FROM THE BIG SCREEN TO BARE SKIN

Sometime in the early 2000s, I was driving through the Southwest on my way to Oklahoma when I started seeing shadow figures along the highway, which is generally a pretty good indication that you’ve been driving too long and need to find a place to sleep before you become part of the local evening news.

I pulled into a cheap but reasonably clean hotel with every intention of getting some sleep, except my brain apparently hadn’t received the same instructions as the rest of my body. After lying there unable to sleep, I decided to find a laundromat and wash my clothes, figuring Oklahoma was only going to be a one-day gig and I’d be back on the road immediately afterward. A late-night laundromat seemed like a reasonable place to spend a few hours, considering my other option was staring at the ceiling of a hotel room I’d just paid good money to sleep in.

Everything was going according to plan until I encountered the change machine, which apparently had a personal problem with my money. I had a stash of stripper dollars, and before you get too excited, we’re talking about actual dollar bills, not some elaborate financial arrangement involving exotic dancers. That machine refused to accept any of them. I tried feeding it one bill after another, straightening them out and doing everything short of begging the thing to cooperate, until I finally decided I’d had enough and was getting ready to leave.

“I’ve got change if you need it.”

The offer came from a raspy voiced woman named Cheryl, who looked to be in her fifties and could best be described as an Albuquerque queen of the double wide trailer. Now, before anybody starts accusing me of making fun of the woman, I’m going to stop you right there.

I grew up in a trailer myself, so these are my peeps, and I’m describing Cheryl exactly the way I remember encountering her that night. She was wearing cutoff jeans, some weird ass blouse that I still couldn’t exactly identify if my life depended on it, and enough rings to make you wonder if she’d been collecting engagement proposals from truckers along Interstate 40.

Around her wrist was a bracelet decorated with turquoise, or at least something that looked like turquoise, attached to what appeared to be one of those locally crafted Southwestern souvenirs you see for sale all over New Mexico.

Cheryl turned out to be a pretty interesting character. She told me she’d previously made her living selling crank, methamphetamine for those unfamiliar with the terminology, but had retired from that line of business and was now enjoying life on several acres of land. And yes, you guessed it, she owned a double wide! LOL.

She had a few animals, seemed perfectly content with her circumstances, and was genuinely one of those easygoing people you could talk to about practically anything at three in the morning without wondering whether you’d made a terrible mistake.

Cheryl was also taking an enthusiastic interest in my personal well-being. She kept telling me how tired I looked, which was probably the most accurate assessment anybody had made of me that entire day, and informed me that she happened to give massages. She could also read tarot cards, and invited me over to her place for drinks. I’m not entirely sure which service she intended to provide first, but I was getting the impression that the evening’s entertainment wasn’t going to involve folding laundry.

Cheryl was friendly. Very friendly! She’d come close, put her hand on my shoulder, and continue talking as though we’d known each other for years. She was practically perspiring nicotine, which made the next observation strange. Her breath smelled like light sage, yeah! I swear to God. I’m chilling with a retired crank dealer in cutoff jeans, wearing half the jewelry department of a Southwestern gift shop, smelling like she’d spent the afternoon inside a cigarette factory, yet her breath had this faint herbal aroma that belonged somewhere else. I couldn’t figure out whether she’d been smoking, blessing the laundromat, or preparing to perform an exorcism.

As entertaining as Cheryl was, I wasn’t accepting that invitation. NOPE!!! I still had a long drive ahead of me, and the last thing I needed was to wake up in an Albuquerque double wide wondering what the fuck the tarot cards had predicted.

Cheryl also caught my attention with what she was sporting. On her left arm was a tattoo of Willie Nelson. Of course I had to ask her about it. Her reply:

“I love the fucking man!”

That was Cheryl’s explanation. No lengthy discussion about the significance of his music, no elaborate account of how Willie had influenced her life, and certainly no attempt to justify putting another human being’s face permanently on her body. She loved the fucking man, and as far as Cheryl was concerned, that settled the matter.

And hey, I know this is a long-ass introduction for an article about movie and TV tattoos, but you needed to visualize all this shit. If I’d opened with a few paragraphs about Hollywood characters and their popularity among tattoo collectors, you wouldn’t have met Cheryl, and I think that would have been a terrible loss for everybody involved.

Willie Nelson might be better known for his music, but he’s also appeared in movies and television, and Cheryl’s tattoo got me thinking about the faces people choose to carry around on their bodies. Movie and TV tattoos have given us everything from horror movie portraits of Freddy Krueger and Michael Myers to Star Wars sleeves and entire collections dedicated to television characters. I wonder how many of those collectors could explain their tattoos any better than Cheryl explained hers. I doubt many could improve on her answer.

Planning elaborate compositions, researching tattoo artists, and deciding which scenes or characters deserve the space is how I imagine the Collector thought process rolls. Others probably operate on Cheryl’s philosophy. They love the fucking character, and that’s good enough for them.

Hollywood can spend millions on special effects and getting an actor’s face to look perfect on camera, but the tattoo artist has to accomplish something recognizable with ink and skin. And unlike the movie studio, the artist doesn’t get to release a director’s cut if the portrait comes out looking like the actor’s distant cousin. That’s a huge reason to look closely at an artist’s portfolio before trusting them with your favorite movie or television character.

If you’re considering a movie or TV tattoo, spend some time looking at the actual work of tattoo artists rather than picking a name out of a hat or trusting whoever happens to have an opening Saturday afternoon. Inker gives you a place to discover artists and explore their work, and the difference between a convincing portrait and an expensive conversation starter is worth doing a little homework over.

As for Cheryl, I occasionally wonder whether she’s still out there in Albuquerque, enjoying her acreage, her animals, and her double wide, with Willie Nelson keeping her company on that left arm.

J Gekko
Staff Writer, Inker