by KC Decker
For a while, I busy myself with selling and restocking merchandise, but no one wants to talk to me or make any appointments, so the best I can do is keep filling his business card holder and continue to keep the product display table looking organized. People stop to watch him work, but they don’t ask him a lot of questions because they respect that he is working. I try to stay out of Gavin’s hair too because he has warned me, in no uncertain terms, to keep out of his sterile field.
He has the photo of a child taped to the edge of his surgical tray, and he periodically glances at it. So far, nothing has really taken shape, but it’s only been like…an hour. How he manages to create something that resembles a person from the purple chaos of his stencil, I will never understand. It’s just as well, he isn’t interested in getting to know anything about me, so trying to figure out all his little nuances is pretty pointless.
As if sensing my boredom, Gavin glances up at me. “You can go check things out if you want to. It’s a big convention.”
“Ok,” my back is to him practically before he has even finished setting me free. Right away, I’m swallowed by the crowd, which consists of everyone from young families with kids in strollers, to grizzled old men, and everyone between.
There are a ton of talented artists here, most of them selling their own brand of merchandise, and many of them posing for pictures and rubbing elbows with starstruck fans.
After a while, I don’t even feel out of place anymore. This is partly due to the fact that there is every walk of life in here, and partly because a decent percentage of women are dressed in retro attire. It’s like they are channeling their own inner Vargas Girl. They are wearing Pin-up style shorts and tops, high-waisted capri pants, and vintage swing dresses. Thanks to Miles, I fit in nicely—and no one is more surprised about that fact than me.
There is so much going on, and so much to see as I wander around. The first platform that catches my eye ends up riveting me to a body modification demonstration for over an hour. The whole thing is utterly captivating, and strangely enough, it is presented like a scholarly seminar.
The modifications are shown on a large flat-screen TV, while the expert alternates between standing behind a podium and pacing the platform like a lecturing college professor.
By the time I walk away, I’m entirely too knowledgeable about tongue splitting and subdermal implants, but the whole presentation was oddly fascinating. I’m sure my jaw had hung open for at least a third of the presentation.
I’ve spent my whole life being forced into a mold, and taught that anything outside of those very specific parameters was unacceptable or worse, deviant. It would have been nice to learn from a young age that there are all kinds of people in the world. All of them acceptable, and the vast majority of them having nothing to do with me.
I think such realizations would have served me well and broadened my character. To hell with what such an upbringing would have meant to my father’s career.
I don’t abide by ignorant societal labels when it comes to the people I choose to be around. Would I like Miles more if he dated women? Absolutely not. Would Ivy be more important to me if her skin was white? God, no. Would I prefer it if Arden didn’t date a police officer? No way.
In fact, I’m starting to wonder if Gavin may be the same life-lesson for me, but this time, wrapped in tattoos. Maybe I haven’t learned the skill of not judging others from a keyhole view clearly enough. So, karma sent it back around to see if I can grasp it with both hands this time.
It’s not enough to be in the trenches with Miles and Ivy in their battles with homophobia and racism. And truly, nothing gets my hackles up faster than hearing the derogatory terms hurled at Miles, or seeing the sideways looks Ivy gets when she dates a white guy. Or any of the other thousands of ways the world tries to deny them or spit them out for not being a certain way.
The universe must be wondering where all my righteous convictions are now, seeing that they didn’t initially extend to the tattooed. It appears that karma’s rotating wheel intends to stop for a bit to rub my nose in my harbored prejudices for a little while. The bitch is laughing too, because teaching me that Gavin is a great catch is poetic justice in its purest form.
As I look around, I see kids everywhere—beautiful, unique kids, all experiencing life through a broad-spectrum approach. I’d like to say I will raise my kids the same way, especially because of how my own upbringing has hobbled me, but in all honesty, I’d still have a stroke if my kid came home with a forked tongue or devil horn subdermal implants in his forehead.
As I make my way to the main stage at the back of the convention hall, I can see there is a fashion show going on. Actually, calling it a fashion show might be kind of a stretch because these models are hardly dressed. The production before me is more about them showcasing their prodigious amount of ink.
“Are you having a good time?” the man standing next to me asks. He’s probably a few years older than me, and very good looking. He also has a hoop that hugs the middle of his bottom lip, so it’s hard not to stare at it. He notices, and his smile broadens.
“I am. There is so much to see, I had no idea,” I say, sounding more awestruck than I’m entirely comfortable with.
“Have you ever seen the SuicideGirls?” he leans closer to speak even though I can hear him just fine.
“I’m sorry…what did you say?” I ask, talking about suicide seems like a quantum leap from whether or not I’m having a good time.
“The burlesque show, the SuicideGirls. Have you ever seen them perform before?”
“Oh. No, I haven’t,” I can’t think of anything else to say because his proximity is getting closer and he has a mischievous glint in his eye. I think he is flirting but isn’t any good at it. It’s like he has always relied on his looks to drop panties and never mastered the skill verbally.
“Let’s go have dinner, and we can come back for the show at 9:30 when there is more of an adult crowd. The performance is incredibly sexy, I’d love for you to see it.”
