Just as the giant, steel cranes at the site of the convention center two blocks away are a sign that Nightingale's small shop someday will be more valuable as a parking lot or gift boutique, so are there signals that Nightingale's is becoming a relic - a victim of progress. He has put a portrait of Richard Nixon on a staunch Republican's shoulder and tattooed gold wedding bands on a couple who couldn't afford rings. In the last 30 years, he has designed more than 200 copyrighted tattoos and etched those screaming eagles, naked women, leaping tigers, red roses, and clever sayings into hundreds of yards of skin. I sharpen me blade, for tattooing's my trade, I'm the man with golden needle." An Irish jig is playing on the cassette recorder inside: "They come to me from far and near, For a girl or a ship or an eagle. Satisfied at last, he flips a switch that makes the neon sign above his doorway glow blood-red: "TATTOOS." In his studio, Nightingale moves slowly, deliberately, examining each flask of rainbow-colored dye, inspecting every stainless steel instrument before him as if he were about to perform delicate surgery. Outside the tiny tattoo parlor - a blue-gray cubicle tucked between a closed Chinese restaurant and the flashing lights of the Top Cat pinball arcade at 12th and I streets downtown - office workers hurry by, bums beg for pocket change, a pudgy prostitute peddles her wares and two drunks are dancing a sidewalk soft-shoe to an imaginary tune.Ĭarol Nightingale, one of the last original tattoo artists in the nation, ignores them all.
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