by Tiana Laveen
“Soul Inscriptions, Julian speaking…” The lack of enthusiasm in his tone delivered loud and clear to the caller, no doubt. He’d half attempted to put some life into it, some oomph, but he simply didn’t have the strength.
“Um, yes, I was thinking of getting a tattoo. I’d like to know if—”
“Ma’am, we’re closed.” He cut her off at the pass, loath to waste her time, or his, with a long drawn out story. “Call back at nine tomorrow, and I can talk to you about it.” He stifled a yawn.
“Oh, I thought you guys were open all night.” The disappointment was clear in her tone.
“It has been all night.”
“No, I mean like, twenty-four hours.”
“No ma’am. I’m the owner, and I definitely wouldn’t want any of my employees working hours like that. It would interfere with the quality of their labor. I’m the only one allowed to have a shaky hand,” he joked, feeling like talking a bit after all. He was met with stony silence. “I don’t really have a shaky hand. I was just…well, never mind.” He huffed and ran his palm across his forehead, now eager again to put the awkward conversation to rest. “What’s your name? I can write it down and set you up an appointment tomorrow.”
The woman hesitated, as if unsure. Julian was accustomed to this sort of thing. It was kind of like someone calling a rehabilitation center for drug intervention. They knew they wanted it, they knew they needed it, but the fear was overwhelming nevertheless.
“Let me guess, this is your first tattoo?” He tucked the phone in between his shoulder and neck and crossed his arms as he resigned himself to once again engage the caller.
“Yes.” She laughed lightly, a sound paired with what seemed like a sigh of relief.
“Okay, look.” He waved his hand around, as if she were actually standing in front of him, face to face. “Like I said, I’m the owner, and I’ve had this shop for three years. I’ve been doing tattoos professionally for eight years though. We do quality work here. We’ve received a lot of awards and recognitions, I’m not really into all of that, but hey, that’s something folks like to know.” He shrugged his shoulders. “No one has tried to sue me,” he said with a grin. “Knock on wood, and that should put you at ease.”
She laughed. “Well, that’s good…” He could hear the beam in her tone.
“And I promise to be gentle, and give you exactly what you want.” He found himself morphing into his inner salesman, despite being dead on his feet.
“You own the place and still do tattoos?”
“Of course. I’m here practically all the time, too. Now, let me get your name and number, and you let me know when you want to come in.”
“Mmmm, okay. My name is Milan—Milan Parker. I work until six in the evening, and I’m honestly a little concerned about Friday activity. I bet you guys are really busy on the weekends.”
He shrugged. “Yeah, but privacy can be arranged. We have areas in the shop that can be roped off with a curtain and one room in the back for special situations.” He shoved the receptionist’s papers around on the front desk, until he’d unearthed the appointment book that he demanded still be done by hand. “Here we go…” He flipped the damned thing open. “…Okay, Milan, please give me your number and I can get you in, say…looks like I can squeeze you in for…” he narrowed his eyes as he searched almost in vain for a blank spot, “… a consultation at 6:45. Would that work?”
“A consultation? I was coming in to actually get it. If I don’t, I’ll lose my nerve!” She laughed a bit louder, though her voice shook with the all-too-familiar touch of apprehension.
He smiled and nodded, feeling himself become even more engaged in the conversation as the softness of her voice and the articulation of her words sounded rather sexy.
I wonder if she looks as good as she sounds? Probably not…
“I never give a first-timer a tattoo without a consultation first, Ms. Parker.”
“Really?” She genuinely sounded surprised.
“Really. Here is how my policy works.” He cleared his throat to unload his spiel. “You’d come in, we’d talk about it, you know, the design, the reason for it, all of that. Then, after you leave, I require a twenty-four hour wait time, and then you return and I do the work. This is permanent; this is for life. Not to mention, my work is not cheap in cost; it’s competitively priced, but you are going to shell out some money for a good, quality design. Neither my work, nor my two employees’ work, is lackluster, either. I hand picked them because they meet or exceed my expectations.”
