by Tiana Laveen
“Yo Alex!” Julian called out as he rolled up his sleeves and tossed a lazy glance his way. “That guy there,” he pointed to the nervous, big man up front now speaking to Angela, “he’s getting this design. It’s a cover up.” Alex sauntered over, his buzzed dark brown hair glistening from freshly applied gel and his diamond stud nose piercing shining under the bright lights. He perused the sketch on the tracing paper, turned it over, nodded and walked back to his station to finish an eye-catching dolphin jumping out of the rippling ocean on a man’s calf. Julian pulled up his schedule on his cellphone, hating that he’d had no other choice but to start checking it that way. Angela had sat him down, bum rushed him with an intervention, and made him bite the technology-ridden bullet. She’d explained to him that the popularity of his shop now required it and he’d miss important opportunities unless he stepped into modern day knowledge. It was like pulling teeth that had been reinforced with industrial strength super-glue, but as usual, she’d gotten him to fall to her nonsensical whims. Ahhh, they weren’t so nonsensical actually. That was just an excuse and he knew it. He understood completely why he allowed the little woman to boss him around regarding these matters; it was in his best interest—something he could accept, embrace with both hands, even if he simultaneously gave her the ‘side eye.’
He blew his nose and glanced at the half eaten grilled zucchini sandwich on his workstation, the dull, translucent parchment paper turned up on one corner. He tucked his necklace sporting Hamsa with the ‘all knowing’ eye into his black tank top, grabbed a small beaten up broom, and began the busy work of clearing up his area. As he got into the groove, the bristles moving lazily along the glossy, wooden floor, he heard the door chime. Another customer had entered. This was about the time that the weekend crowd began to arrive, pouring inside the doorway with their pendulum swinging hopes and daredevil dreams soon to be written across their reddened flesh. Typically, the potential customer brought a friend or two to lend moral support because this time, instead of the tiny, salacious dripping cherries on their ankle, or their girlfriend of the month’s name scrawled across their chest, they wanted something enormous, significant and overpowering.
People wanted to be bigger than life over the weekend, and then come Monday, accept their small pecking order in the big, bad world. That ecosphere, with her hard hitting ways, swallowed them up late Sunday night then spit them out like stale, flavorless chewing tobacco once the sun rose Monday morning, reminding them that they were no longer dazzling and beautiful, draped in their favorite faux personalities and fueled by liquid courage. On the weekend, the hermit-like nerds became swaggered-out gangsters, the repressed wallflowers morphed into vibrant sexual fiends, and the habitually ostracized were declared intelligent, innovative, highly sought after lives of the goddamn party. Julian kept on sweeping; the tan bristles of the brush collected various debris, as well as a tiny spider web as he half listened to a feminine voice speaking to Angela. The words were faint—from a great distance away, and the music made it even more convoluted.
The door chimed once again. This time, he looked up. A group of five men came through, laughing obnoxiously, their mouths hanging open while beaten ball caps obscured half their faces. Julian kept his eye on them then shot a glance at the front desk and … stopped sweeping. A shapely woman stood there in a plum two-piece suit. Her off black hair, partially swept and cut in soft, feathered layers, framed her face like a picture. A swaying half-bang hovered over one eye, obstructing it from his view as she proudly wore a fuchsia-lipstick-covered smile. Her long, curvaceous legs were covered in sheer hose, sparkling ever so lightly under the recessed reception area light.
Nice fucking legs…
The long, graceful limbs poured into a pair of sensible, black low heels that displayed an endearing rose across the leather ankle straps, joining into silver clasps. He continued to stare her up and down, unable to turn away despite the boisterous men that played around in the front lobby, friskily throwing bows at one another, sure to break something in his well-decorated salon not designed for such horseplay.
“And you spoke to Julian?” He barely made out what Angela was saying, but he strained hard, as hard as he could muster. The woman’s smile was warm, her ochre complexion smooth with a slight sheen along the apple of her cheeks. Her dark eyes glimmered as if a shard of galactic space had fallen inside of them and soon, he found himself sucking his bottom lip and gripping the top of his broom with both hands as he jumped at a new viewing opportunity. He zoomed in close to her ass. She’d turned part way, pointing to something outside as she continued to speak to his receptionist. The woman’s waist was small, her thighs a thick, supple meal for a man with a hearty appetite.
