4. CHAPTER 4
I’ve been up since before the sun. Not because I wanted to be, but because I can’t fucking sleep.
Still running on the fumes of the caffeine pre-workout shake I had before the gym, I stare at the graffitied roller at the back of the shop, with my van still idling, as the song plays out on the radio.
When it’s over I grab my slippers from the passenger's seat and brave the November chill without a jacket.
Just inside the back door I stop, untie my shoes, and drop my slippers to the tiles. After scuffing them on, I line up my boots neatly.
Straight into the back room I put my wallet and keys in my locker and walk past the box of paper towels. Telling myself to remember to restock the cabinet, I take the broom from the corner and head out to the shop floor.
I sweep the tiles and take the trash cans from my station and desk to empty into the dumpster in the back lot.
Tossing the trash inside, a discarded sketch catches my eye.
A joke from Monday, before everything blew up.
Reeze’s client asked us all what our most ridiculous tattoo requests were, which led to a competition of who could come up with the most absurd design concept in five minutes.
I pick up my prize-winning sketch. A shark with a huge grin and a human dick as its dorsal fin with a speech bubble saying ‘Come on in, the water’s fine.’
Compelled by dopamine, or maybe just the distraction, I force all the trash into the can in the back room and head straight to the reception desk.
I take my sketch book from the top drawer, and as I flatten out the crumpled sketch, my attention is pulled to the flashing light on the shop's answering machine.
I know I should listen to the messages, but my hand opens the drawer to take out a pack of black Sakura Pigma markers instead because I need to draw.
And I do, until the shark with the veiny cock and balls on its back is almost jumping off the page.
Someone sneezes outside, and I look up. There’s a woman leaning beside the front door hugging something against her chest.
I look at the clock on the computer. It’s only eight-fifteen a.m. but I know who she is. She called last week, overly excited. Shawn had chewed my ear out for booking an eight-thirty a.m. appointment, so I started taking more of them.
I push the stool back from the counter to let her in because she’s wearing a skirt and it’s too cold for her to stand outside.
When she hears the lock click she jumps around, her face lit up like the Fourth of July.
“Sorry I’m early,” she says, following me in. “I’m guessing you’re Tek. Or, Wootek?” She corrects herself.
“Tek’s fine,” I tell her as she follows me to the reception desk.
I move the mouse around as she leans over to look at the shark sketch, her bright teal hair—cut blunt at her shoulders with a part right down the middle—falls forward as she giggles. “Did someone ask for that?”
“Kind of,” I reply flatly, looking at her booking. “Liv, right?”
“Yep.” She nods, rocking back and forth from heel to toe with excitement.
“Let me see what you brought.” I move in front of her and lean on the glass countertop with my forearms.
She lays down the folder she’s been holding and opens it up. Inside are printouts of someone else’s tattoos, and one hand-drawn sketch. She points at the sketch. “This one.”
I study it, then her, then the sketch again. It’s of two cartoon cats, except their tails are too long, and they curl around their bodies and back to their mouths, Ouroboros style, so they’re eating their own tails. “Who drew it?”
“My girlfriend. We both love cats and met in our mythology class at college. It’s for my birthday. She doesn’t know I’m getting it done.”
“She’ll be surprised,” I say, because I know that’s what she wants to hear.
“Can you make it a little bigger? About this size.” She holds up her hands to show me.
“Sure. Where do you want it?”
With no consideration for where a boundary might lie, she rounds the desk to stand beside me.
“Right here,” she says, lifting up her shirt to circle the skin over her right hip bone, but inadvertently baring her whole stomach in the process.
A stomach of smooth, unblemished skin with that perfect softness women have below their belly buttons.
“It hurts over the bone,” I tell her, tearing my eyes away. “Do you want numbing cream?”
“Will I need it?”
“Most women don’t. And the results are better if you don’t use it.”
“Then, no. I’m not scared.” She smiles up at me.
“You can put your shirt down.”
“Oh sorry.” She blushes. “Was that awkward? I just figured you’d want to see.”
I shake my head, not wanting to make her uncomfortable. “It’s fine. I’ll be looking at it for the next hour anyway.”
She giggles and takes a step back.
“You can go sit over there.” I gesture to one of the chairs by the door. “Do you want a coffee?”
She says no, asking for water instead, and I point her towards the fridge in the corner.
I head to the back room, scan the drawing, change the size, set it to print, then wash my hands.
