(Artist Frita Kahlo as a young woman in gentleman’s attire.)

Rafael works his ass off. If you took his duties behind the bar at Willow as a full time job, he adds another as a pastry chef after the restaurant closes down at night, making the most extraordinary filled doughnuts.

I have always liked him: he is upbeat to a fault, wears shorts even in the savage winter, and has a curious alternate mode of shaving his head while growing a neatly trimmed beard, or letting his hair come back and going clean-shaven. He can turn himself literally upside down that way, and as a Coast Guard veteran, also knows how to square himself away.

Anyway, the other evening at Willow I was sitting next to Old Jim at the Amen Corner and Raf was behind the bar looking a little rueful, rubbing the left sleeve of his black shirt. I asked him if he was OK, and he responded that a new tattoo was still healing.

Naturally, I was interested in the new ink. Jasper is always enhancing the amount and quality of the designs etched on his body, as many of the young people in the wait staff have. Jasper’s theme is sort of Oriental in nature, which is natural, considering he is from Guam, and I asked if we could see Raf’s new work.

He grimaced a bit, and then unbuttoned the cuff of his sleeve and gingerly rolled up the black sleeve.

“Holy crap!” I said, when the image was revealed. “That is fantastic!”

What he had done was have a black-and-white image of what appeared to be a young man in a tie imposed on his left forearm that extended to a magnificent crimson rose, which at the moment was augmented by a crust of scab and dried blood.

“Who is it?”

“Mexican artist Frita Kahlo,” he said proudly.

“I thought she had that mono-brow thing going. I know her self portrtatis.”

“That is mostly what she did,” said Raf. “She had health problems all her life, and her face was something she could always look at in the mirror.”

“That is incredible detail- how long did it take to get it?”

“Eight hours. We had to quit while we were on the rose. It just was taking too long.”

“Why Frita? You know she lived in Detroit in the 1930s when her husband Diego Rivera was painting those murals at the Institute of Arts on Woodward.”

Raf smiled. “I always liked her work. It is vibrant and iconic and it resonates for me.”

“They would probably save the city’s finances if they could sell those murals,” mused Jim. “Kind of ironic that Henry Ford the capitalist paid communist Diego Rivera to paint a tribute to the value of labor.”

“He paid more than the average wage to get good workers,” I said. “Detroit was an amazing place in its time. And Henry was a good guy for a vicious capitalist anti-Semite.”

Raf shrugged, rolling down the shirt sleeve with a grimace where the cuff touched the oozing rose. “I was hoping to get it done in time for the Tattoo convention in Baltimore, but this won’t be healed in time.” he brightened at the thought. “That means I can get the whole sleeve done for the next one,” he said drawing his finger up the side of his bicep.

“I guess it is appropriate. You were a sailor, after all. What is the rest of the sleeve going to look like? More frita, or would you consider the images from the Rivera mural?”

Raf laughed and picked up a load of black napkins. “I don’t know yet. You have to have the vision.” He moved off down the bar. I looked over at Jim.

“That is incredible work. Can you imagine sitting still for eight hours while getting punched with a needle?”

“Frankly, no,” he growled, taking a pull of Budweiser. “I have no idea what this generation thinks things are going to look like when they are my age.”

“They may droop, but they will be colorful, Jim. I wonder what my next one should be. If Rafael doesn’t do the Detroit Institute of Arts, maybe I will get something from that. Find out who Raf’s artist is. That is talent.”

“You ought to just get a tramp stamp on your ass and leave it at that,’ said Jim.

“I am sort of sympathetic to that idea. But of the many things I am, I am not easy.”

“I didn’t say you were easy,” said Jim. “In fact, quite the contrary.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I will consider it, though I was thinking about a “ΜΟΛΩΝ ΛΑΒΕ!” on the right biceps.”

“If you tell them to come and get it, what the hell happens when they do?”

“Touche, Sir.” Then I waved my un-inked arm in the air, and Jasper headed down the bar toward us with the bottle of Happy Hour chardonnay.

Copyright 2014 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303