It’s a classic favorite image of mine. A kind of fairytale maiden, a little bit Mucha-inspired, a little bit Waterhouse. Eyes closed, long hair tumbling over her naked body and a string of pearls around her neck. Her waist tapers to a sinuous, scaled tail that perches atop an even larger pearl, all framed with a seashell.
Original, it is not. A mermaid for the Mermaid. But again, I liked having that thing to go on. Her shitty ex’s name gave me the frame. Her own name, fake as it may be, gave me the inspiration.
Besides, Ilikedrawing mermaids. I really do. I always have. Mermaids, fairies, pixies, storybook maidens—that’s all my sketchbook has ever been. And after getting my lights punched in more times than I can count over mygay little pictures, I think I’ve earned the right to draw as many as I fucking want.
“Wow,” she breathes. Even on her day off, Pearl is painted up: her pouty lips a paler daytime pink and her eyeshadow a more natural bronze, but still unmistakably a Mermaid. “That’s so good.” She looks up at me, a little spark of warmth in her eyes. “You’resucha good artist, Kit.”
“Thank you,” I say, genuine but professional. I always did get along with girls. Being an unthreatening little boy who can draw beautiful fairy princesses will do that for you.
“God, I wish I had that kind of talent,” Pearl says as I retrieve the mirror from her and set it back on the cart. “I can’t do anything except dance.” She laughs.
“It’s not talent,” I say. “I just draw a lot. Anyone could do it if they practice and care enough.”
“Don’t be so modest, Kit.” She gives me a playful little shove in the shoulder, which I shrug off. “I’m just trying tocomplimentyou.”
“Right.” I blink. “Thanks.”
I step to my cart and pull out some fresh gloves. The shop is quiet this early. No Pan talking too loud or Tink clatteringaround after him. No Blue at the piercing station yet. And no big brother hovering over me. I know Fox means well, but…he’s also Fox.
Not someone you want around when you’re trying to make art. Or want around a bunch of sharp objects, generally.
I survey my cart. “I’m going to do a quick line test first,” I tell Pearl, looking at the options I’ve prepped. Hatchback pen, round liner needle with a long taper. Call me a control freak, but I like a little more precision, even for art that flirts with the bold lines of American Traditional, and I don’t mind taking my time. Plus, the way needles jump around in rotary machines scares the shit out of me.
“Line test?”
I nod. “Yeah.” It’s become a habit of mine, after the sketch but before I actually charge the client. Too many people passing out or screaming bloody fucking murder under the needle and then bitching me out to reverse the charge immediately when they decide to tap out. Like I’m their fucking bank. “Just to make sure you like the thickness. And can handle it, generally.”
Something flickers in Pearl’s eyes. “I can handleplentyof thickness.”
“That’s…” Oh. What? I frown, but before I can say anything else, Pearl is practically caressing the edge of the leather cushion at my station. “You need me to lie down for you?”
I uncap the pen and prime the needle with a touch of ink. “If that’s comfortable for you. This won’t take long.”
She does lie down, and I look again at the ink that’s already there, the fuzzy edges of the letters, a faux-Gothic style that would have been half-assed even when it was fresh, and now just looks…ugly. The kind of bad work, badcraftsmanshipthat makes it hard to argue that this is any kind of art.
For me it is, though. Always has been. Tattoos are where I first saw actual works of art—or versions of them, anyway.Klimt’sThe Kisstrailing its golden lines down an upper arm. The Vitruvian Man doing his jumping jacks on someone’s left pec. Botticelli’s Venus and her shell on the flat of a forearm.
Tattoos gave me a safe place todomy art. Nothing’s manlier than getting inked, after all.
Tattoos are art that people will pay you to make. And that’s a hard thing to come by, these days.
I hit the foot pedal and go in.
Pearl scrolls on her phone as I work the pen over her skin, not even a tiny flinch when the needle hits—good pain tolerance, I guess, which is surprising given that there’s no meat on her and we’re working right over bones. It’s the thickest part of the outline, and the biggest needle I’ll use, so if she can take that, she’s good to go.
I grab a damp cloth from my cart and wipe. “How’s that feel?”
Pearl lowers her phone, looks down at her hip. “Fine.” She smiles. “How’s itsupposedto feel?”
“Fine,” I echo. I set down the needle on my cart and get up to grab the card reader.
“I’m just going to finish the outline today,” I say over my shoulder. “I’ve only got another hour before my next appointment, so you’ll have to come back for the color. I’m guessing you want this healed as soon as possible, for work?”
Over on the chair, Pearl shrugs. Eyes still intent on mine, but still like she’s not really listening to what I’m saying.
“So I’ll just charge you the deposit today,” I go on, finally fishing out the reader from under a pile of unopened mail on the counter. “And you can take care of the balance when we finish.”
Pearl sits up now, swings her legs back and forth. “How am I going to pay you for this?”
