Tattoo Haggling

A little over a year ago I saw a guy at a bus stop wearing a full face "scary clown" mask holding a sign which read TATTOOS. I don't know if he was selling tattoos or what, but it was the best day of my life. I still think of it when I pass by that bus stop. Combine that experience with all the exposure I get to ICP (Insane Clown Posse) weirdness living in Spokane along with the fact that my wife really likes to use coupons and that is how I came up with this piece.

The staccato buzzing of the tattoo gun felt like a vibrator losing its charge in Sidney’s numb hand. It had been a long day at the end of a long week. She was on her last appointment -  her third cover-up in four days. Another clown. So many people had come to her asking to cover up the same silhouette of a clown holding a machete that she had three designs ready to throw on top of the usually poorly executed ink.

“Dammit,” the woman in the chair seethed with her eyes squeezed shut. The woman pressed her cheek into the high back of the padded, vinyl chair to fight against the pain.

“We’re almost done,” Sidney comforted her. Black, ink-stained blood smeared Sidney’s blue nitrile glove. With a few more buzzes of her tattoo gun Sidney evened out the small, perfect star which had emerged over the image of a clown running with a machete. “Okay. There we go.”

The woman stood, twisted the stiffness out of her shoulders and looked in the mirror. “Perfect,” she said. “You don’t know how long I’ve thought about covering that up.”

“I bet I can imagine,” Sidney said without looking up.

“My son is almost three and he keeps asking about it. I don’t know how to tell him that mommy was a groupie for an ICP cover band.”

“Yeah, that’d be tough,” Sidney said, throwing away her gloves and the thimble of used ink. It was getting harder and harder to pretend like she was shocked by the little anecdotes her customers laid out before her. Especially the cover-up customers. And especially the ones who come in to cover up clown tattoos. “Okay,” she walked to the cash register, “well you were my last appointment for the day.”

“Let me grab my purse,” the woman said right before finally breaking eye contact with her own reflection. Out of her purse, she pulled out a long rectangular piece of paper. “Here.”

“What’s this?” Sidney asked.

“A coupon.” The woman tapped the words on the paper. In big bold letters it read: BEEZLE TATS - THIRTY DOLLARS OFF FIRST TATTOO. In her other hand she held three twenty dollar bills.

“I’m sorry,” Sidney said, perturbed, “I realize it’s a coupon, but it’s expired and besides I have a minimum charge of 90 dollars anyway.”

“I don’t see any expiration date .”

“I’m sorry if you thought I’d take it, but I told you it’d be 90 dollars.” Sidney sounded tired, “I gave those out when I first opened five years ago. I don’t accept them anymore. You should have mentioned the coupon when you made the appointment.”

“What difference would that have made?”

“I could have told you it was expired.”

“But there isn’t an expiration date.”

“Yes,” Sidney brought her hand up to her face, the letters L-I-V-E in green ink on her knuckles danced around as she rubbed her eyes, “I know. It was a mistake. I should have put an expiration date on it.”

“But you didn’t,” the woman said curtly.

“I have a minimum charge of 90 dollars because I have to throw aw-”

“If you don’t honor this coupon,” the woman with the awful white trash tattoo interrupted, “I’ll report you.”

“What?”

“I’ll give you a bad review on Google and I’ll report you to the Better Business Bureau.”

Sidney sighed. The only reason she’d even agreed to do the cover-up on a Friday afternoon was to meet a new client. “Fine.”

“Thank you,” the woman said stiffly and walked out.

It wasn’t until the woman was out the door that Sidney noticed her Manolo shoes and Coach purse.

***

Later that night at at house party a young guy Sidney just met asked her about the words “LIVE ART” tattooed across her knuckles. It was a conversation she’d had many times before.

“I’m a tattoo artist,” she said, lighting a cigarette.

“Wow. What’s that like?”

“I dunno,” she said, shrugging her shoulders and blowing smoke out from the side of her mouth. “I get a a lot of clowns.”