twenty-three
Nov. 27th, 2015 03:08 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
smackenzie“My mom did,” the client says. “She's an artist. I got a couple more that she designed, on my leg” - he lifts his foot - “and the back of my neck. That one's for pride. She doesn't want me to forget who I am and where I come from. It's so I keep my head up.”
I make a mental note to ask if I can see it when I'm done with his chest. His mother sounds like a neat woman, and a good mother.
Kona wanders off and continue inking. The client and his friend have a conversation about some fraternity party in a couple of weeks, and they talk about football, and they talk about their classes and a girl the friend is interested in. I listen with half an ear. If they want to include me in the conversation, they will, but there's nothing that says I shouldn't be listening.
After I'm done and the client's new tattoo has been shown off and covered with gauze, I ask if I can see the tattoo on the back of his neck. He obligingly pulls down the collar of his shirt so I can get a good look. It's small and triangular and I don't recognize it. Not that I've seen a lot of that kind of charm, but I've seen my fair share, on people and in books, and I'm always surprised when I come across one I don't know. I shouldn't be, because there are as many little charms and magical sigils as there are cultures and people who want them, but I am. Call it arrogance, I guess, and the conviction that I know what I'm doing more than you do.
I take the opportunity to show Kay what I want him to do, although since he's spent a lot of time in the studio he's gotten to do pretty much all of it already anyway. He's a pretty quick study but most of what I tell him is more of a refresher course than new knowledge. I install him up front to welcome clients and walk-ins and to answer the phone, and just in time, because someone calls to check on our hours and ask a bunch of questions - do we use new needles every time, have we passed inspection by the health department, are we licensed ("Individual tattoo artists don't need to be licensed in this state," I inform the guy, because Kay doesn't know enough to answer that question), how long have the artists in the shop been working, where else have we worked, and on and on. Kay eventually gives me the phone when the guy on the other end starts to get really specific in his questioning.
I don't know why he bothers calling to ask me all that, because he hangs up without making an appointment to come see us, and in fact without giving any indication that ever wanted to do so.
"I couldn't answer most of those," Kay says, sounding embarrassed.
"Now you can," I tell him brightly. "Don't worry about it. Some things you just have to learn as you go. If you ever get a call you can't handle - if the person is asking a lot of questions you can't answer - let me know. If I'm not around, as Kona or Maya. You'll figure it out."
"Eventually. I hope so."
"Trust me. You'll be fine. I wouldn't have given you the job if I didn't think you could do it."
"You gave me the job because I needed one and you want me to pay rent." He could make it an accusation, but he's smiling a little as he says it, and I assume he means it as a bit of a joke. I don't take it as an accusation, anyway.
"That's true."
"Kona says you're working here now," Maya announces, appearing out of nowhere. "It's about time."
"What else did he tell you?" I ask.
"That's it. Just that we have a shop monkey now. You wanna do inventory of my station?" she asks Kay, who shrugs.
"Sure," he says.
"No," I say. "Do you your own inventory. You know what you need more than he does."
"Kona also said you don't want to apprentice," Maya goes on. "So why are you working here, and not, I don't know, a coffeeshop like every other teenager?"
"I needed a job," he says simply. "Sparrow was nice enough to give me one."
"I kind of doubt she'd give you a job if you didn't need it." Maya pulls the appointment book over, flips through it, and examines the page for today. "Am I really free for an hour?"
I glance over. "That's what it looks like."
"Great. I need to return a pair of shoes. I'll be back in an hour." She starts to walk back towards the office, then turns and calls "If you have a question, you can ask me" before zipping across the studio to the office.
Kay keeps things going reasonably smoothly, only having me talk to someone a couple of times. He's not that great on the phone or with people who come in - either walk-ins or clients with actual appointments - but he does what I've asked him without complaint and at least tries to give people the information they need, on the occasions they need something from someone who isn't necessarily me or Maya or Kona.
By the end of the day neither of us is sure how this is going to work out, but he's willing to keep trying and I don't see a reason not to let him. We talk about it while I make thumbprint cookies for the little spirit haunting my studio.
"I don't know what I'm doing," he admits.
"You'll pick it up," I tell him.
"I think I like it. At least I already kind of know Maya and Kona. I can do better."
"I know. Can you get me the raspberry jam from the fridge?"
I put out bread and milk for the brownies before bed, and am surprised as hell when it's still there in the morning. If they haven't eaten it - and sometimes they don't because they just don't like what I've put out for them, as I discover when my car won't start or all my tomato stakes have been pushed over - raccoons or chipmunks or the cat who lives down the street usually do. I don't know the last time there was still bread in the bowl in the morning. I don't know what it means, but my car starts and I don't notice any problems with anything in the house or anything missing, so I put it out of my mind.
words: 1044
total words: 45,524
I make a mental note to ask if I can see it when I'm done with his chest. His mother sounds like a neat woman, and a good mother.
