Most of the guys we ran around with back then were in some shape or form an amateur tattoo artist of some kind. It was something that guys shared, fresh ink got the conversation flowing when we weren’t jammin. So with all the freelance art going on and with the way Jim Morningstar could play, it was surprising and abstractly suiting that Jim was twenty two and had never been under the needle. That was until the day we met Little Fox, and Jimmy got his first tattoo.
We had breakfast at the corner cafe and were going to head to the movies to watch Enter The Dragon. We had finished our Irish coffees and were sitting at the bar when this giant biker walks in. This guy looked like something straight out of the WWF: Leather chaps, black cut off shirt and full sleeves of simply hypnotizing animal tattoos. He even had one of those feather ear rings like Mr. T wears. Sure enough the road warrior made a b-line straight to the bar and sat down in the empty stool between Jim and I. Jim smerked in a way so that the beast couldn’t see him and I sat in awe of this true freak of the highway (and I say freak in the most honorable way). So this guy says, out of nowhere, “You boys wouldn’t happen to be drinkin? Would ya?” Jim and I looked straight at each other and as we started to grin, Jim replied for the both of us, “Is the Pope Catholic?”
Three pints and four shots past our movie, Jim and I had struck up quite the conversation with our new drinking partner.This living legend was none other than: John Little Fox Cross of the Cherokee Nation. Born and raised on the reservation and reborn on the highway, Little Fox -as we called him- was a lover of whiskey, women, Black Sabbath, and tattoos. We said plenty about the first four things, but the most interesting of Little Fox’s passions were his managerie of tattoos. The man explained his tattoos as sacred, not just to him, but to the great spirit. He said that the spirits that fill his arms were always their, he just filled them with ink. He went through and named each in his native tongue, and at the end whispered a prayer to us.
At this point Jimmy looks at me as if someone has his nuts in a twist. We can’t figure out if this guy is real; if he’s just drunk or real drunk or what? But we take another shot, and to lighten the mood, I show him my measley tattoos. He simply nods and asks me what my name is? I tell him and he says that he’s glad to meet me. He looks to Jim and, (grinning like he had before) he said, “James Morningstar… Esquire.” Little Fox froze for a moment and then smiled a wide smile.
” My father’s brother was a shaman, a true traveler of the waves, he was known as (something in Cherokee), but he was also known as Jim Morningstar to the white man. With such a proud name, you surely must have some great mark upon you?”
“You mean do I have any tattoos?” Jim asked.”No. I haven’t felt it’s been a special enough occasion.”
Fox froze again and once more the smile ran across his tanned-leather face. “Jim Morningstar, ” He bellowed, ”is the most chance day of your life, not a special enough occasion?”
Following another shot of whiskey: Jim, myself and our new found Indian Guide were stumbling down the West-Fifth as Little Fox sang “Crazy Train” at the top of his lungs. Miraculously after seventeen blocks and all of Ozzy’s catalogue we stumbled into the front door of a shady two story house. The house resembled ginger bread and I remember Fox telling us that he had moon-shine to help us “reach” the night. Not ten minutes after we had arrived, Jimmy was shirtless in a worn black-leather arm chair with Little Fox sitting over his right forearm. Needle in one hand, and moon-shine in the other, Little Fox began to chant and howl wildly into space. Harmonically in sync with Fox’s tribal song, the needle-gun began to buzz; and as I listened (drunk and in disbelief), The Cherokee Road Warrior known as John Little Fox Cross spoke to Jim in plain english:
“Morningstar! You have stirred my brave ancestors’ spirits and so I will bestow upon you the gift of my blood-line. In your mark will reside great and powerful spirits. For the ink is not ink at all, but the blood of the old gods. My family has held it since before the stars fell.”
“ In these fallen god’s blood lies the power to fulfill your greatest will and desire. Though, let only your truest and purest of wishes guide my hand.” Jim nodded again, and after taking a draw from the bottle, Little Fox clutched Jim’s arm. “The needle will now trace it’s path.”
Jimmy looked him in the eye and toasted Little Fox. I sat speechless on the couch, wondering (among other things) what if I could will anything to happen to me, what would I choose?” I debated that question for about half an hour, and then I moved onto the thought that my friend, Jim Morningstar, is going to have his deepest desire granted. The time drug by slowly and for the next two hours the only sound was the buzz of the needle against Jim’s skin.
