I leaned forward, rested my elbow on the desk, and looked into the eyes of the CEO. Methodically, I shifted my gaze to the NIH program officer, the CTO, a post-doctoral researcher, a contracting officer, and the portfolio executive. Each returned my stare as I read the Zoom room.
These are the moments that justify my hourly rate.
Then my eyes glanced at a video reflection filling one of the Hollywood Squares. I saw my hand rubbing my beard. There I was, Le Penseur, innocently displaying the freshly inked tattoo on the back of my hand. I swiftly dropped it off-camera.
Ah… This is what Nick was talking about.
I met Nick at an art exhibit in downtown Raleigh a few years ago. He had a block print of a Harley-Davidson motorcycle engine that caught my eye. We were in the hallway of an old warehouse that had been up-cycled into individual artist studios. We walked into Nick’s small space and I went right for the engine print, pulling some bills from my pocket.
He had a QR code taped to the table where he sat. “Do you take cash?”
“Sure, but I don’t have change.”
I’m unsure why my response was, “How about you keep the change as a down payment for a tattoo?”
“Are you sure? I don’t need to keep this. But I’d love to do a tattoo for you.”
“Wait. What? You are a tattoo artist?” emphasizing the “are.”
“I will be, officially, soon.” Nick was going through the lengthy process of getting his license. We hit it off immediately. He rides motorcycles and bicycles. We have multiple friends in common. Both of us saw King Gizzard and The Lizard Wizard play at New Belgium Brewing in Asheville. Yet somehow we’d never met.
He’s a talented printmaker and illustrator. His work surrounds me. A mural in a favorite record shop. Art behind the bar at a local dive. He was the tattoo artist I’d been seeking for twenty years.
My first tattoo was in the early ‘90s, done by Diamond Ted in Janesville, Wisconsin. I found the one-of-a-kind artist while on a 4,000-mile motorcycle journey. I’d go back to Ted for more than a decade until he retired, and hadn’t sat for a new tattoo since.
“Tell me a story. I want to know what you’re thinking.”
Nick and I met at Raleigh Times a few weeks later to discuss the piece.
The print that pulled me in was the Harley engine displayed in his studio and I had an idea about my best friend, who moved on unexpectedly and much too soon. His siblings offered me his motorcycle, a 1994 Heritage Softail Custom with an S&S V-Twin. They knew it was something we collaborated on to build.
“I can take a picture of that engine and share it with you. The tattoo will be a tribute to John Kelly. It’s important for me that the tattoo has a bird. All of my tattoos have birds. Maybe on the air filter cover?”
Birds are freedom. They are spirits of loved ones who walked among us. Now they fly above us. I thought about the phoenix Abby drew for me after we got serious. She’s a talented artist herself. I wanted a firebird tattoo at some point.
I told Nick where my mind drifted before switching to yet another topic.
“My daughter and I have been estranged for a decade. I want something that represents her. I’m not sure what. That’s a separate tattoo. I foresee us doing a lot of work together.”
He asked how we came to be estranged, and I told him the story. Then I moved on again, thinking out loud with the artist.
“I never wear my wedding ring. I’m just not into jewelry, and things on my hands bother me. While we’re at it, whatever idea we do first, I’d love to get a wedding band tattoo. I won’t have to remember to wear it, and I’ll always know it’s there.”
Then I proposed an idea. “What do you think about incorporating the phoenix and ring together? Have the firebird inspired by Abby on my forearm, the flames can cross over the top of my hand, and then it can end at the ring?”
Tattoo artists often avoid doing hands. Most studios have policies against it. Nick didn’t get into all that. He didn’t shy away from the idea. But he did say, “You want something more significant than just the flames crossing over the top of your hand. It’s a prominent place. Are there any significant symbols in your life? A cross? Your zodiac sign?”
“Not a cross. I’m a Scorpio. That could work, if you have some ideas for how to fit it in.”
“Maybe it could be on a medallion? What if the phoenix is holding a bicycle chain in its claws? The Scorpio could be on the medallion hanging from the chain.”
Over the next few weeks, Nick drew up ideas to consider. The phoenix was looking rad, but something wasn’t quite right with the chain and medallion idea. Was a Scorpio meaningful enough?
Inspiration struck when I saw a piece of art my daughter made a decade ago while in middle school. A block print of a flame that I framed and hung above my typewriter. It’s a rare item of hers that I still possess. After the divorce, I lost nearly all my belongings. During the short time she stayed with me at my apartment before we got separated, she did this project. Seeing it sparked an idea.
