Bobby Pitre ushers you into a small, cluttered room that would seem less jarring in some gritty corner of the industrial post-punk rustbelt than it does in sunny southern Louisiana, where the license plates helpfully advise that you’re now in “Sportsman’s Paradise.”

Indeed, Pitre would seem to be a man out of place. He wears a sharp black fitted and dark tee featuring a cartoon image of three men, each of them a cross between a cowboy and Elvis, riding tiny red spaceships above a classic car hurtling down the highway, flames shooting from its twin tailpipes.

You’re not surprised to find the shirt is promoting “Hod Rod Walt and the Psycho Devilles,” a rockabilly outfit out of Atlanta (by way of New Jersey). They boast of “singing songs about hot rod cars and mean women.”

Then there are the tattoos. They’re expected, of course. Pitre owns a tattoo parlor, for Pete’s sake. You can’t help but notice them spilling, red, green and blue, from beneath his shirt.

Read them, top to bottom like Japanese kanji, and they tell a story as clear as any book.

 “Mom,” reads the banner above his left elbow. Move down a few inches past the red-and-blue star and the propeller on his elbow.

“Father,” the tattoo reads.

Then, on his hand, above an image of a raven-haired woman encircled by rope, you find just one single word. “Sailor.”

Sailor, you come to find, is Bobby Pitre's daughter.