I had made probably 10 different consultation appointments before I finally got the courage to go into the shop. I did my research, looked at all the Yelp pages and made sure to find the highest rated places in my part of the city — still, every time I found a tattoo parlor that seemed right I’d make an appointment and then bail. You see, I wanted a tattoo really bad, but once I started thinking about that little needle injecting ink into my virgin skin my palms got all clammy and my heart raced and I’d find a reason not to go in that day. Who knows how many artists I pissed off with my no-call no-shows.
But one day, once the winter freeze lifted after months of dreary nothingness, I woke up to a blue sky and sunshine and decided you know what, dammit, I was going to get my tattoo.
Google showed me a shop just a few blocks from my house that had glowing reviews. Better yet, I hadn’t ghosted their staff before so I wasn’t in danger of getting a shitty ink job just because I was too chickenshit to muster up the courage and go. It was called the InkWorks Salon and, according to Google, a Tuesday afternoon around 2pm was a great time for walk-ins. With Tuesdays off and the fantastic weather, I didn’t seem to have a reason not to.
The shop was what I expected, half biker bar and half what you’d see on one of those shows on TLC. Clean, but mostly black and metal, rows of designs lining the wall for undecided patrons to choose from. I wasn’t interested in topless mermaids or tiny roses but I’d brought a picture on my phone to show the artist as a guideline — just like the research I did on the reviews, I’m very thorough.
A heavyset man with the word “FAITH” inked above his eyebrow met me on the leather couch to go over my design. I knew exactly what I looked like, a basic sorority bitch with my blonde ponytail and sparkly Ugg-style boots, and the tattoo I wanted didn’t help but I didn’t care. It had taken a force of will to even get there so I wasn’t turning back because a guy with a chain wallet thought it was silly.
Adam, the artist, looked at the screen of my phone with a blank expression.
“Where do you want it?” he asked. I extended my forearm and he grabbed me by the wrist unexpectedly.
“Um, I was thinking here,” I said, and watched as he began tracing the skin there with a calloused finger. It was a weirdly intimate gesture and I wasn’t sure if I should pull away or not.
“Hmm,” Adam-with-a-face-tattoo said thoughtfully, then got up and walked into the back.
Within half an hour he had a sketch ready for me: the prettily looping script that read: Warmest regards, Marilyn Monroe.
Yeah, I know. How basic, right? Marilyn Monroe’s autograph. I’m sorry, I’ve just always loved her and I thought the signature was beautiful. At least it wasn’t that bullshit quote about not loving you at your worst or whatever.
After a few edits Adam printed off the design onto a special kind of paper that he peeled an adhesive backing off of. I waited for a moment before he gestured impatiently for me to give him my arm again.
I didn’t really want to, given the way he’d almost caressed me before, but I figured if I was going to get this done it was now or never. So I extended my arm towards him, watching his face.
Adam-with-a-face-tattoo seized me by the wrist again and, with the precision of a true artist, placed the paper exactly where I’d told him I wanted it. I tried to ignore how his finger pressed the sticky design down on my skin slowly, carefully, like he was trying to memorize the curve of my forearm.
You ever get that crawly feeling in your stomach? For no good reason? Like, this was what he was supposed to do. It was his job. But as I watched his face, his eyebrows furrowing below that spikily-lettered FAITH, I just felt like something was wrong.
And then he peeled back the paper, leaving behind a blue stencil for him to follow with that needle I knew would soon be jabbing into me over and over again.
“Time for one more cigarette before we start,” Adam said, tossing the backing into the trash can and turning towards his steel tray of ominous-looking tools. “Head out front and let it dry. I’ll get you when I’m ready.”
I got a cigarette and my sunglasses out of my purse and went outside. I felt sort of like a guy in the army taking his last cig before the battle — “Smoke ‘em if you got ‘em, boys.”
On the bench just outside the shop sat another heavily-inked woman smoking a menthol. Across from her, leaning against a rusted pickup truck, was an older guy with a salt-and-pepper beard with his hands deep in the pockets of his jeans. I sat next to the woman and lit up, looking at the ghostly imprint of what would soon be on my body forever.
