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smackenzie"Your boyfriend's taking a nap upstairs" is the first thing Maya says to me when I get to the studio on Tuesday. She's got a client in her chair, a college boy getting something on his arm.
"Who?" I ask. I don't have a boyfriend.
"That skinny kid. What's his name. Kay? He came in like an hour ago, and I said if he wanted to wait for you he might as well go lie down. He looked tired."
"Ok, thanks."
"He looked at me weird," Maya goes on. I can see her shrug even though she's bent over her client's arm and apparently concentrating fully on her work. The client looks relaxed, which makes me wonder if he has more ink I can't see, or if he's the kind of person who paradoxically finds getting tattooed a relaxing experience. Every so often we'll get someone like that, someone who has an uncommon relationship to pain. I had a girl fall asleep on me once, two hours into a stained glass tree I was inking on her leg. I knew I hadn't done that to her - my little talent, such as it is, can't relax someone so much that it puts them to sleep.
Maya is definitely absorbed in her work now, so I drop my bag in the office and go upstairs. Kay is fast asleep on the futon in the upstairs bedroom, considerately taking up not even half of the mattress. It's a queen mattress and he's a skinny boy, so that isn't hard. I consider waking him up, can't think of a good reason to, and let him sleep. I have a client in half an hour, anyway.
I spend the rest of my free time making sure my and Kona's stations are stocked up and clean and that I'm prepared for my eleven-thirty. I peek over Maya's shoulder to admire the portrait taking shape on the college boy's upper arm. I ask about the face - a young woman with her brown hair curled into victory rolls, like a WW2-era pinup - and learn that she's the college boy's grandmother, who passed away when he was twelve. And like I thought, he's not twitching and wincing in pain because he doesn't mind it that much.
"You're really chill for someone getting his first tattoo," I comment.
"It's kind of soothing," he says. "Scratch scratch scratch. I don't know."
I wonder idly if he has magic too, and it manifested in him by making any pain less painful. I've never heard of that kind of thing, but that doesn't mean it doesn't happen. Maybe he just knows a charm. We try not to use any directed charms at Suzume Tattoos, partly for philosophical reasons and partly to avoid magical bounce back or interference or any one of a number of tiny things that could go wrong. About a month after I opened for business, I discovered that the little house had a resident spirit that liked jam, so every few weeks or so I make a batch of thumbprint cookies and leave a couple out overnight. But even though the resident spirit might be full of cookie, I don't want to tempt it with any free-floating charms.
That's why I have a meditation space - for people to ground themselves and to take a moment to get control and maintain their calm, if they need to. I subscribe to the philosophy that says a person being tattooed should fully experience all the physical and mental aspects of getting ink, without any outside boosters or dampeners. You're supposed to feel all the pain and all the endorphin rush. I don't quite think that every tattoo should be a spiritual experience, but I almost understand people who do. The people I don't understand are the clients who cast spells on themselves, or the tattoo artists who cast on their clients, in order to enhance or just alter the act of getting a tattoo. Part of the point, I've always thought, is the experience of having it done, the pain and the stress and the emotions and the rush when it's all over and the needle stops scratching at your skin because you have a completed design on your body.
The most I can allow, because it's not something I can turn on and off, is the unconscious soothing I can do when I touch someone. And even that I can't control.
Maya's college boy client doesn't seem to need anything, other than some time and maybe a little privacy so Maya can finish. I can give them that, so I do.
My eleven-thirty is a simple touch-up, a woman who wants me to brighten up the flowers and vines around her shoulder and down her back. We chat about things of little consequence as I work. Maya finishes with her client, he pays, she cleans up her space. I finish the touch-up (no one here did the original tattoo, but whoever did designed a beautiful piece, which was mistreated by the recipient's shoddy aftercare and need to sit out in the sun), take payment, clean up my space. I make some tea. Maya has lunch. Kay comes downstairs, looking a little disheveled. Well, he did sleep in his clothes.
"Good afternoon," I say cheerfully. "Sleep well?"
"Sorry about that," he says, sounding embarrassed. "She said I could wait for you upstairs." He gestures to Maya, who has come out of the kitchen and is now sitting on the sofa by the front door, in the little waiting area. "I guess I was tired."
"Don't worry about it. Are you hungry? Did you eat?"
"Maybe?"
"You don't sound so sure," Maya calls.
"Come into the kitchen," I tell him. "We'll see what's there."
I only have fifteen minutes until my next client, but that's enough time to make Kay lunch from the random collection of leftovers in the kitchen. I make him some tea and let him sit in the kitchen and finish it while I go out to meet my next client.
This one is a college girl who wants a saying across her ribs, a couple of lines from a book I've never read. I've drawn it up in three different styles so she can have a choice, but she chooses the first one I show her immediately, so I probably didn't have to spend the time writing it over and over. The ribcage is a very painful place to get a tattoo, and the poor girl spends the entire length of time it takes to ink her wincing and panting and asking me how much longer it's going to be. She has smooth fair skin that takes the ink beautifully, which I tell her, brushing my hand across it and hoping that helps to calm her down. The latex gloves are a barrier for magic sometimes, as well as ink and blood and sweat and who knows what else, but I have to try.