“Hmmm, well, that puts me in a predicament as far as me running scared. I think that is really smart, you know, how you have a wait time, but I don’t know…” She sighed on the other end.
“You could always go to a different shop,” he offered. “I have recommendations actually, of salons that are pretty good where they will give you one as soon as you walk in. It’s just that…” He put his hand across his chest. “I don’t operate that way. But, I want you to be happy so you just tell me, and I can direct you to another place if you are concerned about my first-timer policy.”
There was a long pause, and though he was tired, he soon discovered that his patience was untested. He had no qualms giving her all the time she needed to sort it out.
“No, I think I should follow your advice, actually. Alright, I’ll be in for the consultation tomorrow at 6:45. My number is 762-971-1002.”
“Alright, got it.” He tilted his body around in an unnatural way as he busily scrawled her information down with a fast left hand. “If you need to cancel, or are running a bit behind, just give me a buzz.”
“I will, and thanks… See you tomorrow.” And she disconnected the call before he could give his farewell. He hung up the black, cordless phone covered in peeling red rose stickers and ivory crossbones, tossed the appointment book to the side, and made his way back to the safe.
I can’t wait to get into my damn bed… I should come in at noon tomorrow, but I can’t. Lonnie’s appointment is at ten, so I have to be here. If I don’t get some decent shuteye though, I’m going to fall asleep at the damn needle!
*
Milan had been staring at the same damn screen for over five minutes. Nothing had changed, except her growing annoyance. Martin had been hovering over her like a storm cloud. His pale, freckled arms were crossed and his all-too-familiar, nauseating over-powering cologne made her nose hairs tickle and curl.
Is he embalmed in it?
This was his habit.
To come.
To stand.
To stare.
He never said, ‘excuse me’ or ‘hello’, no…none of that. He’d just wait for her to acknowledge him first, as if he were some red-headed much sought after top-notch celebrity that she should feel privileged to have in her company. She kept right on typing and reading, refusing to even blink her eyes in the fucker’s general direction.
Hers was one of three large cubicles. She’d given it a cozy feel with a few adornments, including a small cactus with whimsical Christmas ornaments wrapped around it’s needles, a photograph of her and her mother in a yellow, ceramic frame, and a molasses jar filled with wrapped gourmet peppermint candies. The office chatter was at a minimum this particular day, and the occasional burst of belly churned laughter or husky whisper about the game would break up the monotony for a brief spell every now and again. She almost forgot Martin was there, but then, she caught his bloated likeness in the computer reflection. Today, she simply wasn’t having it. The last few weeks had been emotionally brutal. She’d been beat along her heart, and her mind hung on by a loose, practically serrated thread. Everyone knew what she’d been through, but Martin didn’t seem to care. There was no acknowledgement, no kind words—sincere or not. His paper-thin lips had not offered one utterance of sympathetic consideration. More seconds passed, and the jerk still stood there, huffing and puffing, trying to draw her to him with his damn near pornographic heavy breathing. Two more minutes passed, and she
refused to budge. She scrolled down the screen, inputting information after reading her fill from the last report. Two could play this game. At that moment, she had the patience of Mother Theresa in a hospital full of dying children vying for their last wish to be granted…
Dying…
You douche. Why can’t you just say, ‘Excuse me?’ like everyone else?
She stomped the keyboard with her gel-nail fingertips, as if all ten of her flying digits were marching beasts, beating out paragraph-ridden drumbeats for the Macy’s Thanksgiving parade.
He loudly cleared his throat, as if that would tempt her, reel her in.
Persistent fucker aren’t you, Martin? If you used half this effort to do a good job, you’d be a force to reckon with…
Instead, she stuck it to him by reaching over her keyboard and paperwork to pick up her work phone and dial a vendor. His fate would be sealed.
“Hi Fran! This is Milan Parker from Collins Accounting Services…yes, I did receive your email, thank you so much!” She added extra cheer in her voice, causing the man to turn and storm off. Her eyes narrowed as she watched him hightail it in the reflection of her computer.
