My buddy Darf and I stumbled across this gem in Mount Vernon, Illinois a few years ago, about half-way through our 28 state road trip. We needed to fuel up the Darf-mobile, and pulled into a gas station right along side this beauty.
There was a tall lanky fellow walking across the parking lot decked out in an ankle-length trench coat [with ruffles], a "shirt" made of what looked like fishnet, and some heavy mascara. Inquiring about the car and its owner, he directed me to see Beefie, who was running a register inside the gas station.
I asked Beefie [or Beefy? I didn't ask about the spelling] if I could take a few snapshots of his Picaso-on-wheels. He didn't seem to understand why someone would want to photograph the vehicle. Is it possible that this poetry in motion was not so much an extension of the Beef-man's personality, but merely a means of transportation?
I asked the Beef-meister if I could snap a quick portrait of him, and his eyes lit up. "Lemme show ya my ink!"
After snapping this photo of Beefie and his tattoos, another guy wanted in on the action. Mike, a self-described "down home Mississippi boy" wanted to know if I thought the artwork on his leg looked like a prison tattoo, or if I thought it was professionally done.
That put me in a quandry. I don't know much about tattoos. While anyone would probably recognize the difference between a masterpiece and a piece of [expletive deleted], how would I be able to tell a decent "prison tattoo" from some substandard work done in a studio?
Mike rolled up his pant leg to reveal a portrait of Jesus Christ covering his calf. It seemed alright, but I was still wary about committing to an answer to his question. Since he asked if it resembled a prison tattoo, I reasoned that he was either profoundly satisfied with the work of a fellow inmate, or extemely dissatisfied with the results from a studio. I played it safe and asked, "Where'd you get that done?"
Turns out Mike was very happy with his bona-fide prison tattoo. I reassured him that looked professionally done, and he was all smiles.
After a short discussion while Darf paid for the gas and some snacks, I learned that Mike had spent five years or so in five different correctional facilities across the state of Mississippi. When asked how he ended up behind bars he responded, "Stupidity."
I appreciated that tidbit of knowledge, since we were headed to Mississippi the very next day. Neither Darf nor I were aware that "stupidity" was a felony in the Magnolia State. We made sure we kept our thinking caps on from the time we left Memphis until we hit the Louisiana state line.
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