It doesn't work this time, but she doesn't pass out and she doesn't ask me to stop, and soon her tattoo is finished. I hand her a mirror so she can get a better look at it.
"It's backwards," she says, then seems to realize what she just said and rolls her eyes and looks in the mirror again. "Of course it's backwards. It's just what I wanted. It's perfect. Thank you."
"You're very welcome," I say. She looks like she might start crying any minute, so I pass her the box of Kleenex I keep by my chair. She takes one and blows her nose. I'm not sure but I think I can hear Maya giggling at the honk.
A couple of girls come in to talk to Maya about matching tattoos - they're seniors at the college, best friends, and they want something to remember each other by after they graduate - and I get Kay out of the kitchen.
"When I got here," he tells me, "Maya was pink."
"She was what?" I ask. "What do you mean?" But I know.
"Pink. Like I was looking at her through a, a colored glass. Or a camera filter, like in a movie."
"Is she now?" We're standing by my chair, but from this angle we can both see Maya talking to the two college girls. Kay shakes his head. I wonder what it means, that Maya looked pink to him.
Kay has some magic too. His particular talent, if you can call it that, is that sometimes he can see things - usually images, occasionally colors - when he looks at people. They're not prophetic, exactly, but there's a touch of existing or future events in his grief visions. When we first met, he saw a needle threaded with bright yellow thread winding around my arm. Three days later I was opening a box when the box cutter twisted in my hand and cut into my arm and needed stitches, and the doctor in the ER sewed me up with yellow sutures. When he met Kona, he saw an ocean wave breaking over Kona's blond dreads.
And now Maya's pink. It could be anything.
I don't honestly know what to do with Kay on days he wants to hang around Suzume Tattoos, but as long as he stays out of my way, and as long as no one else minds that he's there, I'm not bothered if he wants to stay. Maya thinks I should just give him a job. Kona thinks I should take him on as an apprentice. Kay has never shown any special interest in being a tattoo artist, so if I did find something for him to do, it wouldn't be that.
Kay is my strange, quiet mystery friend. He's about nineteen, which makes him far too young for me, even if I was interested in men right now, and I don't know where he lives. I know he likes pepperoni pizza and spaghetti and meatballs and blueberry pie, and I know he has at least some local friends, because he talks about them. I know he's not in school but I don't know where he works, if he works. But I do know that he's quiet and sweet and does whatever chores I ask of him.
words: 1721
total words: 3430
"Who?" I ask. I don't have a boyfriend.
"That skinny kid. What's his name. Kay? He came in like an hour ago, and I said if he wanted to wait for you he might as well go lie down. He looked tired."
"Ok, thanks."
"He looked at me weird," Maya goes on. I can see her shrug even though she's bent over her client's arm and apparently concentrating fully on her work. The client looks relaxed, which makes me wonder if he has more ink I can't see, or if he's the kind of person who paradoxically finds getting tattooed a relaxing experience. Every so often we'll get someone like that, someone who has an uncommon relationship to pain. I had a girl fall asleep on me once, two hours into a stained glass tree I was inking on her leg. I knew I hadn't done that to her - my little talent, such as it is, can't relax someone so much that it puts them to sleep.
Maya is definitely absorbed in her work now, so I drop my bag in the office and go upstairs. Kay is fast asleep on the futon in the upstairs bedroom, considerately taking up not even half of the mattress. It's a queen mattress and he's a skinny boy, so that isn't hard. I consider waking him up, can't think of a good reason to, and let him sleep. I have a client in half an hour, anyway.
I spend the rest of my free time making sure my and Kona's stations are stocked up and clean and that I'm prepared for my eleven-thirty. I peek over Maya's shoulder to admire the portrait taking shape on the college boy's upper arm. I ask about the face - a young woman with her brown hair curled into victory rolls, like a WW2-era pinup - and learn that she's the college boy's grandmother, who passed away when he was twelve. And like I thought, he's not twitching and wincing in pain because he doesn't mind it that much.
"You're really chill for someone getting his first tattoo," I comment.
"It's kind of soothing," he says. "Scratch scratch scratch. I don't know."
I wonder idly if he has magic too, and it manifested in him by making any pain less painful. I've never heard of that kind of thing, but that doesn't mean it doesn't happen. Maybe he just knows a charm. We try not to use any directed charms at Suzume Tattoos, partly for philosophical reasons and partly to avoid magical bounce back or interference or any one of a number of tiny things that could go wrong. About a month after I opened for business, I discovered that the little house had a resident spirit that liked jam, so every few weeks or so I make a batch of thumbprint cookies and leave a couple out overnight. But even though the resident spirit might be full of cookie, I don't want to tempt it with any free-floating charms.