Bon Appétit…
Her ass stood high and round, begging for his fingers to brush against those globular cheeks… and her breasts no doubt spilled forth into a 36D bra. He knew a good pair of tits when he saw them…
Suddenly, Angela popped up from her seat like a damn gopher, forcing him out of his carnal deliberations as she pointed the way in his direction. He cleared his throat and immediately looked away, as if he hadn’t been standing there ogling the woman for the past thirty seconds. He played it cool as she advanced, her shoes clicking against the floor. When she got near, he paused and looked up at her casually, pretending he hadn’t initially noticed her approach. Finding this whole routine he was attempting to dole out plain silly, he pulled his fucking self together.
He looked straight at her, casually leaned the broom against his table and extended his hand.
“Hi, you must be my 6:45 appointment. Milan, correct?” He said it so damn coolly, he almost had himself convinced that he wasn’t sporting the beginning stages of a hard-on.
Her lips curved into a sly smile as she extended her ring-covered hand.
“Yes. I almost chickened out, but I’m here.”
He gently shook it and pointed to his chair.
“Please, have a seat.”
Milan sat down and crossed her legs. Her skirt rode up, exposing more of which he craved. She gripped the armrests of the seat, her glossy nails digging into the pleather, sure to leave indentations.
So tense…
“Okay.” He casually leaned against his table and crossed his arms over his chest. “So, first of all, congratulations for making it here.”
She lightly laughed and nodded.
“And secondly, let’s get right into it. What’s your aim? Your goal regarding getting a tattoo.”
“Well.” She looked around the salon, her eyes appearing vacant for a second or two. She then shot the beautiful peepers back in his direction, running her palm up and down the armrest, her nerves jumping out of control no doubt. Her chest rose and fell, the rhythm a bit off beat, as if she was trying to control the very air she breathed. “I want to get something in honor of my mother.”
“Mmmm hmmm.” Julian picked up his bottle of warm water and took a leisurely sip, then set it back down, returning to his previous stance. “And what did you have in mind?”
“Well, that’s just the thing.” She offered a slight grin, smudged with a dash of timidity. “I’m not really certain. I thought about, you know, her name and her favorite flower on my arm. Something like that. But,” she shrugged, “I don’t really know.” She ran her fingers through her hair, moving her bangs out of her eye. It swung back and landed smack-dab at its original location anyhow. Her smile was now etched with what appeared to be glimmers of despondency, and it tugged at him a bit, made him warm to an un-bestowed touch.
“Well, let me help you brainstorm some ideas. Is that fine?”
“Yes, I think I need that.” She smiled a bit wider, lifting her head higher, catching his eye as she traced the side of her neck with her fingertips.
Julian grabbed a 10x12 pad of sketch paper and an ink pen.
“Is this a memorial, or is she still amongst us?”
“A memorial…” She looked down into her lap. He could tell the
grief was fresh, like a knife had sliced right through her damn heart—the blood still bright red and wet, falling onto her raw emotions and making the sting of recently spent tears come alive.
“Okay.” He scratched his upper lip with the end of the pen then put it to the paper. “Tell me some things about your mother, like her personality, the things she liked, what you two did together…”
“Well…” Now her smile was more optimistic, a bit brighter. “She loved the color yellow. She wore it all the time. Her beloved curtains were yellow, too. They hung in our living room… Her favorite flowers were golden roses, you know, the dark yellow ones that look so rich with pigment, like they are made of melted pennies?” She paused, seeming to drift away in thought. “I love yellow roses, too. I suppose I got that from her. She was funny, always making people laugh, too. Let’s see…” She placed her finger to her lip. “Oh yeah, this is an important one, she loved listening to opera, I mean loved it!” The woman was now talking with her hands, fully animated as if he’d reached behind her and wound her up, turning her key counter-clockwise then set her free. She had rejuvenation, as if her vivacious words were bringing her mother back from the grave, and in some ways, they possibly were…
“She loved going to the opera house plays and musicals. As a child, I found that to be a bit strange. I didn’t know many, uh…” She paused to size him up, as if becoming suddenly aware of his existence.
