I have lived all these years and it has been my fortune to travel all over the world. My family life has been pretty much routine and employment by the largest corporation in this country kept me occupied for 43 years. And from 1942 until late in 1945, the Army of the United States (AUS), not to be confused with the United States Army (USA), seemed to require my low level services.
Now in spite of all that impressive background, this old soldier is completely baffled as to why men – and some women – wear tattoos. What those designs, or insignias or sayings are supposed to achieve has completely eluded me. When a tattooed man comes into my view, my first reaction is to pity him as a misguided individual. If his tattoos are intended to scare me or to impress me, they simply miss their mark. I shake my head wondering what causes people to ravage their skin and all this is followed by the thought that I ought to pity such a fool.
All of this comes to mind because this morning, I was sitting in Judy’s car while she attended to business in the drug store. I know it is called a pharmacy, but it has no soda fountain as in the old days, so it is a drug store, no more, no less. Next door to the drugstore is an establishment which calls itself a delicatessen. In the 33 years that it has been my lot to live in Short Hills, the deli has had two opportunities to serve me. Both experiences told me to never go back to that deli. They weren’t necessarily disasters, but the food that the deli prepared for me came perilously close to that description. Before I went to the deli for the second time, I asked Brian, a long time clerk at the drug store, what he thought of the next-door deli. He said he hadn’t been in that place for at least 15 years. Brian said it all.
While I was waiting for Miss Chicka, the counter-man from the deli came to the sidewalk to have one of his morning cigarettes. His tee shirt showed that each of his arms was tattooed from the fingers to above the elbow. If his tee shirt were removed, perhaps the tattoos went further than that. In any case, he kept his sleeves short so that the tattoos could be seen.
I viewed him from a distance of 25 feet to 30 feet. A few of the markings were fiery red. I suppose that exposure of the arms is to invite admiration for the subject and for the artist who performed the work. When he finished his cigarette, he threw it in the curb lane of the street and retreated into the deli to resume his duties. At least he did not smoke inside the eating establishment.
I know nothing about this fellow because the food from this particular deli does not tempt me in any respect. But if the popular stereotype fits the deli’s counterman, he is probably a consumer of beer and as Miss Chicka suggests, he probably rides a motorcycle. Maybe he is a wrestling fan.
One time a fellow who seemed inclined to court one of my daughters, showed up on a motorcycle. My daughter and I had a talk and he did not come acourting again to our house. And I did not even know if he had a tattoo or if he drank beer. The motorcycle was enough for me.
As a young man, I saw very few people who had a tattoo. Those who did usually covered it with clothing and would exhibit some shame when it was discovered. When I was looking desperately for permanent employment in 1939, 1940 and early 1941, tattoos were out of the question. If a personnel officer saw such a thing on an applicant, it would be a good bet that the job seeker would never complete the employment interview.
Even after I joined the Army, I saw no tattoos. Maybe one or two here or there, but no more than that. Remember, we took showers when we could. In all cases, the soldiers were naked. I can’t recall seeing tattoos even among the toughest and most foolhardy men. There was no rule against it, as far as I knew. It simply wasn’t done.
In African and in Italy, our troops were often involved with troops from Great Britain, Ireland, Australia, New Zealand, Poland and the Ghurkas from Nepal. None of them had skin markings.
In all of my lifetime, I have never yearned for tattoos. The thought of the dirty needles and some obscure picture on my arm or chest has always been repugnant in my mind. The Army did not change those views.
On those occasions where we met tattooed military men, they were usually sailors with the U. S. or with allied forces. When the tattoos were disclosed, it was usually claimed by the tattooed person that:

1. He had been drunk in Shanghai or Manila or Hong Kong and couldn’t remember all the details of what happened.
2. He did it on a dare or to win a bet, or
3. His peer group was getting tattoos and if he declined, he would be shunned in the future.

Maybe those are good reasons, but they never appealed to me. In the past few years, perhaps 90% of black professional basketball players have found the need to be tattooed. They seem to favor the upper arm for the artwork. I suppose the writings and pictures may make the basketball player into a tough man. Perhaps they exist to frighten opponents. But if 90% of all players have tattoos themselves, who is going to frighten whom?