She shoots…she scores!
She curled her lips in a smug smile as she continued on with her conversation. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her good work buddy, Bryant. He was silently laughing as he impishly eyed her; he was up to no damn good, with his mouth agape, his dark brown eyes tight with mischievous merriment, yet he dared not utter a word in the sterile environment. They simply winked at one another, acknowledging that the joke was on Martin. Soon, a new email notification popped up on her computer screen.
New Message from Bryant McKenzie.
She dared herself to click on it while still on the phone with the client. Bryant was a notorious office clown, her best pal in the whole place. He’d kept her semi-sane over the past few weeks, her right arm in time of need. Nevertheless, he had a sarcastic wit about him, and it usually led her down paths of extreme laughter, at times inappropriately. She chanced it, needing the reprieve.
I saw your buddy shadowing you… You know you want that sexy hunk of man meat. He kept popping up like a damn rabbit. He is like Easter, keeps rising up! He thinks he is the resurrection!
She spun around in the man’s direction and placed her hand over her quivering lips, stifling the pending showing of amusement, but Bryant’s back was towards her as his long fingers flew across his keyboard. Her email chimed once again. She clicked on it, and read.
He needs to sit his trapezoid shaped ass down somewhere. I bet he had a woodie for you, all of three inches on hard. He was standing so damn close, it is amazing he didn’t impregnate the back of your head. When is the baby shower?
Dying with laughter, she shot Bryant another glance and found him looking at her. Making a face as if she were about to vomit, she caused him to burst out into full-fledged hysterics. Composing himself, he quickly gathered his bottle of water, cupped his hand over his mouth and turned back to his work.
“Uh, yes, I completely agree, Fran. I will send over the files before the end of today.”
Milan had no idea how she’d kept the two conversations going at once, but she managed, and it was a welcomed relief. She also realized she’d won this battle, but the terror on two legs would be back, to harass her every hour on the hour. If anyone, ever, in the history of America, despised their direct manager, it surely was Milan. Since the chump had been promoted, no one could bring him back down to this lowly place called Earth. The fucker had sprouted homegrown angel wings and flew the fuck away, his ego larger than life, and his smart-ass mouth, too. As her friend Bryant would say, ‘You could no longer tell Martin, shit…’ And that summed it up perfectly.
To make matters even worse, she was reporting directly to the halo-bopping tyrant. She couldn’t believe her miserable luck. He was the man that everyone in the office loved to hate. Her life had gone from challenging to almost unbearable, thanks to him. At that moment, she wished she were a sorcerer. She’d make that asshole vanish quicker than a bursting potato sack filled to the drawstrings with money, left smack-dab in the middle of Time Square.
I need a damn vacation. I wish someone would come and steal my ass away from here… Better yet, I wish Martin would just vanish into thin air!
‡
Chapter Two
Cedrick’s notorious, meandering smirk irked Julian to no end. The stocky man, with his square jaw, smooth dark skin and even darker piercing eyes, had a presence about him but he spent entirely too much time flirting with the women—particularly the college girls that would stroll in searching for a ‘tramp stamp’ to brand their supple lower back … or the MILFs who needed to resurge their sexy quota. His mannish horsing around was causing Julian to grind his teeth into dust, something he only did during times of mounting stress. Stress. Yeah, things had gotten particularly hectic and way over his head. He was accustomed to being a one-man show, running his business how he saw fit, but in the last few months, he realized he needed more help, and he needed help badly. He still hadn’t done a damn thing about it. But that was simply his way.