“You didn’t know many what?” Julian questioned without looking up from the paper.
“Black people that liked opera,” she said in almost a whisper, like it was some great secret that she’d been sworn to never divulge.
He was duly amused at how she was talking so low, but kept his face straight. “… But, now that she’s gone, I listen to it, too. It makes me feel closer to her.” Her voice was now clearer again, confident.
“Mmmm hmmmm….” His hand kept moving along the paper. “Keep going…”
“Let’s see.” She sighed loudly and clasped her hands together as she looked up at the ceiling. “Yeah, that’s right…” She was drifting further into her thoughts, so deep, he wasn’t certain he’d be able to retrieve her once the time came. But, he was okay with that. He understood clearly, inexplicitly, the need for this to play out just as it was.
He quickly glanced at her then back down at his paper. She grinned a bit wider, and began to speak again. “We played scrabble when I was a kid, and then again…towards the end, when she was getting sick. I always looked forward to it.”
“Mmmm hmmmm…now, how do you feel about portraits? Did you want her actual face, or just her name, or just images that evoked the fondness of her memory?”
“Well.” She winced ever so slightly. “A portrait, I don’t know. I never really contemplated that. I mean, I’ve seen some really nice ones on other people, but I never considered myself to be that type of person, you know?”
“Mmmm hmmmm.” He continued to sketch and write. “Do you have a photo of her with you right now by chance?”
“Oh.” She seemed slightly put off as she searched about her person. “I didn’t expect that, um…” She laughed nervously. “You know what? I do.” Her confusion dissipated. “I have her obituary in my purse… For some reason I don’t want to take it out, get rid of it.”
“Well, sometimes things like that make us feel closer to the person we lost. It is like the last notification, to some degree,” he offered as he waited for her to find it.
She’d paused, seeming to reflect on his words, then continued her search.
“If you don’t mind me asking, how did she die and how long has she been gone?” He looked back down at his paper while she dug inside her over-sized pecan colored leather purse. Julian felt the more he knew about someone, the better the artwork turned out to be for memorial tattoos. If he could grasp onto something tangible, something that turned them into not only the customer’s loved one, but his friend too, then he could transfer that passion into the ink.
“Oh, well, she had dementia. We found out it was due to the fact that she had Alzheimer’s.” She swallowed and averted eye contact. The woman drifted away right before his eyes, though her mouth still moved as if she were living for the moment. “She died two and half weeks ago…on the 8th.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said sincerely, though he had to say it to many people that walked through his doors. It didn’t matter; each woeful confession was like a new fallen leaf, and each one was individually unique along the forest floor of life. No two were alike. Nor would another be created that emulated the exact likeness…
“Alzheimer’s?”
She handed him the obituary and nodded.
He immediately opened it, taking a good hard look at the photo of the woman. She, too, had a pleasant smile. Typically, dementia was associated with older people, and he was surprised a woman as young as Milan, could have a mother in that age bracket. He didn’t dare go there however; he kept it to himself. He perused the written words, catching the woman’s birthday. As if on cue, Milan was inside of him, roaming around amongst his veiled thoughts, and plucked out the one at the vanguard, the notion sitting front and center.
“I was an only child. A surprise baby… My mother had me late in life. She was told she couldn’t have children, and my parents accepted that as truth. She was 48 when she gave birth to me.”
Ahhhh, now it all makes sense…
“Mmmm hmmmm,” he handed her back the obituary and continued to sketch. “Give me just a couple seconds.”
“Of course,” she said, barely audible as she placed her folded hands into her lap, the creased obituary in her tight grip. The woman looked wounded, down on her luck, and if it had been appropriate, she’d probably drop to her damn knees and pray; maybe cry a bit, too. This sort of thing never got easier for Julian. He was happy to serve the people that weren’t just coming in there to get something ‘bad ass.’ Badass was fine, hell, badass was great, but heartfelt was better…People like Milan made his job soul enhancing. He got his rocks off, his thrills, his spiritual boost based on these sorts of individuals walking through his door and telling him, “Hey, I’m suffering right now, and I need to feel a little pain, to get some healing pleasure.”