I can’t help but feel like this guy is going to fuck a few different women this weekend. He gives off the vibe of someone who constantly swipes right just to see who floats to the top. Maybe I’m wrong, but that’s what I’m picking up from him.
“Actually, I’m supposed to be working,” I tell him, but the truth is, it might do me some good to have someone look at me the way he is. It’s like he wants to dive down between my legs and never come up for air.
“Oh, yeah? You have a booth?” He licks his tongue across his bottom lip and then purposely toys with the piercing for an extra second or two.
“Not me, no. I’m here with Gavin Rhodes,” I say.
His eyes widen a fraction, and he backs up a half-step. He looks less lust-drunk now and has straightened his spine in a more regimented stance. It’s like he all of a sudden realized that I smell like shit wrapped in burnt hair, it’s weird.
“Make sure you catch the SuicideGirls, you won’t be disappointed,” he says, and with that, he nods formally and then backs away into the masses. Alrighty then.
***
When I return to the booth, Gavin is in much the same position that I left him in, and that was hours ago. The hot lights above him are making their presence felt in the form of tiny beads of sweat on his forehead. It gives me the urge to delicately swipe them away with my fingers.
When he finally looks up and acknowledges me, I ask, “Lemonade or iced tea?” I wasn’t sure if he needed caffeine or wanted to avoid the stimulant in favor of a steady hand, so I brought options.
He slides his stool back, “Lemonade would be amazing.” Then he puts his equipment down on the Chucks covered surgical tray and removes his gloves in two succinct movements. He wipes his forehead with the back of his wrist and then takes the drink from me.
“Thank you.”
I didn’t think he could take a break, or I would have brought him something to eat too. The concession stands and food trucks offer ever
ything from street tacos to snow cones, and there are several micro brewery’s in attendance as well. I myself, have slapped a face-sized funnel cake to my ass and thighs and had a pint of something dark and viscous.
He sucks down the lemonade, tosses the cup in the trash, squirts some hand sanitizer on his hands, then grabs two more latex gloves from the box. He is very dedicated to his work, even though it requires him to sit hunched over for hours on end. I’m too squirrelly for that, you’d have to lock me in an Iron Maiden to keep me still for seven hours.
I come as close as I dare. This time when I glance at his work, even from over here, I can tell it’s a little girl’s face. He’s really good because her pouty lips look juicy and moist, and I can see each individual strand of hair in her curls. I don’t know how he has managed it with needles, but the child is brightly lit from the side, just like in the photo. The way he has shadowed the tattoo brings a life to her face that damn near giggles.
“How is it looking?” the client, Joel asks. I think he is talking to me, so, I answer.
“She looks beautiful. Really, it’s astonishing how real she looks.” Joel smiles wistfully and then closes his eyes, falling back into his trance.
When 9:25 rolls around, I feel a slight pull toward the main stage, but duty keeps me inserting credit cards into the chip reader on Gavin’s phone. Tomorrow, I will plan my excursions away from the booth better. I looked at the main stage schedule for Saturday and Sunday, and there are aerial performers, cabaret shows, contortionists, bands, and more performances by the SuicideGirls. However, by all accounts, the not to be missed show is the pyro/aerial performance by the Fuel Girls.
As for tonight, the convention closes at 11:00, but Gavin is racing to finish his tattoo by 10:15 because Joel already entered it in a few contests and the judging begins promptly at 10:30. Joel had to have entered the contests before Gavin even punctured his skin, so, I’m assuming his confidence in Gavin’s ability is fairly resolute.
He finishes in plenty of time, and while Joel and I ogle the finished product, Gavin cleans the freshly-inked area then opens a single-use packet of ointment and applies it gently.
“After judging, come back here, and I’ll bandage it for you. By law, you need to have it covered when you leave.” Gavin snaps off his gloves and then walks over to pull up the invoice on his laptop. “You can pay Alabama,” he says as he sanitizes his hands again before saying, “I have to pee like a racehorse.” Then he disappears into the tattooed throngs of what’s left of the crowd.
I choke on my surprise as I look over the invoice. There is a credit for his deposit in the amount of $500, and the total is still $3,000. Joel is unfazed by the number and adds a $600 tip to boot. It’s insane, that’s almost $600 dollars an hour! Holy shit.
When Gavin returns from the restroom, he asks me to go to the stage where the tattoos are being judged while he cleans up. I’m surprised he doesn’t want my help, so I pause.
“If Joel’s tattoo wins, I’ll need to be there for the awards and photos, but I want to get this all cleaned up so we can get out of here.” Then he takes a deep breath and simplifies things for me, “Just come get me if he wins.” He has already re-gloved and is taking his machine apart when I turn and follow Joel in the direction of the contest judging.
When they announce Joel as a finalist for the Best Black and Gray Tattoo, I run back to the booth as fast as my high heels and pencil skirt will allow me to. The convention-goers have dwindled significantly, so the process is a lot smoother than it would have been an hour ago.
Gavin looks annoyed when I summon him, and asks, “What’s this one for?” as he pulls off his gloves and gets himself ready to follow me.
