Bad Bad Girl

Rebecca knew Neely was trying to stall the process.

“He’s less than an hour away,” she argued. “It’s not like I’m traveling across the country. And besides,” she added, “if I’m going to do this, then I want the artist to be the best, right?”

“You’re crazy,” Neely said, surrendering to her friend’s implacability. “You won’t listen, will you?”

“I scheduled my first appointment already,” Rebecca confessed.

“Well?” Neely sighed. “What’s it going to be?”

“I want a bunch of flowers and ivy,” Rebecca said eagerly. “Sort of like a secret garden feel. Maybe a bird in there, or something.”

“What kind of bird?”

“You know, like a song bird,” Rebecca answered. “Like a birdy bird.”

“You’re nuts,” Neely reminded her.

“You keep saying that.” Rebecca laughed, loving her friend for how honest she could be.

“Whatever,” was the exhausted reply. “Just keep me posted, okay? Let me know if you want me to go with you.”

Rebecca started to agree, but she had difficulty imagining Neely suddenly becoming encouraging. This was a process in which to spend some time on herself, and not on all the negativity that had built up in her life. “I’ll be fine,” she assured. “This is something I need to do by myself.”

40

Three weeks after announcing the plan to her friend, Rebecca was seated in the waiting area of a small studio. The glass counter flanking the cash machine was laden with framed pictures of tattoos and art. There was a selection of aftercare products, some swag, and a collection of jewelry. She looked at the oversized rings, elaborate necklaces and cuff bracelets with distracted eyes. Everything overwhelmed her at this point, and all she really wanted was to do whatever it took to not think about what had to come next. The tattoo artist would come out, discuss her piece from the pictures she had sent him, draw out some ideas, and, if they still had some time, he would get some actual line work done. Rebecca held the few example drawings she had already given to the artist as an idea of what she wanted between sweating fingers, and she felt like some child waiting to be judged at an art fair.

The front counter worker had said the artist would be with her shortly, then dropped his head into a magazine and hadn’t moved since. Rebecca looked him over, with his shaved head, gauged ears, and a thorough covering of tattoos, and wondered how many freaked out people this guy must see every day. The idea made her feel a little ashamed for her own emotional state, but that didn’t mean she could do anything about it.

She shook her head and blinked hard, turning her attention to the space around her. The couch she occupied was black and leather, which fit nicely with the rest of the décor. Black frames hung on the wall, highlighting more drawings and photographs of tattoos, and the people who wore them. There was a poster display rack, the kind that looked like a giant book bolted to the wall, and each panel was loaded with original tattoo ideas. While Rebecca could see the talent behind each of the drawings, most were a little too dark for her. Decapitated voodoo heads with their eyes stitched closed. Vultures eating the body of a snake. The Grim Reaper playing poker with an angel. Anchors, skulls, bloody roses and half-naked pin up girls dominated the wall. Most of the images seemed twisted, if not sinister, which normally wouldn’t be a problem for Rebecca except that she was already on edge. Something a little less aggressive would have been warmly received at that moment. Where were the butterflies and fairies? Half the walls in the shop were scarlet red, and the others were either a deep blue or the color of bamboo. It was a provoking combination of lust and rest, and the color combination was pressing hard against her head. She couldn’t help but start to doubt her decision to come here in the first place. The outing and the drive, not to mention scheduling the appointment with an unknown artist in another city, and now coming here without any support or company—it was all outside of Rebecca’s normal comfort zone.

But maybe that’s what I need, she silently decided, studying a drawing of a sparrow on a pirate ship. Maybe I need something big and scary.

A pair of loud voices came moving up the hallway, and she looked up, startled and nervous. The worker behind the counter promptly dropped the magazine and got out of his chair.

“That was fuckin’ wild,” a young man said, a large white pad taped over his left shoulder. He was wearing a tight grey tank top, a pair of slim black jeans, and a pair of black combat boots. His hair was shaggy and he had a huge pair of black, thick-rimmed glasses on his face. “We went completely fuckin’ sideways, and it was crazy.”