Authors: Jaffarian;others
I could hardly wait to strip off my shirt for another, closer look at my tattoo.
C
HAPTER
T
WO
T
WO WEEKS LATER
found me once more passing through the portal of Rip’s Parlour. My tattoo had healed well, at its worst like a bad sunburn.
I was still pleased with my new acquisition but sadly, not all my friends and family were as enthusiastic. I’d told no one my plan - preferring to keep it as a surprise - though I’d talked about a tattoo on and off for years. I guess none of them thought I’d ever really go through with it.
My mother’s reaction had been the most extreme. “Are you insane? If your father was still alive, he’d be spinning in his grave!”
Hmm, I wasn’t touching that!
Others were more appreciative, and anyway, I was the one who would be wearing it, and I was happy.
Rip was behind the counter, negotiating with a young man with so many visible piercings I couldn’t help wondering about those possibly not on public display. A page of commercial skin art was stretched out on the glass top, the young man pointing to a large eagle with a banner in its claws, ready to be inscribed with a phrase of the buyer’s choosing.
“Are you
sure
that’s what you want? It’ll take several sessions, and I charge by the hour. It won’t be cheap. And think really carefully before you have
that
written on your back. It’ll be there for the rest of your life, short of lasering it off, and what you think is cool now may not seem so great in fifteen or twenty years. Even five years. Anyway, I can’t do it this afternoon, I’ve got an appointment already.” He nodded over the youth’s shoulder to indicate me, and smiled in welcome. “Why don’t you think about it overnight, and come back in tomorrow if you’re still sure you want to go ahead?”
Eagle man blustered a little about not changing his mind once it was made up, knowing what he wanted and being willing to pay for it, before finally agreeing to return the following day.
“Come through,” said Rip. “I’m hoping he’ll get cold feet. I mean, he has the right to tattoo whatever he likes on his body, but he’d be better off starting small. I won’t tell you what he wants written on that banner, but I think he might regret it before too long. Anyway, how did you get on? Any problems?”
“No, just minor discomfort, that’s all. I followed the instructions on the card, and it’s healed up quite well.” I parted my shirt to show him.
Rip inspected my chest and once again I blushed, even though I assumed the attention to my bosom was purely professional.
“Yeah, that looks good.”
Oh, yes? Was that a compliment? Perhaps not
purely
professional, after all!
“You handled the pain well. I was impressed.” He grinned.
“Oh, it wasn’t so bad,” I lied. I didn’t want him to think I was a wimp, and anyway the memory had faded. And truly, it could have been worse…yeah, like a close encounter with an iron maiden or sleeping on a bed of nails worse. I changed the subject. “I meant to ask you about the name of your place. Oh, don’t get me wrong, I like it, it’s just that ‘parlour’ has a kind of old fashioned sound.”
“Think so? When I named it, I was more on the ‘come into my parlour, said the spider to the fly’ track.” Rip looked at me sidelong with an evil grin.
“Ah.” I wasn’t quite sure how to respond. Just who was the spider and who the fly in this scenario?
Rip made a subject switch of his own.
“So, what have you been up to over the last couple of weeks? Taking your new tattoo out to show it off?” He tossed the questions over his shoulder as he made his preparations.
“Well, showing it off has gotten a mixed reaction, but you know what,
I
like it. And I haven’t been up to much lately, just been to a couple of movies.” Drat, that made me sound like the most boring person on the planet—not at all the impression I wished to make.
“I wouldn’t worry about the reactions, especially not if you’re happy with it. Anyway, it’s in a good position, where you can let it show or not, as you choose. What sort of movies do you like?” He indicated the chair, which this time seemed less like a medieval torture accessory and more like an odd piece of modern art.
I slid into the contorted leather and tried again to get comfortable, my wriggling less indicative now of anxiety and more of the desire to avoid a cricked neck. “Oh, I have varied tastes. I like the big blockbuster sci-fi stuff, but I also like some of the less, um, mainstream films, too.”
“Yeah, I love all the fantastic special effects in some of those movies, but I know what you mean about the left-of-centre stuff. Like Tim Burton. Did you see ‘The Ghost of Sleepy Hollow’?”
He seated himself and pulled in close to my side, brushing the lapel of my shirt aside, and with a gentle touch cleansed my tattoo with a swab scented with eucalyptus. I had a sudden wicked urge to slide a hand up the thigh so temptingly close.
“Oh, yes, that was great, wasn’t it? Dark and atmospheric. And I like Johnny Depp, too. I can appreciate an actor who looks for a bit more in a role than star billing and big bucks; he chooses some quirky scripts.” I let my head fall back against the rest. Gazing at the ceiling, I gave up on trying to look down my nose and see what was happening almost directly below my chin. Last time I’d been petrified of the whole process. Now that I knew what to expect, I could wait until he was done to look.
“Like Edward Scissorhands. Now that was quirky!” He picked up the tattoo gun. “Okay, ready?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be.” Though I knew what was coming, the first few minutes had me once more clenching my hands till the nails dug into the palms. Had I not been concentrating on staying still for fear of embellishing my design with unwanted additions, I might have jumped so far out of the chair Rip would’ve had to peel me off the ceiling.
I tried to use the tactic that had worked the first time. Even though the treacherous periphery of my awareness was all too conscious of the warm body nestled so closely into my side, for the most part I distanced myself from the incessant cicada buzz in my ears by listening to the music. Jeff Buckley this time, a CD that was often my choice of play at home. I felt myself caught up in that tragic young voice, wailing and lilting like a lost soul, as if somehow he knew his life would be cut short.
I jumped when Rip spoke. “The black shadowing’s done. Want to stretch while I change inks?”