“First tattoo?” the woman asked between drags.
“Yeah,” I said. It must’ve been obvious, the way I kept staring at my arm, but also — you know. The sparkly Uggs.
“It’s not so bad,” the woman said, exhaling a puff of smoke away from me. She pulled her shirt up to show me an extremely intricate cross that took up most of her ribcage. Underneath it read the word “FOREVER.”
“I’m afraid it’s going to hurt,” I said, puffing on my cigarette like it was the last one I’d ever have.
“Oh, yours won’t hurt at all,” she told me. “This one hurt like a bitch ‘cause it’s on the bone but it was worth it. When people ask me why I got it I just say, Jesus gave it to me.”
The guy leaning on the pickup truck laughed.
“He always says ‘I didn’t know you thought that highly of me,’” the woman said, smiling as she lowered her shirt. “Artists think they’re such hot shit, one compliment and it goes right to their head. Or their dick.” She crushed out her menthol on the bench and looked at my arm.
I wondered briefly if the guy leaning on the truck was a better artist than Adam-with-the-face-tattoo — the woman’s cross really was gorgeous, though it did look painful — but it was too late to turn back now.
“Marilyn Monroe,” the woman said, not really hiding the judgment in her voice.
“I really like her.” I turned my forearm over so she couldn’t see the design.
“No, it’s nice.” It didn’t really sound like she thought it was nice.
She stretched, then stood up. “Good luck, kid, I’m sure you’ll be fine. You’ll probably be back for more after your first. That’s kind of how it works. You can’t have just one.” She paused, then added, “Sort of like potato chips.”
The woman waved and the guy waved back as she walked away. My cigarette was down to the filter so I dropped it and crushed it on the pavement with my sparkly Ugg.
“Stacy?” Adam poked his head out of the shop. “Everything’s set up, I’m ready for you.”
I let out a deep breath and stood up, taking off my sunglasses. The guy leaning on the truck who I’d began to think of as Jesus smiled at me.
“You’ll be fine,” Jesus said, scratching his salt-and-pepper beard. His voice was warm, somehow soothing. “Focus on the vibration of the gun instead of the pain. It’s not that bad, trust me.”
I didn’t know I needed that but I guess I did because it gave me the courage to go back into the shop. I know, I’m a total pussy, but this was as far as I’d gotten after 10 calls and it felt like a personal triumph to not go to the parking lot and drive home.
“Thanks.” I mean it. I smiled and followed Adam inside.
They were both right — it wasn’t that bad. It hurt, sure, but not more than someone sort of scratching at you with a dull pin. When it started to hurt more I did what Jesus said and focused on the vibration of the gun. It made the bones in my hand sort of rattle, but not unpleasantly, so it was a welcome distraction.
By the time Adam-with-the-face-tattoo was done I felt exhilarated. I had done it! After all those times of chickening out I had actually walked into a shop and done the damn thing. I left that day admiring my forearm, the lovely signature inked into my skin — “WARMEST REGARDS, MARILYN MONROE.” I felt like a badass even though it was probably the least badass tattoo I could’ve gotten.
I took good care of the tattoo. Non-perfumed soap and water, Aquaphor moisturizer. It barely hurt (when I’d expected it to) and didn’t even get red around the edges like I’d seen with other people who’d gotten tattoos.
My friends loved it. My mother was actually all right with it, even though I was sure she’d flip once she saw I’d imprinted my skin with the autograph of a dead movie star for eternity. I found myself gesturing with my left arm more often just to show it off. “WARMEST REGARDS.”
A few weeks after I’d had it done, I got a card in the mail. It was from the InkWorks Salon, signed by Adam, saying I should come in for a routine touch-up. Like I said, I’m very thorough, so I stopped by the shop to make sure I was doing everything I was supposed to do. I didn’t want my new ink fading or getting messed up.