Kenyon Martin plays for the New Jersey Nets. He did his undergraduate work in basketball at the University of Cincinnati. By the end of his third year, he was ready to take on the pros. So he had two large portraits tattooed on each upper arm. Then on the right side of his upper chest, he had the legend of “Bad Ass…..” with a word I can’t see clearly. I believe the last word is “Mother.” He pulls the shoulder strap of his uniform aside to show opponents the “Bad Ass……” legend in moments of triumph. If Willis Reed were still playing, it may be safe to bet that he would show that marking to Willis once and then Reed would flatten Martin for his impertinence.
Last week, Kenyon Martin submitted to an interview with the Star-Ledger of Newark. His main theme was I am no thug: I am black.
When you consider that Martin leads the league in flagrant fouls for which he served two two-day suspensions, perhaps it could be said that the jury is still out on whether he is a thug. The pictures on his arms and the legend on his chest don’t make him a Sunday school boy.
I might mention that legends of New York basketball, both school boy and professional, such as Lew Alcindor, Walt Frazier and the aforementioned Willis Reed find no need for obscene markings on their skin. I know, to each his own, but modern day professional basketball players are largely repulsive.
Mike Tyson, the boxer fought Saturday night in Memphis. He got knocked out in the eighth round. I have no interest in boxing at all. But Tyson has a large part of his upper body covered by tattoos. In his formative years, Tyson was managed by Cus D’Amato. He had an arrangement where Tyson would live with Camille, an elderly female friend of D’Amato. Whatever sense of right and wrong Tyson has – if any – came from this lady. She was very religious with Roman Catholicism being her faith of choice. Perhaps that is why one of Tyson’s arms has a regular Sistine Chapel set of tattoos. Perhaps when Tyson beats up on Robin, his wife, who left him, or on his girlfriends, he can appeal to his arm for forgiveness. Tyson is nothing other than an open sewer for thugship – or thugness. His tattoos don’t help the situation.
As you can see, the counterman coming out to the sidewalk for his cigarette simply exposed my ignorance and wonderment at the world of tattoos. If someone ever forced me to have a tattoo, my mind would probably run to George Schultz who held several positions in the United States Government when it was run by Republicans. At the end, Schultz was the Secretary of State. According to legend, Schultz who attended Princeton University, had a tiger, the mascot of the athletic teams at his school, tattooed on his posterior. When asked about the tiger, Schultz would neither confirm nor deny that it existed. Obviously, no one, not even pushy reporters like Ariana Huffington, would make Schultz drop his pants so that America’s newspaper readers could determine once and for all if the Secretary of State was sitting on a tiger.
Well, no one is forcing me or encouraging me to have a tattoo on any part of my skin. Ordinarily, I would, if forced to have a tattoo, have it placed in the same spot on my anatomy as George Schultz. But Schultz is somewhat older than I am and he may die before I do. Can you imagine the shock that Schultz’s funeral director will experience when he sees that Princeton tiger on Schultz’s backside? Now, if the funeral director survives that catastrophic shock, perhaps I will then think about a tattoo in the same spot.
Schultz spent his formative years at a prestigious university, so he is entitled to have its mascot on his posterior. I spent those years from age 19 to 23 in the Army of the United States so I have no university connection. The Army institute is the Military Academy at West Point where the mascot is a Missouri mule. A mule would be completely downscale, not elegant at all. On the other hand, I like birds. Suppose on the back of the mule I would have tattooed a cardinal, who is the handsomest bird, a mockingbird whose song is sweetest and a hummingbird, whose agility is unparalleled. My funeral director is Paul Ippolito of the Supremely Sanitary Rock of Ages Mortuary in Summit, New Jersey. When I croak, my guess is that Paul would spend a lot of time admiring my posterior tattoo. He might call the local papers or the Star-Ledger of Newark. Perhaps Ariana Huffington would like to take a look as well as the deli guy from Short Hills.
Well, now that I have given it more thought, perhaps a tattoo in the right place may be something that has always been an unconscious desire. Do you think Ariana does tattoos? Of a mule? And of some birds? I certainly hope so. Maybe George Schultz has finally met his match.
E. E. CARR
June 9, 2002
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Apparently there was a guy named John Carrino who sat next to mom’s older sister in school, since their names were alphabetically next to one another. He was Mr. Motorcycle, and seems to have not lasted long. I’ll have to send this essay to her for fact-checking.
Also, I appreciate this essay giving me use for the “objections to modernity” tag which I haven’t been able to break out in a while.