I stood, one of my feet darting with pins and needles. “I like your taste in music. Sad that he died so young, Jeff Buckley, I mean. It makes me wonder what he would have been capable of as the years passed.”
Rip paused at the bench and turned to look back at me. “Yeah. I have a kind of weakness for the ones that burned out early. Buckley, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison. Hendrix. Even Elvis.”
I nodded. “Uh-huh. If you can look past the hype and the sheer over-the-topness that was Elvis in the latter years, and just listen to that honeyed voice, appreciate the showman…he had magic.”
“Ah, a woman of good taste and discernment! I should’ve known from your preferences in movies. I have rather varied tastes in most things, and not everyone appreciates that.”
Since my own tastes followed a similar path and usually garnered similar reactions, I knew what he meant. “Yep, been there. I’m interested in all kinds of things, and too many people seem to think I should confine my interests to a single area, that having a number of hobbies is somehow weird. There are too many things to see and do in the world to narrow my view down that far, and besides I’m way too curious to limit myself to just bits of it.”
“My sentiments exactly,” he said. “Might as well see as many bits as you can…”
I choked on a giggle, and we stood there grinning at each other, till he recalled the task at hand.
“Shall we?” he asked, indicating the chair. I fitted myself back into position and braced for the needle. Apparently my endorphins had kicked back in during the interim, and I felt the first faint fingers of that odd euphoria creep up my spine into my brain. By the time Rip lifted his head from his task, I was feeling on top of the world.
I had a sudden and tantalising image of him leaning in, further and further, about to kiss me.
My unbidden fantasy was interrupted as he took my hand to help me to my feet, and my face flamed as if he could see the thoughts flashing through my mind. My skin tingled where his fingers curled about mine.
Dragging my eyes away from him, I inspected my tattoo in the mirror and felt a huge grin plaster itself across my face.
“Thank you. It looks just like I imagined it. The extra shading and shadowing really make it pop out.”
He made a mock bow, his ponytail sweeping down over one shoulder. “Ma’am, I aim to please.”
Now there was a leading line, if ever I heard one!
Buoyed by the wellbeing induced by all those happy little hormones now coursing about my bloodstream, I turned bold.
“Do you have the live Jeff Buckley CD?” I asked.
Rip looked up from putting his equipment away and shook his head. “No, I’ve heard of it, but never actually listened to it.”
“It’s not bad. I bought it a few months back. I could bring it with me next time…if you’d like.” Oh, so innocent!
He laughed. “Next time? I should’ve warned you before you started that these things are addictive. People swear they’ll just get one but before they know it they’ve started a collection. Any ideas on what you want next?”
I was beginning to think that he was what I wanted, but I wasn’t entirely sure the feeling was mutual.
“Oh, I have plenty of ideas, but I haven’t made a decision. I’ll be back when I do.” There, surely that was cryptic enough not to give my budding machinations away.
“I’ll see you then. Oh, and if you remember, I’d like to hear that Buckley CD,” Rip said, giving me a half-wave in farewell.
I returned the gesture, smiling. There were several people waiting. I wondered how he worked out who was first in line, but there seemed no doubt and no arguments as he ushered in a svelte young lady who chattered non-stop about her art choice; apparently, from what I could hear, a cartoon character set in the small of her back. Unjustified and unattractive as it was, a pang of jealousy swept over me at the thought of Rip bent over all that nubile semi-naked flesh.
I told myself I was being unreasonable, but it took several minutes and a severe self-talking to before I got the image out of my head. In fact, so caught up was I in this crisis of conscience that I nearly walked across the road against the lights, and it was only the angry blare of a car horn that startled me out of my reverie.
Distraction, I needed distraction. I started thinking about my next tattoo.
C
HAPTER
T
HREE
I
T TOOK ME
the better part of a month, several sweeps through all my illustrated art books, most of those in the local library, plus about a hundred discarded sketches before I had a design I liked.
By that time my first tattoo was well and truly healed. I’d been past Rip’s Parlour a couple of times, peering in through the window as subtly as I could. Which wasn’t very. The first time, a stranger had been behind the counter. The second, Rip had spotted me at the glass, grinned and waved, but he was talking to a customer, and I’d merely waved back before scuttling off, mortified at being caught peeping.
But I really wanted a second tattoo, and given his performance on the first, I wanted Rip to be the one to ink it. Of course, his personal charms were an added attraction. I’d decided on an anklet, probably on my left leg, and my design wove five narrow strands in Celtic style with two snarling dragonheads on the outside of the ankle as a psuedo-clasp.
Having phoned to check if Rip was working that afternoon and armed with my piece of paper, I strolled once more into the tattoo parlour. I was nervous again, but not about the tattoo this time. Over the past weeks I’d tried to talk myself out of my crush, telling myself Rip had just been friendly, an advantage in his line of work. I’d tried to forget the goose bumps that had marched up my spine when I felt the warmth of his body so close to my own, and told myself it was a reaction to being in pain, merely nerves. I gave my libido a stern talk, lecturing it that our matching interests were just a pleasant coincidence and that I shouldn’t try to read any more into it. The attempt had been a miserable failure.
I felt like a schoolgirl of sixteen.
I was determined that none of this would show.
Friendly as ever, Rip ushered me behind the partition and, accepting my sketch, studied the design.
“Ankle, wrist or upper arm?” he asked.
“Ankle.” I’d shaved my legs in preparation. Oh, all right, I’d shaved my legs, pumiced and moisturised my feet, painted my toenails a vivid and fetching scarlet, washed my hair, taken an hour over my makeup to achieve a look that suggested I wasn’t wearing any makeup at all, donned my best red silk underwear, worn barely there sandals and tried on seven different outfits before finally leaving the house then going back to change one more time. Not that I was making a big deal out of this visit to the tattoo parlour.