Today I met a man that would have been once been regarded as a circus freak: the tattooed man.
I met him on the bus while making a journey that took way too long. We chatted about how the bus service had hiked our fare another 20 cents, but still found the time to take coffee breaks at coffee shops and show up a half hour late. I've always been intimidated by large amounts of ink, because I tend to associate needles with pain. I could tell that the Tattooed Man did not intend for this reaction; he was merely expressing himself in a way that others couldn't comprehend.
I got to talking to him about his art in a rather clumsy way; I could tell he'd been questioned about it before. He didn't seem to mind, though. Black sections of Native-inspired designs made their ways up his forearms, separated by an inch or two of bare flesh that had escaped the tattoo artist's needle; the finished result looks like a segmented sleeve. He was about 22 years old, having purchased his art as a part of hi