As I entered his house, the familiar musty scent came to me.  It’s not the bad kind of musty but the kind that someone would notice but not mind to smell.  I saw the excitement on my brother’s face to have someone who wasn’t under the age of nine in his house visiting.  The first image I see of him, always, is his big, white, and straight smile.  It distracted me for a minute from his slightly greasy hair, X-box controller in his left hand, and beer can in his right. He greets my boyfriend and me with the normal, “Hey, what’s up, guys?  How’s it goin, J-Man?”  He rushed back over to the T.V displaying Pub G; he sat down his controller, and return to us.  We began discussing the practice tattooing that inspired the visit. 
  

My brand new tattoo kit I had obtained for Christmas struck the interest of my brother.  He asked me to come over, so he could mess with it, but like I expected, my brother decided that I was going to tattoo him.  Although I gave a small “J” to one of my friends on her ankle, this would be my first real time tattooing -- the first time!  “I liked this,” my brother announced, showing me an astronaut image on his phone.  “I want it right here,” he told me, pointing to his bicep.    After we discussed what he wanted, he exclaimed to his wife and me, ”We can all draw this and which ever drawing is the best one will be the one we put on my arm.” We all agreed on this idea, and my brother began to draw his.  After he then I.  After I finished, my brother’s wife took the paper and began to draw.  She took the longest because she wanted everything to look perfect. 

She drew then erased then drew then erased and preceded with that process for about fifteen minutes.  Her drawing was by far the best.  I took the flawless drawing, covered in eraser shavings, laid it on the transfer paper and began to trace it.  Once I was finished tracing, I directed my brother’s wife, ”Please, get some soapy water on a wash cloth and help me transfer the astronaut on to my brother’s bicep.”  After getting his bicep slightly wet, I pressed the drawing on as straight as I could, leaving my hand on it for a minute while applying pressure.  I took the damp transfer paper off, and a little plum outline of the astronaut sitting on the moon remained.  As the outline dried, I began to set out my supplies.  While setting out my supplies, I thought of how clean everything was supposed to be and how I was hoping to not mess up the tattoo.  I also thought that my brother was the one who wanted it, and he must have known what he was getting into.  I would have most likely messed up.

I set out my small metallic brief case with all my supplies in it.  I fidgeted with the case for a moment on the tiny almond table by his couch and began to get everything out.  As I began, he came out of the kitchen with two coffee-colored stools for my supplies.  I laid out everything I needed. I opened a fresh, steel, pointy needle.  My hands shook, and my forehead seemed to grow damper as the time came closer for me to permanently draw on my brother.  My brother seemed to be as calm as a seasoned astronaut landing on the moon, watching everything I sat out with curiosity. After the outline of the astronaut dried for about ten minutes, I began to get the ink ready and the machine hooked up. 

The needle vibrated my hand as I positioned my hand over the moon outline, but once it punctured his skin it became easier.  The whole time I tattooed him, Mike meekly told me, “Take it slow and don’t worry; it doesn’t hurt. Don’t be afraid to dig it in a little deeper.”  Once I started on the astronaut, my lines became smoother and a little straighter, and the dampness on my forehead began to vanish.  With every good line, my brother in a light voice whispered, “Good job” or “Oh that was a good one,” which helped calm me down and sit a little taller.  After the astronaut I had to go and fill in small circles in the moon, a flag, a rocket ship and a big black square on the astronaut’s helmet where his face would appear.  All the small details seemed easy and painless to him, but once I put the needle to the helmet, it seemed like I had to go over it, over and over again.  Every time I retattooed that spot, his face puckered harder than the time before, and he flinched a little more every time.  I managed to get most of the square filled in, and he told me we could touch the rest up another time. 

When I finished, I squeezed the A and D ointment out of the packet and smeared a thin layer of it on the fresh ink.   He was so ecstatic; he took long strides to the bathroom where he admired his new ink in the mirror. The big smile never left his face.  He kept explaining, “It’s so awesome that you put this on me, and you’re my sister; and your only seventeen.  Gosh, it’s so awesome.  I love ya, sis.” He was so proud, and in turn that made me feel proud of myself.