“Best Black and Gray,” I say. Is it possible I am more excited than him? When we arrive at the stage, they are handing a plaque to the winner and another one to the grinning artist. A handful of onlookers with press passes are allowed onto the platform and start snapping photos like bonified Paparazzi.
It’s hard to read Gavin’s reaction to losing because all he says is, “I’m fucking starving,” and then heads back to the booth.
Joel looks astonished his tattoo didn’t win and finds me as soon as he steps down from the stage. “That was some stiff competition, huh?”
“Yeah, it was. Gavin didn’t even seem to care,” I say, surprised because even I am disappointed. That tattoo looks exactly like the photo Joel is still holding in his hand. It is shockingly perfect. So much so, that if that tattoo stood up and started singing Hallelujah—I wouldn’t even be surprised. Gavin was robbed.
In the end, I needn’t have been so indignant because Gavin won Best Tattoo of the Day. I was proud of him as I watched him accept his plaque and pose for all the photos. When he looked over at me between camera flashes, he caught me with my hands clasped together in front of my mouth, and a dewy look in my eyes.
After descending the stairs, and being accosted by a couple of fans—whom he politely conversed with for at least ten minutes—he comes over to where I’m standing.
“Want to go celebrate your win?” I ask. I want to throw my arms around his neck and congratulate him, but we are far from being on those familiar terms.
“Only if celebrating means eating a bacon cheeseburger,” he says, and with that comment, I feel like we have fallen right back into our roles of cautious enemies. He acts like I’m the last person he would ever want to celebrate with. Well, at least the façade of being a dick is back—out and proud.
I can’t think of how to respond to his snub, so I turn around and head back to the booth to retrieve my purse and phone. I’d like to be on the phone while I walk back to the hotel, even if it is only a few blocks, I will feel safer.
Once I fish my phone out of my purse, Gavin stuns me by saying, “Give me ten minutes, and we can go find something close by.” It’s almost as if he really had accepted my offer to go out and celebrate. He runs so hot and cold; I don’t even bother trying to unravel his meaning. I just sit on his stool and watch while he removes parts of his tattoo machine from the Ultrasonic cleaning unit, scrubs them in some sort of solution, slides each piece into a special sterilization pack, and then seals them up. He writes something on each bag before placing them in the Autoclave and turning it on.
“Ready to go?” he asks as he shoves his hands into his pockets and looks at me expectantly.
“Yep. Do you mind if we swing by the room first though? That, or these heels are headed into the nearest trash can because my feet are killing me.”
“We can’t have that now, can we?” he says, and as usual I have trouble deciphering his meaning. Does he mean, he can’t have me throw away these ridiculously sexy shoes? Or does he mean, we can’t allow my delicate, princess feet to hurt? Never mind—of course, it’s the latter.
Chapter 12
After making a quick stop at the hotel for me to change into the most sensible shoes Miles allowed to make the trip—which are still not all that sensible, I decide my pencil skirt had worn out its welcome as well and put on jeans instead. When I emerge from the elevator, Gavin is waiting stiffly in the lobby—probably seething mad that I managed to commandeer his room. As far as I’m concerned, he deserves to sleep on a buddy’s couch this weekend because he still hasn’t shown me an ounce of gratitude for being here at all. Anyway, now we are off to Gavin’s chosen bacon cheeseburger venue.
***
I think the entire event center emptied out into this very bar. It is ridiculously packed despite its limited square footage. There is a layer of sweat in the air and a live band playing country music on the stage.
Gavin parts the crowd like the Red friggen Sea, apparently with his greatness alone—which does nothing except fold me into the swarm of revelers. I’m not interested in beating everyone back to retain my spot by his side, so I head straight for the bar and the strongest drink I can summon.
After two quick shots of something horrific, I’m a little surprised to see a familiar face. Once I make my
way over to her, she shocks me by doling out a surprisingly tight hug for someone I’ve only known for three hours.
“Hi, Alabama! I’m so glad you are here. You give any more thought to coming to see me tomorrow?” When she asks me this, I’m not sure if she means, do I plan on keeping her company at her booth again…or do I plan to let her shove needles through my body. She saves me the trouble of an answer when she yells, “I love this song!” Then grabs me by my hand and beats her own path through all the people.
Her name is Sunrise, which is easy for me to remember because I think she is the only person alive that can pull off that name. That and, if a sunrise had a personality, it would be her. She is spunky and gorgeous, and I think the brilliant smile on her face was born there and has remained in place her whole life.
I met Sunrise earlier tonight when I stopped at her booth to watch her pierce a guy’s septum. Nothing out of the ordinary happened until the guy’s girlfriend grabbed my arm and announced that she wanted ear piercings just like mine. She had stunned me enough by snatching my arm, that I allowed her to tow me over to Sunrise as her living example.
I figured I was invested enough at that point to hang around while the girlfriend had three holes punched through her ear, and then stayed another hour just chatting with Sunrise. If it were possible to be both a bolt of lightning and a ray of sunshine, that would be her, and her personality drew me in completely.
“I love this song, but I don’t know the dance, do you think they will care if I go out there anyway?” she asks. She may be nervous about dancing with this group, but in no way is it enough to stop her.
