objects  along with the ink, to make the picture indelible.” The prince thought for awhile and finally said : “…try it out first on Duke Kevin and he can tell us how much it hurts. If he can take it, so can I.” So they pulled over a drunken Duke Kevin and Monk set to work on putting a picture of a donkey on his forearm. It took some time, as this was the first attempt to ever do anything like this. Eventually, the job was done, just as Duke Kevin was sobering up. He began to whimper, but was soon pleased to see the finished product on his arm. It was a critical success! Soon Monk was applying one to the shoulder of Prince Taht. He asked to have a small picture of Mabel as his first. Of course, they had to send someone to get Mabel out of bed, as Monk wanted to be sure that he got the picture right. He didn’t want to incur the royal ire.

Now the Prince was ecstatic. He had a whole body left to have various pictures of wild beasts put all over to show everyone his prowess as a hunter and a royal dude. Soon many others began to copy the prince. All the young sports of Lesopotamia were wearing wife beater shirts to show off their inked pictures. It caught on like wildfire. Many began to ask where this crazy trend came from. The king was very upset and wanted to put a stop to all this nonsense. He did not like the whole idea of walking picture galleries. He told his son that once he got back from going to war in the north, he would see the end of it when he returned As fate would have it, the king had a bad chariot accident on the way to the war, when his buggy flipped over on s tricky dune and he was flung into a pit of quicksand. So that was the end of King Tahtmohotep I. The news quickly got back to the prince and he found out that he was now the King. After a very short period of mourning, they had a coronation, a gala ball and one heck of a shindig. The new King in his inaugural speech, decreed himself King Tahtmohotep II. He also let it be known that he expected all males over the age of 15 should get down to Monks and get a picture put on their arm. He also let everyone know that he was the inventor of this new body art. Thence forward he was naming it after himself, a King Taht-II. Which over time of course, was eventually shortened to Tahttwo, and then to what we now know as “tattoos”. So that was how they came be called that.

At the end of the narrative, I bought the old gentleman another pint of Mekong for telling me such an enchanting story. I left the restaurant and hopped a tuk-tuk taxi back to my hotel.  The next morning, I thought I dreamed all of this, but the Mekong hangover reminded me of the old man and the story.  I made some notes and put it all away.  Since I don’t have any documentary proof of this, I haven’t previously published the tale and the whole tattoo thing was not that big at the time. But now that they are a such huge, modern marvel, it was about time that the story should be shared with the world. I dedicate this story to that old man, wherever he might be.

copyright 2017