Page 1106 - Wordsmith A Guide to College Writing

and Tales from the Crypt. Some of the stones bear names, others
don’t, and there’s still plenty of empty space where more monuments

will appear later. This is no actual graveyard I’m looking at, but a

tattoo, a work in progress that will eventually cover the entire broad

back of Randy, a local biker. More names will appear on the stones

each year as his buddies ride off to that motorcycle rally in the sky.

The tattooed graveyard scene is a traditional way for bikers to honor
their dead. The creator of this tableau, Sarah Peacock, is not

specifically a biker tattoo artist, although she lives in the same coastal

town as me—Wilmington, North Carolina—where a good number of

motorcycle dudes and ladies also make their home. She does tattoos

for college professors too, and real estate agents and restaurant

workers. A fair number of these clients are motivated by the loss of a
child, a grandparent, or a sibling.

“Well, there’s nothing more permanent than a tattoo,” says Sarah 2

when I ask her why death makes people want to ink themselves.

“There’s nothing more symbolic than to permanently etch your skin in
memoriam to someone else.” She is leaning over the right bicep of

Eric, a middle-aged guy with a handlebar mustache. With long-taper

number-twelve stainless steel needles, Sarah uses quick strokes to

insert ink into the epidermis. Her wild red hair is corralled into its usual

two braids, each looped upon itself, and her skin is mapped out so
completely in tattoos that it appears a grayish blur when she moves to

speak or change out ink. Her clear blue eyes are lined with creases;

right now they are flat and intent on her work.