He needed additional staff, and his old-school system of checks and balances was antiquated. His receptionist, Angela, let him know this on a weekly basis as she sat her freshly tattooed body in her plush, blood red leather chair with faux white fur trim framing the damned thing. It was a freaking throne, a monstrosity she’d wanted so badly. He finally folded and let the little manipulator have it after she’d shown its picture to him in the catalog almost every day for over three months straight. He’d been beaten into saying ‘Yes.’ The harassment was simply too much. What could he do? The Piedmont college student kept his messy, unorganized books in order; she was on time every freaking day, unlike her predecessor; and the customers loved the foul mouthed yet friendly pale skinned beauty with purple hair, styled like the historic Betty Page—and she favored her a bit, too. Angela had pouty lips, the kind that brought men to their knees, and the most alluring set of gray eyes he’d ever seen. He saw her like a little sister, one that he wanted to choke and hug, all at the same time. Regardless, the little minx still wasn’t as bad as the guy seemingly fighting back tears on his table.
No, this over-grown child was working his nerves into a soppy pulp. It was just his luck to be stuck with a whiner. He was sure he was going to have to hand him the infamous pussy ball—nothing more than a tennis ball given to the patrons who couldn’t take a little pain, the ones that acted as if they were getting their spleen extracted through their nostril with no anesthesia, ancient Egyptian surgical style.
His five o’clock had cancelled, and here he was with a guy who’d had three previous tattoos that looked like they’d been sketched with a cheap, sticky, ball-point pen on it’s last damn leg. He didn’t know who the asshole was that drew the crap, but he wanted nothing more than to punch them square in the face for placing such spotty work on the human canvas, and then demanding payment for the defilement.
“I need all three covered, man,” the guy wailed, his west-coast accent strong through each word he choked out. “I was drunk when I got ’em. Can you cover ’em up? Please, man! You were referred to me, I need it done.” The man practically had tears in his droopy, brown eyes, and he hadn’t even been touched. Julian tried to hide his annoyance as he twisted the man’s arm to and fro to peer closely at the distorted five-point star, a shooting comet and a planet. Instead of a star, it looked like a kite that had gotten mangled in a tree after a wild cat had chewed it to stringy bits and pieces. The shooting comet looked like a renegade, angry erect penis flying through the damn galaxy on a mission to splooge on anything in its way and the planet was no more than a crumbling chocolate chip cookie with a crudely drawn ring around it. He was certain his nephew, his step-sister’s son, could’ve done a better job, and Georgie was only three…
“Okay.” Julian took a deep breath as he continued his investigation. “This is what we’re going to d
o. You said you wanted something cool, right? And you wanted maybe a woman, and you like Asian art. That’s correct, right?”
The guy nodded his head rapidly, causing the fleshy rolls around his rounded, meaty head to jiggle.
“Let’s turn the star into the top of the head of a Geisha. I can use this as her headdress and hairstyle.” He pointed to where the comet and star almost touched. “I can take this comet here, and turn it into an arm…make her hold a lotus.” Julian began to draw on the man’s skin as he mouthed the possibilities. The planet is a bit trickier, but I think I can make it a part of the design on her kimono, and the other part a fan. How does that sound?” He continued to quickly sketch all over until the rough, fast etching was complete. The man looked down at his arm, then bounced his view into the nearby mirror, and back at his arm.
“Man! That’s bad ass! Yeah, let’s do it… I know it’s gonna hurt like a bitch, though.”
“It won’t be too bad.”
Why do I always get the wimps?! Grow some balls, man! Better yet, it’s pass the buck time…
“Okay, cool,” he offered instead, careful to not insult the man. “I need you to fill out your paperwork, go up front.” He pointed towards Angela. “She’ll also get you prepped, and then Alex will do the tattoo.”
“Wait! I thought you were doing it, man.” The man’s eyes grew wide as a state of panic spread across his face.
“You are in good hands. Everyone in here, I can vouch for. They are either as good as me, or even better, okay?” Julian tossed the man a sincere grin, hoping to talk him down off the cliff. “Not to mention, Alex is king when it comes to these sorts of designs. You couldn’t ask for better craftsmanship.”
And that was true.
“Oh…okay. I hope so,” he mumbled as he stood, pulled his falling blue jeans up, and made sloppy steps towards the front of the salon, his head a bit low as if everyone should crowd around him and assure him all was well.
