The Elsie Effect.
“You’re in a good mood today,” Sean says without looking up from the chest piece he’s working on.
“Am I?”
“You’re singing,” Maya points out from my other side.
“I’m not singing,” I argue. “You can’t hear me all the way over there, anyway.”
“I can see your lips moving. You just sang every word ofthe last song.”
“Dude, you’re definitely singing,” DJ, one of my least favorite people in this town, pipes up. “And that was totally a chick song.”
I roll my eyes, resisting the strong urge to smack him upside the head. “‘Pink Pony Club’ isn’t achicksong. It’s for everybody.”
“Whatever, man.”
DJ taps away on his phone with one hand while I work on his other forearm. He came in a week ago wanting me to tattoo a cheeseburger on him right then and there. His on-again, off-again girlfriend, Mandy, had been with him at the time, and she was apparently going to get french fries on her arm in the same spot. I couldn’t help noticing she looked a bit less sure about the whole thing.
DJ wasn’t thrilled that he’d had to make an appointment and wait until today, when Mandy couldn’t be here. She promised him she’d come back a different day to get her tattoo.
“I still think we should have gotten Shrek and Donkey,” DJ sighs.
I glance up at him, wondering if I’d heard him correctly. I lift my machine from his arm and take my foot off the pedal to lessen the buzzing in here. “I’m sorry, what?”
“The tattoo,” he says, nodding toward his arm. “I wanted Shrek, and I wanted Mandy to get Donkey. You know, because we’re best friends and shit.”
My lips twitch as I fight a smirk. “You wanted your girlfriend to get an ass tattooed on her?”
DJ rears back, jerking his arm out of my grip, and it’s a good thing I didn’t have a needle pressed to his skin. “The fuck you talking about, man?”
I sigh, wishing I’d ignored him like I do most of my other customers. I’m here to work, not chit chat.
“The technical term for a donkey is an ass,” I tell him. “That’s the scientific word, or whatever. So if you wanted Mandy to get adonkey tattooed on her, then technically, you wanted her to get an ass tattooed on her.”
DJ looks stricken. “Shit,” he mutters. “Do you think that’s why she’s mad at me? She hasn’t answered my texts in, like, twenty minutes.”
It’s a hard battle, but I manage to resist rolling my eyes. “Could be,” I tell him seriously. “Now will you let me finish this tattoo?”
I’m just finishing up the last few sesame seeds on the bun when my phone rings on the counter behind DJ. I ignore it, not bothering to check and see who’s calling. Elsie knows where to find me, and Pops and Gran will call again if it’s important. Sasha, too, I suppose.
A few minutes later, I’m finished. I clean the area and dry it, then sit back while DJ inspects my work.
“Fucking sick, dude. I love it.”
The guy might be the village idiot, but it’s always nice to hear that a client is pleased with my work. “Glad to hear it.”
I cover the fresh tattoo in a thin layer of ointment, then plastic wrap, and try to tune DJ out while he complains about something or other. By the time he finally leaves the shop, my mood isn’t flying quite as high as it was before he sat down in my chair.
“Brutal,” Sean says while I sanitize my station.
“That guy drives me fucking crazy,” his client adds. “I kept my eyes closed so he would think I was sleeping and leave me alone.”
“Wish I could have done that,” I tell him.
“Want me to put on some more Taylor Swift to boost your mood again?” Sean jokes.
“That song wasn’t even – you know what, never mind,” I mutter, shaking my head.
