Three Years Ago
“I knew it. You’re a natural. This is your second practice tat, and it’s near perfect. My only critique is the color transition. But that just takes practice. You are totally ready to ink skin.” Lars removes the glasses from his face and slips them into his shirt pocket. He places his hands on his hips and looks at me.
“Are you serious?” I question. “That seems impossible.”
He motions his hand to point at the tattoo I just did on the dummy shoulder. “Look at what you’ve done here. It’s gorgeous. It takes some artists years to perfect their clean lines.”
All I did was listen after my first try. Lars told me to try to keep even pressure on contact and work as quickly as possible. I know all about both of those things from sculpting. Even pressure, work quickly.
“You need to do an all-black on someone.”
I shake my head to protest.
“You are going to have to do it eventually. I think you’re ready,” Lars pushes.
“Ready for what?” Padraig asks, coming up to the top of the stairs. That’s, like, the third time he’s done that—sneaking up on us. If I do acquire this place, I’m getting a bell for the front door downstairs.
“I think he’s ready to ink skin,” Lars answers Padraig.
“Really?” Padraig responds. “No fucking way!”
Lars nods. “Take a look at this.” He points back to the dummy shoulder.
Padraig’s gaze follows Lars’s finger, and his eyes go wide.
“Holy shite. That is outstanding, Luca!” He looks to Lars. “Lars, what did I tell you? I just knew it.”
While I sit there as they discuss me and my abilities between themselves like I’m not there, I consider the possibility of taking over this place. It’s not a total mess, but it does need work. It’s been almost a month since Padraig and Lars approached me on River Street. I thought about it a good bit before I called Lars a few days later. I wanted to put all my cards on the table with him. I told him I was interested but that I had no idea if I’d be good with an ink gun, how I would upgrade the facility with no money, or how to run a business and keep it afloat. I mean, sure, I took one mandatory accounting class in college, but that hardly qualified me for anything.
I know art. That is it.
Lars let me sit with him over two extensive tattoo sessions. He showed me the simplicity of the black lines as well as the complexity of the transition between colors and shading. I watched him and took many mental notes. I practiced on a pumpkin. I did okay. Practiced again. That’s when he told me he had these dummy shoulders I could work on. They’re expensive, so he doesn’t bring them out for just anyone. I did the first one, and I thought Lars was going to pass out from excitement over how well it turned out.
That was the first time Padraig snuck up on us. Lars had called him to check out my first test run on a dummy shoulder. That’s also when Padraig told me that if I was interested in this work and the shop, he’d consider making an investment and assist with the renovations.
I was floored. Two people I barely knew were offering me a business and money. Trust me—I considered the fact that this was some type of drug or laundering front and I was being set up to be the fall guy. But I felt like I did my due diligence in research. They both seemed legit.
“I agree with Lars,” Padraig says. “You should do a real tattoo.”
I look at both of them. “That’s great, guys, but how do I get a client? I’m sure no one will want me inking them knowing I’m a tat virgin.”
“I’ll do it,” Padraig volunteers.
“What? Are you crazy? Do you even have any tattoos?”
“I do not.”
“And you want me to give you your first tattoo?”
Padraig shrugs. “Why not? It can be a simple design. All black. You can do it somewhere inconspicuous.”
“Dude, I’m not tatting your junk.”
“Dude,” Padraig retorts, “if you touch my junk, I’ll knock every one of your bloody teeth out.”
“Okay, good. As long as we have an understanding.”
“The arse is an option, though,” he replies.
I cringe. “Not for me. Not on you.”
I realize if I do this professionally, I may be asked to tat junk, ass, boobs, anywhere. But it’s not happening with Padraig.
“Dude, I’m fucking with ya,” he says.
I roll my eyes.
“I was thinking me back. Under me shoulder or something. If it sucks, so what? I can get it covered.”
“But it’s your first tat. Only tat.”
He shrugs. “Don’t care.”
I look at Lars. He gives the universal “it’s up to you” hand gesture.
I look back at Padraig. “Okay. If you don’t care, I don’t care.”
His hand comes over and down, clamping onto my shoulder. “Excellent. Let’s do it legit. I’ll give you a lame description of what I want, you make me a sketch, I’ll hem and haw until I decide, and you’ll tat me. Sound about right, Lars?”
“Yep.”
Padraig claps his hands once. “Great. Let’s do it tomorrow.”
“Okay,” I agree. What do I have to lose?
Nada.
“Good.” Padraig stands. “I’ll bring some plans I had drafted for the renovation with me.”
I can’t have heard him correctly.
“Hold on. What?”
Padraig comes in the next day at noon, and as promised, he gave me a hard time about my sketch. Another thing I have to get used to. I am permanently marking people, and I have to make sure they’re happy with the design.
Padraig chose a simple Celtic cross to be his first tattoo, under his left shoulder blade. I added my creative spin. He made a suggestion, and I changed it up and then drew out a transfer. He approved.
