because I thought, you know, you would understand.”
I didn’t understand, and I never would.
What made a woman stay when the abuse got out of hand? I was pretty sure when her boys were old enough, they would have preferred her to be away from the abuse, no matter what they missed out on. My mom 39/510
had explained it to me, and I understood the concept of loving someone so much, you would do anything for them. Then there was the psychological aspect of the abuse itself, and also, over time, the abused fell into that pattern, thinking they somehow deserved it.
I was all for a little S and M, but to leave an actual scar on the flesh of someone you apparently loved? I would give this woman a scar she could wear and not be ashamed of.
She began to move to the other side of the studio. “What’s your name?” I asked.
“Deanna.”
“Deanna, when we start, it’s important he avoids the skin while it’s healing-”
“I know. I already thought of that. He never goes above my shoulders. I thought, if we started on the neck, then the other scars can heal by the time we get that low. I know all about how the scars have to mature and how deep they can be and all that.” 40/510
A moment of silence passed between us. I hesitated at first then thought, ‘Fuck it,’ and said, as gently as I could, “And last, I need your word you’ll contact me if it gets too bad.
You know what I’m saying? That’s all I re-quire from you… your word. I can get you and your boys a safe place to go.”
“You have my word, Nicolas Grant,” she assured. “I’ll see you in an hour, and we can get started.”
I watched her walk up the street toward Pepito’s, and it hit me that she knew my full name. No one called me Nicolas except for my parents. I was Nico to the rest of the world. I turned on the laptop and searched the image, enlarged it, and printed it onto transfer paper. Then I began to get everything else ready.
Photo realism and nature tattoos were my strong suit. Zack and I could do just about anything, but we both had our strengths.
Zack had great skill with traditional tattoos, 41/510
abstract and dedication, but was also really good at 3D, which were becoming more and more trendy.
I had always loved to draw and sketch, and, as I got older, my mom and pop started to buy me those books on how to draw a cat, then a parrot, and within a few years, the books changed to more advanced subjects of faces, hands, bodies, and nature in general.
Having a good eye was essential for me and for the job. I fixed so many fucked-up tattoos of “artists” that were afraid to tell a client what they wanted was beyond their skill level. If a client asked me for a tattoo of their beloved Harley with flames and a skull, Zack would be better suited; I would ask the client to consider him instead. They were going to have that body art for the rest of their lives, so there was no room for ego. And Zack, knowing I was better at faces, flowers, and animals, would, in turn, do the same.
42/510
Zack had the day off, and I was fine on my own. Monday night meant two things: early close and a drink at Roscoe Room. By nine, I’d had a few people come in to look through photo albums bursting with designs. We didn’t have a lot of flash on the walls. Instead, Zack and I had our own artwork framed. We left the designs and photos of previous tattoos in the albums.
I kept myself busy with the daily detox of the studio—that’s what I called it. I was incredibly pedantic about cleanliness. From every inch of the walls, windows, floors, chairs, equipment… even the fucking cup that held pens on the counter. I made sure you wouldn’t hesitate to eat off any surface of the studio. I even wiped down the green couch. Some clients, the ones who had done all the Internet research available, would ask questions about the autoclave, ask to see our stock, made sure we used disposable ink caps and needles. It was tempting to tell them 43/510
that