The Art You Find in a Waffle House

Waffle House. My waitress has a bunch of tattoos. The women customers in the booth behind mine are talking about it in voices loud enough to alter the migratory patterns of waterfowl.

“Did you see ALL her tattoos? Our waitress?”

“I know.”

“Why do they DO that to themselves?”

“I know.”

I personally do not have tattoos. I come from teetotalling fundamentalists whose moms ironed our Fruit of the Looms. If I had come home with, for example, a Superman tattoo on my chest, the proverbial fertilizer would have hit the proverbial oscillating fan.

But I don’t dislike tattoos the way some do. No, tattoos weren’t in fashion when WE were young, but if they had been, believe me, we’d have them.

I know this because during my youth members of my generation were clambering to purchase $10 polo shirts with $90 alligators embroidered on the fronts.

My friend Pete and I were the only ones in the entire fifth grade who did not own Izod polo shirts. So Pete and I took matters into our own hands. Pete’s mom had an embroidery machine. We begged her to craft a dozen alligator patches to sew onto our Kmart polos and—voila!—instant cool factor.

We gave Pete’s mom DETAILED instructions, then left her unsupervised. Which, looking back, was a mistake. Because Pete’s mother delivered 12 polo shirts bearing colorful patches of Snoopy, Papa Smurf, and four of the original seven dwarves.

The waitress was visiting each table, warming up coffees. She visited two ladies behind me. The ladies represented my generation. Their conversation kept growing louder.

“They just look so trashy. Tattoos.”

“I know, I wish I could tell these kids, ‘Quit screwing up your bodies.’ It’s stupid.”

The young waitress finally made it to my table. I saw her inkwork. Her arm was painted in a sleeve of faded reds and greens. Images of dragons adorned her forearms.

“I like your ink,” I said.

She smiled. Then she glanced at the ladies in the booth behind me, who were evidently trying to speak quietly but were still using voices that rattled most dental fillings.

“Thanks,” my waitress said.

That’s when I noticed a date inscribed beneath one of the dragon tats. The waitress noticed me staring. “It’s my son,” she said, giving me a better presentation of her artwork. “He used to LOVE dragons.”

“What is your son’s name?”

She smiled again. This smile looked like it hurt. “His name was Daniel.”

Was.

She moved away from my table and kept about her busywork. Meantime, the women behind me kept about theirs.

“I see so many pretty girls with tattoos. I JUST don’t GET it.”

“Why would anyone want to LOOK like that?”

“No idea. I’d be SO embarrassed.”

The waitress visited my table again. She tore off my check and placed it facedown.

“Anything else?” she asked.

“May I ask you a question?” I replied.

She waited.

“What happened to your son?”

There were no tears in her eyes. But there were tears in her voice. “He was 11. His uncle was driving. It was instant.”

None of us said anything.

She looked at her own forearm and admired it. “My son designed this one.”

The ladies behind me had quit talking.