Tattooed Moon (4 page)

He needed additional staff, and his old-school system of checks and balances was antiquated. His receptionist, Angela, let him know this on a weekly basis as she sat her freshly tattooed body in her plush, blood red leather chair with faux white fur trim framing the damned thing. It was a freaking throne, a monstrosity she’d wanted so badly. He finally folded and let the little manipulator have it after she’d shown its picture to him in the catalog almost every day for over three months straight. He’d been beaten into saying ‘Yes.’ The harassment was simply too much. What could he do? The Piedmont college student kept his messy, unorganized books in order; she was on time every freaking day, unlike her predecessor; and the customers loved the foul mouthed yet friendly pale skinned beauty with purple hair, styled like the historic Betty Page—and she favored her a bit, too. Angela had pouty lips, the kind that brought men to their knees, and the most alluring set of gray eyes he’d ever seen. He saw her like a little sister, one that he wanted to choke and hug, all at the same time. Regardless, the little minx still wasn’t as bad as the guy seemingly fighting back tears on his table.

No, this over-grown child was working his nerves into a soppy pulp. It was just his luck to be stuck with a whiner. He was sure he was going to have to hand him the infamous pussy ball—nothing more than a tennis ball given to the patrons who couldn’t take a little pain, the ones that acted as if they were getting their spleen extracted through their nostril with no anesthesia, ancient Egyptian surgical style.

His five o’clock had cancelled, and here he was with a guy who’d had three previous tattoos that looked like they’d been sketched with a cheap, sticky, ball-point pen on it’s last damn leg. He didn’t know who the asshole was that drew the crap, but he wanted nothing more than to punch them square in the face for placing such spotty work on the human canvas, and then demanding payment for the defilement.

“I need all three covered, man,” the guy wailed, his west-coast accent strong through each word he choked out. “I was drunk when I got ’em. Can you cover ’em up? Please, man! You were referred to me, I need it done.” The man practically had tears in his droopy, brown eyes, and he hadn’t even been touched. Julian tried to hide his annoyance as he twisted the man’s arm to and fro to peer closely at the distorted five-point star, a shooting comet and a planet. Instead of a star, it looked like a kite that had gotten mangled in a tree after a wild cat had chewed it to stringy bits and pieces. The shooting comet looked like a renegade, angry erect penis flying through the damn galaxy on a mission to splooge on anything in its way and the planet was no more than a crumbling chocolate chip cookie with a crudely drawn ring around it. He was certain his nephew, his step-sister’s son, could’ve done a better job, and Georgie was only three…

“Okay.” Julian took a deep breath as he continued his investigation. “This is what we’re going to do. You said you wanted something cool, right? And you wanted maybe a woman, and you like Asian art. That’s correct, right?”

The guy nodded his head rapidly, causing the fleshy rolls around his rounded, meaty head to jiggle.

“Let’s turn the star into the top of the head of a Geisha. I can use this as her headdress and hairstyle.” He pointed to where the comet and star almost touched. “I can take this comet here, and turn it into an arm…make her hold a lotus.” Julian began to draw on the man’s skin as he mouthed the possibilities. The planet is a bit trickier, but I think I can make it a part of the design on her kimono, and the other part a fan. How does that sound?” He continued to quickly sketch all over until the rough, fast etching was complete. The man looked down at his arm, then bounced his view into the nearby mirror, and back at his arm.

“Man! That’s bad ass! Yeah, let’s do it… I know it’s gonna hurt like a bitch, though.”

“It won’t be too bad.”

Why do I always get the wimps?! Grow some balls, man! Better yet, it’s pass the buck time…

“Okay, cool,” he offered instead, careful to not insult the man. “I need you to fill out your paperwork, go up front.” He pointed towards Angela. “She’ll also get you prepped, and then Alex will do the tattoo.”

“Wait! I thought you were doing it, man.” The man’s eyes grew wide as a state of panic spread across his face.

“You are in good hands. Everyone in here, I can vouch for. They are either as good as me, or even better, okay?” Julian tossed the man a sincere grin, hoping to talk him down off the cliff. “Not to mention, Alex is king when it comes to these sorts of designs. You couldn’t ask for better craftsmanship.”

And that was true.

