I rode my motorcycle to work today and hit every traffic light on the way. On top of that, it was a smoldering 200 degrees inside of my helmet, and I hoped to run into the side of a truck just to get some air conditioning. If I were in my Jeep, I would’ve used the idle time to play with the radio, or adjust my seat to maximum comfortability, but on the bike, there’s nothing to do but sit there. I could’ve organized my CD’s alphabetically or learned Mandarin with the time it took the light to turn green. Instead, I roasted in the southern sun like a tomato being prepared for pesto.
Waiting atop the Harley Davidson space heater on wheels, I was suffocating inside of my helmet from taking long, deep breaths. The faceguard opens up in the front, but then I look like an 80’s cop minus the ear piece and moustache, and that’s not why I bought a Harley. I’d rather wear cut off jean shorts, or sit at that red light for another hour.
If the motorcycle were registered, I’d have rode it through the stalled traffic instead of waiting with the rest, but I’m obedient to a fault despite the engine between my legs. I love a good fight but not with the heat. All that to say that I’d make a terrible Hell’s Angel.
When I finally got to work, the shop was room temperature, if the room was the sauna at the local YMCA, or a New York kitchen. If I were business minded, I could’ve offered hot yoga classes before work, but I care less about money than health these days. With how hot it was in the shop, I thought about calling my appointment to cancel, but figured I’d attempt to cool it down first. After turning on the new air-conditioner, I began setting up for my my first appointment who lives across the street.
My neighbor had been on my books for months requesting a black and gray bonsai tree on his calf, along with two other smaller tattoos to fill in the empty spaces on his left arm.
I got the room to a cool 69 degrees in record time, probably due to the fact that the shop was the site of most closets. I lit a candle so that he couldn’t smell the breakfast sausage melting off of me from earlier. The room was perfect, and I waited. And waited.
He didn’t show up to the appointment, and I was so upset that I didn’t bother texting him. A confirmation text went out last night and he read it, so there was no question in my mind that he’d show up. Fool me once, they say.
Luckily for me, two walk-ins came by hoping that I had enough time for a few small ones. Since my neighbor had ditched me, I had a few hours to kill so I asked what she wanted. When she said “a spiderweb in my ear,” I almost said no. I had never tattooed the inside of an ear before so I was timorous at the thought.
“Sure!,” I said enthusiastically, shaking inside like a speaker.
After grabbing the hunk of skin on the side of her head, I began composing lines hoping that I didn’t push the needles through her ear into my finger. The design mattered less at this point. I was just trying to get us both out of there alive. My hand wasn’t shaking but my body, was and I had to pretend that I had done this before. Line after line, I tried to make straight marks on an entirely curved surface, and the pressure got to me.
The tattoo machine skipped along, separate from my hand as I accidentally tattooed what we call in the biz, “party dots” on the outer rim of her ear. I jumped. She jumped, the music jumped.
This was another first for me, and I thought that I’d be more embarrassed. The aleatory marks will fade or fall off once healed since they are only in the few first layers of skin, but the memory will last forever.
I didn’t know what to do so I awkwardly asked, “Um, what do you do for work?”
Reminiscent of my first appointment, my second didn’t show either, which is strange because I saw her just two days ago outside of the shop. She was talking to some homeless men at the barbershop across the street.
“Tattoo man!,” she yelled over two lanes of traffic. “Hey, tattoo man. Im’a see you on the 3rd, right?!”
I screamed through the passing cars, “Yes ma’am. 4 o’ clock!”
Luckily, I had anticipated her absence since she didn’t present herself as someone who was particularly punctual, so it didn’t bother me as much when she didn’t show up. I presumed the watchless wanderer was homeless, not because of how she looked or smelled, but because on multiple occasions, she’s asked me for money. And once tried to sell me a dress.
Most of the time, she’ll pass by the window and wave, a big, toothsome grin painted on her face. Her teeth were cartoon-like, a perfect row of polished white, drawn extra large into a constant smile. They’re either real, or really expensive, I thought.
I didn’t have a number for her since I never bothered writing one down, so I took it as another loss. Fool me twice.
Lucky for me, I was halfway done with a painting that I wanted to continue, and didn’t want to be disturbed. I turned the open sign around to read CLOSED from the outside, and shut the curtains for some ambiance. Tommy Mcgee serenaded me through a bluetooth speaker as I prepared my paints again. With the lights turned down, and a spotlight shining on the table, I got back to work.
Twenty minutes later, someone knocked on the window, disrupting my concentration and I was immediately irritated. I assumed it was one of the two appointments that had ditched me earlier, and I wasn’t in the mood for guests, especially ones that are late to the party.
The knock wasn’t aggressive, but unexpected and I jumped, flicking paint onto the background and face of the piece I was working on. It was now ruined, like my day and I hoped that whomever was knocking had lunch with them, or was handing out money to people in distress.
When I opened the curtains, it was Carwash, another local homeless man, asking me to come outside so we could talk, but I didn’t have it in me. He usually tells me the same joke, even though I know the punchline already, and then solicits a handout when I feign laughter. Back in March, I paid him $10 dollars to stop asking me for money after our conversations, since I enjoyed the company without the haggling. But after a few breakfast beers, he forgets about our agreement.
With a grip of curtains in my left hand, I threw a slew of gang signs with my right to mean, “I can’t. Not today, my friend. I apologize,” and drew the curtains closed, tighter this time to be completely concealed. I didn’t have the patience for conversation, especially after being forgotten by both my appointments.
Looking back now, I’m glad that I rode my motorcycle to work this morning. Baking in the hot sun was the least of my worries apparently, and other than finishing this painting, it was the highlight of my day.