“Okay.” He looked over the paper one last time, then turned it toward her. “Here is an idea.”
“Oh…my…God.” She raised a trembling hand and traced the sketch, while the obituary slipped from her lap, falling softly like autumn foliage, apparently without her notice. “It’s…beautiful!” As she clasped both hands around her mouth, a tear streamed down her face. His chest felt tight as her eyes continued to gloss over until her cheeks were wet from top to bottom.
There she goes… I knew it was coming. She held out a long time, though…
The tattoo design featured a heart, outlined and framed with of a cluster of dark musical notes. Along the bottom portion of it were theater masks and seven scrabble board pieces that read her mother’s name:
K.A.T.R.I.N.A.
An intricately drawn rose sat in the woman’s hair, and the portrait of her face was soft, but the flower, immense. The woman wore a bright smile, as if she were laughing after hearing a wondrous joke.
“I was thinking, keep it with no color, you know? Except the flower…” he licked his lips as he glared at her, unable to turn away from the invisible pain etched in the deep crevices that ran along her forehead now. He wanted to smooth them out with a kiss, make her relax a bit in his embrace. “I, uh, was going to make the flower, bright yellow with a coppery glow, just as you described,” he offered as he allowed her to have her moment.
“Yes…yes, that’s perfect. I have no idea how you drew this that fast. It …it is just, just perfect… Oh my God, I can’t believe it.” The paper trembled in her quaking hand.
“Well, the finished production will be better. If there is anything you don’t like, or want me to change or move, let me know.”
“…No, I think I like it just
like this…just like this.” Her voice trailed and her eyes appeared suddenly vacant once more.
“Fine. So, here is the next step, okay? I am going to have you wait twenty-four hours, sleep on it.” He glanced up at the turtle clock on the wall then set his sights back upon her. “Then, you can come in tomorrow night, or sometime next week, and we can do it. I want you to read this information.” He reached behind himself and handed her a small packet. “Everything in there describes what you should expect. Like, how I do my tattoos, forms you need to have filled out, after-care of your tattoo, associated costs, medical history, things like that.”
She nodded and handed him the drawing back.
“You get to keep this. I’m going to make a copy of it, then give it back to you, okay?”
She nodded, seemingly unable to speak for several moments as she nervously massaged the side of her neck. The tears had slowed down, but still trudged down her face.
“I’m sorry,” she sobbed. Her voice had deepened during her choked-up episode—richer, more haunting. He hated to admit something at such a time, but it was even sexier than when he’d first heard her on the phone.
“No need to apologize.” He reached across his table, strained and grunted, and pulled a tissue from a small green and white box. “Here you are. I’ll be right back.”
He came from the school of thought that believed tears had a purpose, a reason. A tissue stifled the process, caused the emotionally wounded to be bound a bit longer, needlessly. He’d waited until he couldn’t any longer, fearing to be perceived as rude or uncaring. No, she’d purged a bit; now it was time to give her a rest from it all so he’d offered her the tissue for her to calm down and collect herself. Still, at least for a short while, her heart had been fed.
Julian swallowed and sailed into the back office area. He stood there for a moment, his heart racing. The woman was so fucking beautiful, and her energy was amazingly pure, so clean, like the spirit of a newborn baby. She was in tremendous poignant pain, and he feared she didn’t have an outlet to truly grieve properly. What perplexed him most was, he couldn’t sort out why he cared. People came in there all the damn time with hard luck stories, but with her, he felt a pull, as if he wanted to make it all better, make the pain go away. He was genuinely concerned about her, as if they’d been friends or something. He found it a bit unnerving, for he realized his attraction to her was bleeding into his natural desire to heal others. It created a cocktail he wanted to drink from, a recipe he craved to try out to see if it tasted as good as she looked. He feared her torment was still all bottled up inside. No, he didn’t fear it on second thought, he simply knew it. He didn’t want that for her. Oddly enough, she mirrored what he still wrestled with from time to time—the mourning of those gone, never to be heard from again. After a while, people think, ‘Hmmm, still upset? It’s been a while, right?’