“Oh…okay. I hope so,” he mumbled as he stood, pulled his falling blue jeans up, and made sloppy steps towards the front of the salon, his head a bit low as if everyone should crowd around him and assure him all was well.

“Yo Alex!” Julian called out as he rolled up his sleeves and tossed a lazy glance his way. “That guy there,” he pointed to the nervous, big man up front now speaking to Angela, “he’s getting
this
design. It’s a cover up.” Alex sauntered over, his buzzed dark brown hair glistening from freshly applied gel and his diamond stud nose piercing shining under the bright lights. He perused the sketch on the tracing paper, turned it over, nodded and walked back to his station to finish an eye-catching dolphin jumping out of the rippling ocean on a man’s calf. Julian pulled up his schedule on his cellphone, hating that he’d had no other choice but to start checking it that way. Angela had sat him down, bum rushed him with an intervention, and made him bite the technology-ridden bullet. She’d explained to him that the popularity of his shop now required it and he’d miss important opportunities unless he stepped into modern day knowledge. It was like pulling teeth that had been reinforced with industrial strength super-glue, but as usual, she’d gotten him to fall to her nonsensical whims. Ahhh, they weren’t so nonsensical actually. That was just an excuse and he knew it. He understood completely why he allowed the little woman to boss him around regarding these matters; it was in his best interest—something he could accept, embrace with both hands, even if he simultaneously gave her the ‘side eye.’

He blew his nose and glanced at the half eaten grilled zucchini sandwich on his workstation, the dull, translucent parchment paper turned up on one corner. He tucked his necklace sporting Hamsa with the ‘all knowing’ eye into his black tank top, grabbed a small beaten up broom, and began the busy work of clearing up his area. As he got into the groove, the bristles moving lazily along the glossy, wooden floor, he heard the door chime. Another customer had entered. This was about the time that the weekend crowd began to arrive, pouring inside the doorway with their pendulum swinging hopes and daredevil dreams soon to be written across their reddened flesh. Typically, the potential customer brought a friend or two to lend moral support because this time, instead of the tiny, salacious dripping cherries on their ankle, or their girlfriend of the month’s name scrawled across their chest, they wanted something enormous, significant and overpowering.

People wanted to be
bigger
than life over the weekend, and then come Monday, accept their small pecking order in the big, bad world. That ecosphere, with her hard hitting ways, swallowed them up late Sunday night then spit them out like stale, flavorless chewing tobacco once the sun rose Monday morning, reminding them that they were no longer dazzling and beautiful, draped in their favorite faux personalities and fueled by liquid courage. On the weekend, the hermit-like nerds became swaggered-out gangsters, the repressed wallflowers morphed into vibrant sexual fiends, and the habitually ostracized were declared intelligent, innovative, highly sought after lives of the goddamn party. Julian kept on sweeping; the tan bristles of the brush collected various debris, as well as a tiny spider web as he half listened to a feminine voice speaking to Angela. The words were faint—from a great distance away, and the music made it even more convoluted.

The door chimed once again. This time, he looked up. A group of five men came through, laughing obnoxiously, their mouths hanging open while beaten ball caps obscured half their faces. Julian kept his eye on them then shot a glance at the front desk and … stopped sweeping. A shapely woman stood there in a plum two-piece suit. Her off black hair, partially swept and cut in soft, feathered layers, framed her face like a picture. A swaying half-bang hovered over one eye, obstructing it from his view as she proudly wore a fuchsia-lipstick-covered smile. Her long, curvaceous legs were covered in sheer hose, sparkling ever so lightly under the recessed reception area light.

Nice fucking legs…

The long, graceful limbs poured into a pair of sensible, black low heels that displayed an endearing rose across the leather ankle straps, joining into silver clasps. He continued to stare her up and down, unable to turn away despite the boisterous men that played around in the front lobby, friskily throwing bows at one another, sure to break something in his well-decorated salon not designed for such horseplay.

“And you spoke to Julian?” He barely made out what Angela was saying, but he strained hard, as hard as he could muster. The woman’s smile was warm, her ochre complexion smooth with a slight sheen along the apple of her cheeks. Her dark eyes glimmered as if a shard of galactic space had fallen inside of them and soon, he found himself sucking his bottom lip and gripping the top of his broom with both hands as he jumped at a new viewing opportunity. He zoomed in close to her ass. She’d turned part way, pointing to something outside as she continued to speak to his receptionist. The woman’s waist was small, her thighs a thick, supple meal for a man with a hearty appetite.