“I initially thought the tattoo for my daughter would be a separate piece. But what if we make her art the medallion?”
Nick liked it, and after I texted him a photo of the print, he drew up a concept. We called it “the flame piece.” His initial concept had the flame piece on the medallion connected to the chain. We went back and forth on this for days. Something wasn’t sitting quite right.
The medallion was important for Nick to have the white space he needed. But it didn’t feel right to me. He was super respectful throughout the whole design process and suggested we connect over the phone.
“What if the flame piece is the medallion? I’m having a hard time putting this into words. Instead of the medallion being a circle, what if the medallion were the same shape as the flame that my daughter made?”
My words weren’t clear, but Nick puzzled them together. “I’ll have to figure out how to get negative space around it. How will the flame piece attach to the chain?”
“What if the flame piece was a link in the bicycle chain?”
When I saw his sketch, it was a done deal. We got started in the summer of 2024. Overall, it took three full days spread over nearly two months to complete the tattoo. I needed to wait at least two weeks between each sitting to ensure the previous piece healed.
On the first day, Nick did the outside of the forearm and completed the head of the Phoenix near the crease of my elbow. He planned to do the flame piece on my hand and the bird’s claws on my wrist during the second visit. This would leave an untouched space on my inner forearm for Nick to connect the head to the claws with a fiery wing in the third session. It was a complex tattoo that Nick envisioned corkscrewing around my arm.
Tattoos transfer well from a flat sheet of paper to a smooth expanse of skin. But in what he dreamed up, the tattoo was in 3D, wrapping around my arm like the stripes on a candy cane. What you see on the page doesn’t translate the same. Connecting the elbow crease to the hand needed to be done by freehand, with no paper representation able to show the whole story.
The Zoom incident irked me. Throughout the lengthy and physically painful process of getting the tattoo, I never considered the judgment some people might make about a tattoo on my hand. Oh, don’t get me wrong. I knew some people judged me for my tattoos. But I never cared. At least, I didn’t think I cared until I dropped my hand off-camera.
Am I guilty? For what?
No one mentioned a thing in that meeting. Over the coming days, I would get more comfortable seeing its reflection on Zoom. I’m an Italian from New Jersey. I speak with my hands. Noticing the tattoo flash across your monitor is inevitable. Schedule a meeting. You’ll see it.
My colleagues at the NIH saw it. My peers and clients saw it. The only comments I received were positive.
“Is that new? It’s beautiful.”
It was refreshing. But I also wondered if I would be judged differently if I were an unknown. What if I were new to the team? What if I looked different? So far, there are no signs that the ink tarnished my reputation. I’m not discounting the combination of unearned privilege and the years of earned respect influencing that.
Around this same time, I had an in-person meeting with my attorney. It was business and pleasure. I can’t afford strictly business. We had met for yoga and then walked over to a spot to grab breakfast together. He said, “That’s new. What’s the story?”
I told him the whole drawn-out tale. The part about the phoenix Abby drew for me, about the ring, and the flame piece that my estranged daughter had made with block printing, and the block print that drew me in to meet Nick. His art was an engine that reminded me of John Kelly, who is flying above us, flying above my daughter, for he is her godfather.
When I finished talking, the attorney’s plate was empty. I hadn’t even picked up a fork. “That’s the most beautiful story about a tattoo I’ve ever heard,” he said.
From that moment, when I found myself in Le Penseur pose on Zoom, I proudly kept my hand right there, front and center, on camera.
Nick’s vision for the firebird forearm wrap still blows me away. It isn’t easy to show in still photos. After completing the piece, he posted it on Instagram with a video.
Writing this story opened my eyes. I was never ashamed of having tattoos.
Why did my hand drop off-camera?
I’m ashamed of being estranged from my daughter. I’m paid well to be a trusted advisor and mentor. Who would take advice from a failed father? It’s embarrassing. Putting this tattoo on the back of my hand is the most vulnerable thing I’ve ever done. Without Nick’s advice to ensure a hand tattoo be a special piece, I would have never made such a good decision. I wouldn’t be telling such an important story. And I wouldn’t be constantly reminded of such a meaningful relationship with my daughter. Thank you, Nick!
Thank you for reading.
Health, happiness, kindness, respect
for every being and all things.
— Andrew
Originally published on Medium in The Narrative Arc
© 2026 Andrew J. DiMeo, Sr. All rights reserved. Permission granted to share with attribution.