It started with finding a discarded business card.

Shadow World Tattoo. There was a phone number but no address. It was amongst the garbage being cleared from an abandoned East Village apartment.
Growing up I didn't know anybody who had tattoos. I was fresh out of NYU and tattoos were not something seen on 20 year old college kids. I knew nothing about tattoos other than I wanted one.

It was the winter of '89 and tattooing was illegal in New York City. Had been for 50 years. Pinball machines and tattooing were outlawed with the same stroke of a pen. Morality legislated.
Heroin, guns, hookers could be found openly but the powers that be were concerned with protecting us from the iniquity of a tattoo.
NYC back in the 80's was the belly of the beast. 
Crack wars raged. AIDS was killing the young and pretty by the thousands. Entire neighborhoods were abandoned burnt out shells.
The murder rate was nearly 3000 a year. 
Desolation was a normal state of being.
At least rent was cheap.

Tattooing was deeply underground. It was a criminal activity. A secretive back room deal often times done by needle and thread. Those practicing the art were viewed as a gangster class. Getting a tattoo was like buying a bag of dope. When you entered their world you were on your own. If the deal went bad you were fucked.

I called the number.

The man who answered was gruff. Abrupt.
"Who are you?"
"What do you want?"
"How did you get this number?"
From a friend I lied. I told him I wanted a tattoo.
"Listen. This ain't no regular tattoo studio. You can't come in here and pick something of the wall. I only do custom work and first we have to meet and see how it goes." 
"Sounds good to me"
I was given an east village address and a time to meet.

It was a cold December the night I went to get a tattoo. To get to the E. 5th street studio I had to walk thru the Bowery, past flop houses, corner drug dealers with beat bags, step over human shit, both the excreted and the breathing.
I found the basement studio and rang the unmarked buzzer.
Rickety stairs led down to a dark brick hallway and a small, spartan room.
I was expecting to meet a jailhouse Rembrandt. 
Instead there was Mike McCabe.
He was slender and clean cut. His accent came off as American Irish working class. Tough but not imposing.
What set him apart were his tattoos. I had never seen anything like them in my life. His arms were covered in ancient Thai texts and symbols. 
He explained that he had studied Anthropology and Buddhism in Thailand. The ink in his arms was made from the ashes of his teacher. 
I had no idea that tattoos could be like that. 
This was mysterious magic centuries removed from the world I knew.
No Tasmanian devils here. I wanted in.

We talked awhile about who I was and what I was looking for. What he was willing to do.
Mike's gruffness eased and was replaced with an articulate easygoing manner.
This was a man pursuing an ancient craft. An artist and scholar, and as I was to find out, an old school hustler.
After talking awhile and looking through his portfolio we deiced on a style.
Black tribal inspired by the tattoos of Borneo headhunters. These heavy black tattoos would shine with light in the afterworld and tell the story of a mans life.
I was sold.
Tribal. I loved the sound of it. Inner city primitive. Perfect for the end of the millennium. 
"Come back in a week and I'll have something drawn up"

I returned to the basement studio one week later
Mike was waiting. From his portfolio he withdrew 3 or 4 drawings. 
I picked a piece that was about 4 inches long and looked like an abstract scorpion. "Good choice. $50 bucks".
I laid out my cash and an hour later walked out with a solid black induction of ink and blood. I had committed an illegal act. 
While my alumni were pursuing internships and grad school, I answered the call of the east village. 
When I got home I showed it to my very proper girlfriend. Horrified, she nearly cried. 

Jump ahead one year. I'm living in Paris France.
A city where tattooing was legal and open.
Everywhere I went I saw my tribal scorpion tattoo. On winos, punk rockers, bikers, skinheads.
They all had it. My "custom" tattoo was on every wall of flash in Paris. Since then I've seen it in tattoo shops all over Europe, Japan and Thailand.
Custom work my ass.
I had the tribal Tasmanian devil tattooed on my arm.

In a city and time filled with dope and murder I was hustled by an anthropologist. A carny with a diploma was my introduction to the shadow world of tattoo.

Somehow it's perfect.