Kona wanders off and continue inking. The client and his friend have a conversation about some fraternity party in a couple of weeks, and they talk about football, and they talk about their classes and a girl the friend is interested in. I listen with half an ear. If they want to include me in the conversation, they will, but there's nothing that says I shouldn't be listening.
After I'm done and the client's new tattoo has been shown off and covered with gauze, I ask if I can see the tattoo on the back of his neck. He obligingly pulls down the collar of his shirt so I can get a good look. It's small and triangular and I don't recognize it. Not that I've seen a lot of that kind of charm, but I've seen my fair share, on people and in books, and I'm always surprised when I come across one I don't know. I shouldn't be, because there are as many little charms and magical sigils as there are cultures and people who want them, but I am. Call it arrogance, I guess, and the conviction that I know what I'm doing more than you do.
I take the opportunity to show Kay what I want him to do, although since he's spent a lot of time in the studio he's gotten to do pretty much all of it already anyway. He's a pretty quick study but most of what I tell him is more of a refresher course than new knowledge. I install him up front to welcome clients and walk-ins and to answer the phone, and just in time, because someone calls to check on our hours and ask a bunch of questions - do we use new needles every time, have we passed inspection by the health department, are we licensed ("Individual tattoo artists don't need to be licensed in this state," I inform the guy, because Kay doesn't know enough to answer that question), how long have the artists in the shop been working, where else have we worked, and on and on. Kay eventually gives me the phone when the guy on the other end starts to get really specific in his questioning.
I don't know why he bothers calling to ask me all that, because he hangs up without making an appointment to come see us, and in fact without giving any indication that ever wanted to do so.
"I couldn't answer most of those," Kay says, sounding embarrassed.
"Now you can," I tell him brightly. "Don't worry about it. Some things you just have to learn as you go. If you ever get a call you can't handle - if the person is asking a lot of questions you can't answer - let me know. If I'm not around, as Kona or Maya. You'll figure it out."
"Eventually. I hope so."
"Trust me. You'll be fine. I wouldn't have given you the job if I didn't think you could do it."
"You gave me the job because I needed one and you want me to pay rent." He could make it an accusation, but he's smiling a little as he says it, and I assume he means it as a bit of a joke. I don't take it as an accusation, anyway.
"That's true."
"Kona says you're working here now," Maya announces, appearing out of nowhere. "It's about time."
"What else did he tell you?" I ask.
"That's it. Just that we have a shop monkey now. You wanna do inventory of my station?" she asks Kay, who shrugs.
"Sure," he says.
"No," I say. "Do you your own inventory. You know what you need more than he does."
"Kona also said you don't want to apprentice," Maya goes on. "So why are you working here, and not, I don't know, a coffeeshop like every other teenager?"
"I needed a job," he says simply. "Sparrow was nice enough to give me one."
"I kind of doubt she'd give you a job if you didn't need it." Maya pulls the appointment book over, flips through it, and examines the page for today. "Am I really free for an hour?"
I glance over. "That's what it looks like."
"Great. I need to return a pair of shoes. I'll be back in an hour." She starts to walk back towards the office, then turns and calls "If you have a question, you can ask me" before zipping across the studio to the office.
Kay keeps things going reasonably smoothly, only having me talk to someone a couple of times. He's not that great on the phone or with people who come in - either walk-ins or clients with actual appointments - but he does what I've asked him without complaint and at least tries to give people the information they need, on the occasions they need something from someone who isn't necessarily me or Maya or Kona.
By the end of the day neither of us is sure how this is going to work out, but he's willing to keep trying and I don't see a reason not to let him. We talk about it while I make thumbprint cookies for the little spirit haunting my studio.
"I don't know what I'm doing," he admits.
"You'll pick it up," I tell him.
"I think I like it. At least I already kind of know Maya and Kona. I can do better."
"I know. Can you get me the raspberry jam from the fridge?"
I put out bread and milk for the brownies before bed, and am surprised as hell when it's still there in the morning. If they haven't eaten it - and sometimes they don't because they just don't like what I've put out for them, as I discover when my car won't start or all my tomato stakes have been pushed over - raccoons or chipmunks or the cat who lives down the street usually do. I don't know the last time there was still bread in the bowl in the morning. I don't know what it means, but my car starts and I don't notice any problems with anything in the house or anything missing, so I put it out of my mind.
words: 1044
total words: 45,524