Bon Appétit…

Her ass stood high and round, begging for his fingers to brush against those globular cheeks… and her breasts no doubt spilled forth into a 36D bra. He knew a good pair of tits when he saw them…

Suddenly, Angela popped up from her seat like a damn gopher, forcing him out of his carnal deliberations as she pointed the way in his direction. He cleared his throat and immediately looked away, as if he hadn’t been standing there ogling the woman for the past thirty seconds. He played it cool as she advanced, her shoes clicking against the floor. When she got near, he paused and looked up at her casually, pretending he hadn’t initially noticed her approach. Finding this whole routine he was attempting to dole out plain silly, he pulled his fucking self together.

He looked straight at her, casually leaned the broom against his table and extended his hand.

“Hi, you must be my 6:45 appointment. Milan, correct?” He said it so damn coolly, he almost had
himself
convinced that he wasn’t sporting the beginning stages of a hard-on.

Her lips curved into a sly smile as she extended her ring-covered hand.

“Yes. I almost chickened out, but I’m here.”

He gently shook it and pointed to his chair.

“Please, have a seat.”

Milan sat down and crossed her legs. Her skirt rode up, exposing more of which he craved. She gripped the armrests of the seat, her glossy nails digging into the pleather, sure to leave indentations.

So tense…

“Okay.” He casually leaned against his table and crossed his arms over his chest. “So, first of all, congratulations for making it here.”

She lightly laughed and nodded.

“And secondly, let’s get right into it. What’s your aim? Your goal regarding getting a tattoo.”

“Well.” She looked around the salon, her eyes appearing vacant for a second or two. She then shot the beautiful peepers back in his direction, running her palm up and down the armrest, her nerves jumping out of control no doubt. Her chest rose and fell, the rhythm a bit off beat, as if she was trying to control the very air she breathed. “I want to get something in honor of my mother.”

“Mmmm hmmm.” Julian picked up his bottle of warm water and took a leisurely sip, then set it back down, returning to his previous stance. “And what did you have in mind?”

“Well, that’s just the thing.” She offered a slight grin, smudged with a dash of timidity. “I’m not really certain. I thought about, you know, her name and her favorite flower on my arm. Something like that. But,” she shrugged, “I don’t really know.” She ran her fingers through her hair, moving her bangs out of her eye. It swung back and landed smack-dab at its original location anyhow. Her smile was now etched with what appeared to be glimmers of despondency, and it tugged at him a bit, made him warm to an un-bestowed touch.

“Well, let me help you brainstorm some ideas. Is that fine?”

“Yes, I think I need that.” She smiled a bit wider, lifting her head higher, catching his eye as she traced the side of her neck with her fingertips.

Julian grabbed a 10x12 pad of sketch paper and an ink pen.

“Is this a memorial, or is she still amongst us?”

“A memorial…” She looked down into her lap. He could tell the grief was fresh, like a knife had sliced right through her damn heart—the blood still bright red and wet, falling onto her raw emotions and making the sting of recently spent tears come alive.

“Okay.” He scratched his upper lip with the end of the pen then put it to the paper. “Tell me some things about your mother, like her personality, the things she liked, what you two did together…”

“Well…” Now her smile was more optimistic, a bit brighter. “She
loved
the color yellow. She wore it all the time. Her beloved curtains were yellow, too. They hung in our living room… Her favorite flowers were golden roses, you know, the dark yellow ones that look so rich with pigment, like they are made of melted pennies?” She paused, seeming to drift away in thought. “I love yellow roses, too. I suppose I got that from her. She was funny, always making people laugh, too. Let’s see…” She placed her finger to her lip. “Oh yeah, this is an important one, she
loved
listening to opera, I mean loved it!” The woman was now talking with her hands, fully animated as if he’d reached behind her and wound her up, turning her key counter-clockwise then set her free. She had rejuvenation, as if her vivacious words were bringing her mother back from the grave, and in some ways, they possibly were…