That's why I have a meditation space - for people to ground themselves and to take a moment to get control and maintain their calm, if they need to. I subscribe to the philosophy that says a person being tattooed should fully experience all the physical and mental aspects of getting ink, without any outside boosters or dampeners. You're supposed to feel all the pain and all the endorphin rush. I don't quite think that every tattoo should be a spiritual experience, but I almost understand people who do. The people I don't understand are the clients who cast spells on themselves, or the tattoo artists who cast on their clients, in order to enhance or just alter the act of getting a tattoo. Part of the point, I've always thought, is the experience of having it done, the pain and the stress and the emotions and the rush when it's all over and the needle stops scratching at your skin because you have a completed design on your body.
The most I can allow, because it's not something I can turn on and off, is the unconscious soothing I can do when I touch someone. And even that I can't control.
Maya's college boy client doesn't seem to need anything, other than some time and maybe a little privacy so Maya can finish. I can give them that, so I do.
My eleven-thirty is a simple touch-up, a woman who wants me to brighten up the flowers and vines around her shoulder and down her back. We chat about things of little consequence as I work. Maya finishes with her client, he pays, she cleans up her space. I finish the touch-up (no one here did the original tattoo, but whoever did designed a beautiful piece, which was mistreated by the recipient's shoddy aftercare and need to sit out in the sun), take payment, clean up my space. I make some tea. Maya has lunch. Kay comes downstairs, looking a little disheveled. Well, he did sleep in his clothes.
"Good afternoon," I say cheerfully. "Sleep well?"
"Sorry about that," he says, sounding embarrassed. "She said I could wait for you upstairs." He gestures to Maya, who has come out of the kitchen and is now sitting on the sofa by the front door, in the little waiting area. "I guess I was tired."
"Don't worry about it. Are you hungry? Did you eat?"
"Maybe?"
"You don't sound so sure," Maya calls.
"Come into the kitchen," I tell him. "We'll see what's there."
I only have fifteen minutes until my next client, but that's enough time to make Kay lunch from the random collection of leftovers in the kitchen. I make him some tea and let him sit in the kitchen and finish it while I go out to meet my next client.
This one is a college girl who wants a saying across her ribs, a couple of lines from a book I've never read. I've drawn it up in three different styles so she can have a choice, but she chooses the first one I show her immediately, so I probably didn't have to spend the time writing it over and over. The ribcage is a very painful place to get a tattoo, and the poor girl spends the entire length of time it takes to ink her wincing and panting and asking me how much longer it's going to be. She has smooth fair skin that takes the ink beautifully, which I tell her, brushing my hand across it and hoping that helps to calm her down. The latex gloves are a barrier for magic sometimes, as well as ink and blood and sweat and who knows what else, but I have to try.
It doesn't work this time, but she doesn't pass out and she doesn't ask me to stop, and soon her tattoo is finished. I hand her a mirror so she can get a better look at it.
"It's backwards," she says, then seems to realize what she just said and rolls her eyes and looks in the mirror again. "Of course it's backwards. It's just what I wanted. It's perfect. Thank you."
"You're very welcome," I say. She looks like she might start crying any minute, so I pass her the box of Kleenex I keep by my chair. She takes one and blows her nose. I'm not sure but I think I can hear Maya giggling at the honk.
A couple of girls come in to talk to Maya about matching tattoos - they're seniors at the college, best friends, and they want something to remember each other by after they graduate - and I get Kay out of the kitchen.
"When I got here," he tells me, "Maya was pink."
"She was what?" I ask. "What do you mean?" But I know.
"Pink. Like I was looking at her through a, a colored glass. Or a camera filter, like in a movie."
"Is she now?" We're standing by my chair, but from this angle we can both see Maya talking to the two college girls. Kay shakes his head. I wonder what it means, that Maya looked pink to him.
Kay has some magic too. His particular talent, if you can call it that, is that sometimes he can see things - usually images, occasionally colors - when he looks at people. They're not prophetic, exactly, but there's a touch of existing or future events in his grief visions. When we first met, he saw a needle threaded with bright yellow thread winding around my arm. Three days later I was opening a box when the box cutter twisted in my hand and cut into my arm and needed stitches, and the doctor in the ER sewed me up with yellow sutures. When he met Kona, he saw an ocean wave breaking over Kona's blond dreads.
And now Maya's pink. It could be anything.
I don't honestly know what to do with Kay on days he wants to hang around Suzume Tattoos, but as long as he stays out of my way, and as long as no one else minds that he's there, I'm not bothered if he wants to stay. Maya thinks I should just give him a job. Kona thinks I should take him on as an apprentice. Kay has never shown any special interest in being a tattoo artist, so if I did find something for him to do, it wouldn't be that.
Kay is my strange, quiet mystery friend. He's about nineteen, which makes him far too young for me, even if I was interested in men right now, and I don't know where he lives. I know he likes pepperoni pizza and spaghetti and meatballs and blueberry pie, and I know he has at least some local friends, because he talks about them. I know he's not in school but I don't know where he works, if he works. But I do know that he's quiet and sweet and does whatever chores I ask of him.
words: 1721
total words: 3430
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Date: 2015-11-04 07:45 pm (UTC)