Tattoo artist. Part 1
Sometimes, for example, when I drink a lot, it seems to me that I am a god. Or something like that. At the same time, my logic is this, God created people, created, and I sort of finish, decorate them, bring them to perfection. No, if you look at it, then all this is, of course, nonsense, but you never know what a drunk tattoo artist can think of … and in general, it’s only my business, what I think about.
But that’s not the point.
It must have been Tuesday when she called me. Although, she did not call me personally. She just needed a master who could fill her drawing. We agreed to meet. Not that it was unpleasant for me, but I just figured that a girl with such a quiet voice is probably no more than 16-17 years old. And such girls usually come to our salon with the desire to fill a portrait of Gubin, Ivanushki, or, at worst, Britney Spears somewhere on their pope. And you have to sit like a fool and dissuade them from such a rash step for two hours. At the same time, you feel like a kindergarten teacher, or a pensioner dad …
When there was a quiet knock on the door (damn, it’s the second month my hands don’t get to fix the call), I assumed the most ferocious look (let it be better to be scared and immediately change his mind about stuffing himself with various garbage) and went to open it.
She looked no more than 18. Small, the figure was nothing, well, not a model, but everything was in place. Green eyes, red hair. Yes, the hair color was immediately apparent. So red and red. “Orange,” – for some reason I thought to myself.
“You, Mikhail?” She asked. I wonder how I understood on the phone what she was saying? The voice is quite – very quiet. Barely audible. I nodded, let her into the corridor and led her into my room. Actually, I work at Neografika. But sometimes I do hack at home, since I don’t have to carry all the tools with me.
She sat down on the sofa. I immediately filled it up with a pile of different magazines, folders, just individual sketches, photographs and drawings. Let the person first look at the normal drawings and then decide whether he wants to stuff Zemfira on his ass))
To my amazement, she did not want Zemfira. Well, that is, a portrait of Zemfira. On the ass. I wanted some kind of Celtic pattern. “No, well, we must, what other words we know, Celtic patterns, ha,” I thought, again to myself.
I got her a couple more Celtic magazines. He sat down opposite the table, began to impose some semblance of order on it, looking at it from under his brows. Dressed in black pants and a sweater, she could look like a schoolgirl. Although, judging by the manner with which she behaved, so independent, quiet and calm, one might think that she was already 20 years old.
Finally, she looked up from the magazines, came up to me and said that she had already chosen. The drawing she liked was really good. We decided to change it a little. And after half an hour of my efforts, the sketch was already ready.
- Do you tolerate pain normally? I asked.
- will it hurt a lot? – She slightly wrinkled her nose. Like a child, I thought.
- well, how can I tell you, some tolerate it normally, and some have a pencil in their teeth …
- What for?
- And to make it easier to endure, I have one guy, while I hammered his shoulder, he chewed all over the pencil …
She smiled. I probably didn’t believe it.
I pulled up a chair for her. Helped to climb into it. Usually this chair is the real thrill for my clients. It’s pretty old, but that’s not the point; an old friend, a dentist, sold it to me for a cheap price. Consequently, the chair is itself a dental one. With all sorts of metal bullshit.
She made herself comfortable. She pulled up her sweater, a T-shirt under it and unbuttoned her trousers. We decided to make the drawing below the navel.
“Basically, you better take off your sweater,” I said, “then it will get hot anyway, in the process, but then it will be more difficult to take off.”
She nodded and obediently took it off.
I pulled up a chair, bent over her. The work started.