When I head back out to my station she’s sitting down swinging her legs.
I wheel my workstation from against the wall and wrap its top with plastic. I wipe down the padded table and recline it’s back so it’s flat then wrap the middle in plastic film as well.
After collecting the stencil from the printer I set up my station with all the ink and needles I'll need, then I pull on a pair of black surgical gloves.
“Come on over,” I say, using my heels to wheel my stool in position.
She stands in front of me, suddenly shy, needing to be guided, her excitement having morphed into nerves.
“I need to prep your skin,” I tell her, and she undoes her denim skirt and shimmies it and her underwear until just before the point of no return. But it’s when she lifts her top again that I swallow, and quickly direct my attention elsewhere.
I take the disposable razor and shave the area.
Then I clean it, rub Speed Stick over her skin then press the stencil down on it.
After peeling the paper away I ask her to go take a look at the positioning and excitement bubbles back up again as she twists and turns, checking it out from every angle.
I pat the table. “Make sure your hips are right over the plastic.”
She kicks off her shoes and climbs up.
The shop phone rings. She looks at me, then to the phone, and back again. “You gonna get that?”
“It’ll stop.”
She laughs. “Do you not like talking to people?”
“I talk plenty… When stuff’s worth talking about.”
She wriggles around until she’s comfortable, then the buzz starts.
She doesn’t flinch even when I drag the outline over her hip bone. She just talks away; about her girlfriend, about college, about how they might move to L.A.
Every time she asks me a question I give a grunt, or a “yeah,” but she doesn’t notice. Everyone in the chair is different, and for her, the adrenaline doesn’t give her jaw a break. But she’s an easy client. Her mouth doesn't make my job harder.
I work quickly on the outline. I want to finish fast, but I also want to do it right. That’s the trap—wanting two things at once. It’s paralyzing.
I wish I could leave. Not just the shop, but the whole town.
Drive my van off into the sunset. Take the Amtrak north and never come back.
Find a job in Vancouver and start over. But I also want to prove that I made the right choice all those years ago to change majors.
And that it wasn’t a mistake to go into business with my best friend
I finish the outline and wipe the blood. “You want a break?”
She shakes her head. “I’m good.”
She’s tough. I like her for that.
The phone rings again.
This time when it stops, it starts up a few seconds later.
“You sure you don’t wanna get that?”
I shake my head.
I want the relentless ringing to stop, but I’m stuck. I can’t move from my chair. I wish the damn thing would explode. Anything to stop the incessant howling like those fucking sirens.
I want to throw the weight that’s bearing down on me aside.
I want to scream.
I want to hurt someone for making me feel this way.
But I don’t. I never do. Not anymore.
That’s the rule.
My hands keep going.
The shading needles keep dragging over her skin.
The phone keeps ringing.
I pause for a second. Shut my eyes tight. Hold my breath.
The bell rings. The shop door opens.
In he walks.
The same baggy brown chords he had on yesterday and his brother's red plaid jacket.
No eye contact. No greeting.
He walks straight behind the reception desk and picks up the phone.
“Teken Ink, you’re talking to Carey. How can I help you?
” His voice is all honey. “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Yeah, I’m really sorry.
We’re a few men down at the moment so I apologize for that.
” As the caller talks, he looks at me. There’s a moment of hesitation, then he smiles.
Toothy and obnoxious, as though yesterday’s confrontation never happened.
“So, ah.” My client pulls back my attention. “That your boyfriend?” she asks, her mouth quirking because she's a little shit.
“Fuck no,” I say, and start shading again. It comes out darker than I expected. But I don’t fix it.
“Just the secretary then?”
“Huh?”
“A secretary, or whatever? There aren’t any stations set up so I assume he isn’t an artist.”
“He isn’t a secretary, either.”
When I wipe away the excess ink and dip my needles again, she props herself up on her elbows and looks at him.
With the phone wedged between his head and shoulder, he flashes her a nonchalant peace sign then opens the desks drawers until he finds a stack of Post It notes.
His ridiculous hair falls in his face, and he swipes his hand through it before picking up a pen.
“He looks like a secretary.”
I scoff. “If he looked like a secretary, I’d probably enjoy the sight of him.”
“Has that got anything to do with why you’re down a few guys in here?” Our eyes meet and she smiles. “I’m not being nosey, or anything. But also, I’m totally being nosey.”