Like any other session day it began on the bench reading a book ("Requiem for a Dream") without actually reading the book, for I was far too consumed with what was to transpire inside once the signs were flipped and the parlor opened.
It had rained earlier; the wooden slats of the bench's seat were damp. So, of course, as I sat there with an ever chilling ass, Dropkick Murphy came out of the shop. We exchanged greetings and for a while I reverted back to my book, wanting to finish a paragraph before I went inside. By doing so I must have been in Dropkick Murphy's way. He lit up on the sidewalk, obviously waiting for me to vacate the spot on the bench nearest the ash-bucket (and without a broken slat).
When finally I did move away from the bench, I cast a pathetic glance at the OPEN sign in the window, lamented the shyness which dominates my very existence and said:
"I know I sound anal-retentive for saying this, but your sign is crooked and it's bothering me."
It really wasn't, not badly enough to mention it, but I was desperate to say something. I would very much like to be a social butterfly.
I went inside to sit on the couch in the lounge.
Pete Kugel (also here) was guest spotting in the parlor (and if you haven't - buy some Wisconsin Skinny merch now. I mean now. This very instant - you can come back to my blog later). Or maybe he just booked the day to hang out. Either way, he was already tattooing the back of a very large man (but that's fine because he didn't appear to be a child rapist or axe murderer or anything; a nice man) with very exquisite tattoos.
Meanwhile, the artist slaving away over my insanely tedious work placed third at the Milwaukee Beer City Tattoo Convention in the Men's L competition for a backpiece he did. Congratulations to him!
When Dropkick Murphy finished his cigarette break, he pulled back the black blinds to straighten the very crooked OPEN sign.
It was bothering him as well, or so he said.
I wasn't about to tell him that the "CLOSED" marker for Monday's business hours seemed to be peeling away from the sign in an almost moth-like way.
Speaking of winged insects, as I sat on the couch reading my book a blonde woman came into the parlor. Not having raised my head to see who had walked through the door, I at first thought she was someone I knew (the voice was familiar); however, she was simply a random stranger who wanted Dropkick Murphy to cover up an existing tattoo that she hated with quite a bit of passion.
Dropkick Murphy proceeded to explain that in order to cover up the tattoo (which I thought I heard her say was a Celtic cross) he would need to make the new work larger and darker - and even then,
"You know it's there, so you'll still see it."
He then asked what she might like.
"A flower."
Not being one to read minds, Dropkick Murphy gently asked what kind of flower - because
"There are a lot of flowers out there."
To prove this statement, or to help the woman along, he turned to the computer and commenced an image search. He rattled off a few genera of flowers.
The woman then announced that she would be fond of a cross (or, rather, another one to cover the old one) or a butterfly.
Dropkick Murphy took a picture of the offending tattoo on the woman's arm. He then wrote down her name and phone number, explaining that he would need to draw out a design but would get in touch with her later.
"Like an hour?"
I would have liked to have seen the look on his face, but I was too busy trying to hide behind my book. It would have been rude of me to laugh.
The woman said that she would stop in in a few days, a week, and was politely refused.
"I'll call you."
One cannot rush an artist after all.
He then left for his station before I could comment on the woman (and how bleeding hearts or another type of vining flower might go well - but, then again, what do I know?).
After this, I met with Renoir who once again did a superb job. I'm so much closer to being complete.
But one thing worries me.
If Renoir opens his shop in West Bend like he's always intended to (I heard that might be in October) and passes down this tattoo parlor to Dropkick Murphy and Körperpiercing... I know that they're capable of doing fine work because if they weren't I'm sure they wouldn't be working where they are, but still.
The last thing I want is to kick Körperpiercing in her pretty face if she's the one to work on my feet.
What about Dropkick Murphy, then? Do I want him tossing obscenities at my chest while he slaves over a chest piece I have yet to envision? Or gnashing his teeth as he figures out a way to stretch a line of text from ribcage to ankle without it getting wonky over time?
I needn't freak out. I am just slightly resistant to change, that's all.
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