Adam-with-the-face-tattoo gave it a few dabs with the gun. It didn’t seem like he did much, not really, but the touch-ups were free so I’d toss him a few bucks as a tip and go on my way, always waving to Jesus on my way out.
It was kind of nice, because I’d visit with Dee (the woman with the ornate cross tattoo on her ribs) and Jesus outside the shop for a smoke beforehand. Dee was there for touch-ups too and even though Jesus didn’t talk much, he’d listen and laugh and always made me feel at ease just like the first time.
I probably had three or four of these touch-ups as the months went on before I started to think it was strange. The script looked pristine and clean, not faded or anything, and I wasn’t sure why I kept getting cards in the mail telling me I needed to come back. It looked just as good as it had the first day I’d gotten it done, Marilyn’s pretty autograph just like it appeared on the old pinup photos I’d looked up online.
When I came back in the summer, I noticed Dee wasn’t on the bench outside like she normally was.
“Where’s Dee?” I asked Jesus, whose name I might have learned at some point but didn’t remember. He shrugged.
“I don’t know,” he said, looking concerned. “She hasn’t been here for a while. I’m worried about that boyfriend of hers.”
She had told us that he knocked her around. I’d said she needed to call someone but Dee insisted he loved her, he didn’t mean what he did. Not really.
“Me too,” I said, looking at her empty spot on the bench.
“C’mon, Stacy, let’s get this done,” Adam-with-the-face-tattoo said impatiently from the doorway.
“Gotta go.” I put out my cigarette and waved at Jesus. He waved back, still watching the place Dee should have been with a furrowed brow.
When I sat down in the leather chair, my arm extended obediently, I noticed Adam seemed agitated.
“What’s up?” I asked. I’d been at the shop enough that I felt like I knew Adam pretty well.
A moment passed before he sighed as he prepared the tattoo gun.
“Sorry, Stacy, but I don’t know why you’re in here all the time.” He stopped, then put the gun down on the steel tray and looked at me. “I do good work, right?”
I was kind of taken aback.
“Well, yeah, of course.”
“So why do you keep having me touch this thing up?” Adam gestured at my forearm, the word “FAITH” contorting with his face as he grimaced. “It’s just some silly bitch’s signature, it’s not like a sleeve or an illustration. Why do you keep having me fix it when it’s just fine?”
I had that feeling I hadn’t had since I felt him caressing my arm when I came into the shop the first time.
“You keep sending me reminders for touch-ups,” I said. “I… I thought i was supposed to.”
Adam-with-the-face-tattoo stared at me.
“We don’t send reminders for touch-ups,” he said flatly.
We stared at each other.
“But Dee’s here all the time for hers,” I said.
“Yeah, she’s a fuckin’ perfectionist too.” Angry, he started tugging on some blue rubber gloves. “I think she’s finally happy with that stupid cross, though. Haven’t seen her in a while.”
I glanced out the window at the empty bench.
“But…” Trying to find some meaning in all this, I dug into my purse and showed him the appointment card. “See? You’ve been sending me these —“
Adam shook his head.
“No, man, we don’t send those. I mean yeah, those are my cards, but we just offer touch-ups if something looks wrong or whatever. Like, it’s not a big deal, but it’s not a fuckin’ monthly maintenance program.”
I pulled my arm back.
“Okay, don’t worry about it,” I said, both confused and more than a little creeped out. What kind of game was Adam playing?
He frowned, the “FAITH” scrunching up a little.
“It’s not a big deal,” he repeated. “I can do it, I just don’t think you need it.”
“No, no, it’s fine, I’m sorry.” I wasn’t sure why I was apologizing but something was clearly very wrong here. I got out of the leather chair and grabbed my purse, heading for the front of the shop.
“Stacy!” he called after me, but I was already walking at a brisk pace, trying to get to my car. I didn’t know if he’d follow me or not but something was really off and I didn’t want to be in the InkWorks Salon anymore.
I was struggling to open the door of my car when suddenly my face was smothered by something soft and foul-smelling that took the light out of my world.