I try to shake out my nerves before I begin, and then I get to work. It takes me about twenty minutes. Even and quick is the strategy. Once I’m done, I clean the area, apply the salve, and give Padraig the hand mirror to take over to the full-length mirror and have a look. He’s holding the hand mirror at different angles. I hold my breath while I await his verdict.
Lars walks over to assess as well. “What do you think, Paddy?” he asks.
“Looks damn perfect to me. Whaddya think?”
“I’m not sure I could have done better myself,” Lars says.
“Really?” I ask.
“Aye,” Padraig responds.
“Really,” Lars answers at the same time.
I exhale a long breath, and I swear I feel tears approach the edge of my eyelids. I don’t know if it’s from pride, approval, or the simple fact that I didn’t fuck up royally, but I blink it away as quickly as I can.
“Okay. Let me cover it with a bandage and give you a care sheet.”
Padraig nods in understanding.
I cover the tattoo, tape it, and give him a small tin of salve. “Only clean it with plain, yellow Dial soap until it scabs over. Apply this salve at least three times a day to keep it from drying out too much. That could alter the healing and change the lines. Here is a care sheet with all of that information as a reminder.”
I hand him the paper.
Without looking at it, he crumples it into a ball with his palm and tosses it over his shoulder. “Got it.” He smirks. It’s not smug. Just playful.
“What do you think, Luca?” Lars asks.
I run my hand down my face. “I don’t know what to say. What if I fail?”
“Then you fail. And you move on.” These are the only words of advice Lars has to offer. “I have to go,” he says. “You two talk. It’s all up to you. Newly revamped tattoo parlor or stupid fucking souvenir store?”
He makes his way down the stairs and, I assume, out the door.
“I have plans to show ya,” Padraig says as he shuffles on his T-shirt. He winces a bit when his head pops through the neck hole.
“Does it hurt a lot?” I ask.
“No. I stretched wrong. Didn’t hurt much during either. You really did a great job with that. Good art. Good handling. You’re going to have a frequent clientele list so long that you’re going to have to turn people away.”
I highly doubt that. Plus, I haven’t even said yes to this yet.
Padraig grabs a roll of blue papers and spreads them out on the floor. He places two large salve tins at opposite corners to stop them from rolling back up. I kneel on the floor to look at what he has.
“So. We gut the whole thing. Put four stations over here. That’s all you’ll need. These ten up here? Way too many. We’ll add a wall here to separate the stations from the waiting room, which will be here. Counter goes here. Restroom here.”
He goes over the entire floor plan for the first floor, pointing to each area he’s referring to, except for one section behind the counter. “What about here?”
“A quarters,” he says.
“A what?”
“A living space. Enough room for a bed, small shower, sink, and toilet.”
“For me?” I ask, insanely confused.
“No. For me.”
“Why would you want a living space here? Your dad’s the mayor. And you have a great job to afford your own place, right?”
He raises an eyebrow at me. I had forgotten until that moment that not only was he the mayor’s son but I’d yet to reveal to him that I knew that.
“My brother told me. A while back. He saw the drawings you bought from me that are hanging in the mayor’s office. He’s a cop.” Another fact I didn’t mention. But I don’t talk about personal details of my life often.
“Look. When you’re ready to tell me how you went from SCAD to street artist, I’ll tell you why I need living quarters in a tattoo parlor,” he says with an even tone.
“Fair enough, I guess.”
“Besides,” he says, removing the top sheet and revealing a different floor plan. “This is for you. Top floor. Bedroom, bathroom, kitchen, and studio in front of the window overlooking the river.”
I’m in awe. A shiver runs up my spine. “No.”
“Whaddya mean ‘no’?”
“I can’t do this. It all feels wrong. You’re giving me a studio that you’re paying for, and you’re giving me an apartment too? No. Why are you trying to buy me? Huh? I’m just waiting for you to tell me what I have to do illegally for you in return. Or”—I hesitate—“or, sexually.”
Padraig belts out a laugh. “Are you serious?”
“If you were me, wouldn’t you think the same? Would you take the deal without having to invest anything? Without knowing what your out was? Or what your obligation was?”
“I get it. I do. But, look. There are dozens—maybe hundreds—of artists out there on the streets, struggling to find their purpose with their talents. If I could open a jazz club or an art shop for every one of them, I would, but I can’t. I saw an opportunity that connected you with this shop and went with it. I’m investing. You’re a tax write-off. Your only obligation is to do the stellar work with the tattoos that I know you can. That’s it. No other strings attached. Build a business. A solid life for yourself. That is all. I swear.”
I look at Padraig’s sincere face, consider his words, and look back down at the blueprints. This could be a good thing. Or it could be the worst decision ever.
“Whaddya have to lose, right?” Padraig asks.
I rake my fingers through my hair and exhale.
“Right.”