Ink

by Damien Walters Grintalis

  Jason drove past the space where the tattoo shop should be three times. Three-story buildings with gently sloping roofs lined both sides of the narrow street. Old brick, tall windows with grimy glass, doors that led out directly onto the sidewalk instead of the typical Baltimore marble stoop. 1301 Shakespeare Street was a café with a colorful sign above the door, 1305 an empty space with a For Rent sign in the front window. At first he thought he’d missed the shop and turned the car around in the middle of the street. He slowed down but still saw nothing. A white car came up fast behind him, and the owner tapped its horn once. Jason turned around again, stopping with the back half of his car in front of the café and the front half in front of the empty building.

  1303 Shakespeare Street did not exist.

  “What the hell?”

  I know I wrote the address down correctly. It has to be here somewhere.

  A car pulled out three cars up, and Jason took the spot. He got out and walked down to where 1303 should be, his footsteps echoing on the pavement. A soft wind, carrying the scent of pizza, beer and cheap perfume, pushed his hair back from his forehead.

  1305 didn’t look like it had been empty for long—the front window was clean and the For Rent sign new. The café was closed. The two buildings were right next to each other, snug as two cigarettes in a pack and in between? Nothing.

  Oh come on, my eyes are playing tricks somehow. Unless…

  Jason shoved his hands in his pockets and walked back to his car with slow steps. Sailor didn’t seem like the kind of guy who would pull someone’s leg for the hell of it. Another breeze lifted his hair; this time it held a trace of cigarette smoke and rotting garbage.

  “You are early.”

  Jason jumped. Sailor stood a few feet away, dressed in dark pants and a long-sleeved shirt with his fluffy hair slicked back neatly and a black briefcase in one hand, looking more like a door-to-door salesman than a sailor.

  “Well, nothing to be done about that now,” he said.

  “I’m sorry, I can wait in my car.”

  Sailor removed a handkerchief and dabbed at his eyes. “No need for that. Come.”

  The shirt concealed his tattoos, but Sailor couldn’t hide the walk. It was even more noticeable when Jason fell in step beside him. The gait wasn’t uneven but odd, as if his hips rolled forward first and his legs followed along for the ride. Maybe an old injury or hip replacement surgery. Sailor said nothing as they walked, just hummed a song under his breath until they stopped in front of the two buildings.

  “Are you sure you are ready?” he asked, and his voice had that mocking lilt again.

  Jason nodded.

  “Well then, shall we go in?” He walked between the buildings and Jason blinked. A plain wooden door with faded paint and a brass handle darkened with age swam into view. The door, set back several feet from the brick front of the buildings, might have been black at one time, but the paint had faded to a dusty gray. A weathered sign on the side read 1303. All but the last number hung with a crooked slant.

  Sailor tucked the handkerchief into his shirt pocket and pushed the door open. “Follow me.”

  Jason did.

  5

  Jason stepped through the door and swallowed hard. Dim yellow lighting revealed a narrow staircase with well-worn steps and water-stained walls of pale gray. The sour smell of mold hung heavy in the air, a thick, wet smell that clung to the back of his throat. The faded wallpaper held traces of odd swirling designs like faces—screaming faces. Jason traced his fingertips across the surface, pulling his hand away as one of the swirls appeared to shift closer into view.

  He turned his eyes forward and focused on Sailor’s back as they walked the rest of the way up. He wondered what would happen if he touched the wall again. Would he feel firm wall and wallpaper, or would his hand slip beneath the surface to touch the cold skin of those trapped inside? Jason kept his hands down, as far away from the walls as possible. Sailor, looking over his shoulder, chuckled, then hummed his tune and rolled his walk.

  They came to a narrow landing and another door, the paint little more than a washed-out stain of reddish-brown. When Sailor turned the knob, the door swung open with a high-pitched creak to reveal a dark room. The tiny hairs on the back of Jason’s neck stood up. Not just dark, but black—the light from the hallway stopped at the doorframe. Jason’s hands clenched into twin fists.

  “Hold on, let me turn on the light before we go in. I do not want you to trip and fall. You would sue me, then I would be done for.” Sailor disappeared into the darkness.

  Jason’s heart beat heavy in his chest as he looked into the darkness and saw nothing—no shadowy movements, no suggestion of shapes. He should at least hear Sailor moving around, especially with his walk, but the room kept its silence well, leaving him with only the smell of dust, old walls and neglect for company while he waited.

  Shelley would hate this entire scenario. She wouldn’t find it eerie. She’d find it offensive. The old hallway, the faded paint and the smell whispered words like dirty needles, hepatitis and abandoned hope. Jason thought maybe he should reconsider his hasty decision. He forced his fingers to uncurl from his palms. Hellish nightmares did not exist, and if they did, he was quite sure they didn’t live in Baltimore.

  Still, when the light turned on, he jumped.

  “Well, do not stand out there all night. Come in.”

  6

  The room was bright white and antiseptic with the bite of alcohol lingering in the air. A shock compared to the tired, drab staircase. Jason blinked a few times, and all thoughts of nightmares disappeared. “Wow,” he said.

  Spotless white walls picked up and magnified the overhead lighting. He could almost see his reflection in the gleam of the dark wood floor. A long table with metal legs stood in the center of the room, next to a smaller table covered with plastic bottles, rolls of paper towels, a tattoo gun and small pots of ink; a chair with a padded seat and a stool sat on the opposite side. Sailor put his briefcase on the floor and bent over the small table.

  Jason looked at a series of framed prints on the far wall. “Is that your work?”

  “Yes, a few of my original designs. Look closer if you want. They will not bite.”

  Jason let out a low whistle when he got close to the first. Inside the old wood frame, a red-eyed dragon with scaly, pebbled skin reached up and out. Jason smiled and leaned closer. Sailor’s work was extraordinary. He was an artist in every sense of the word, despite his chosen medium of needles and flesh.

  Jason walked with slow steps past the second framed image, a fairy with green wings and a long sword, then to the third, a long-legged pinup girl in a sexy pink nightgown with something hidden behind her back, both in scarred, chipped frames.

  “How do you come up with your ideas?”

  “My customers tell me what they want, and I use my imagination to create something that fits.”

  The next frames, also old, held images of a sleek black cat with claws extended, a grizzly bear with its mouth opened in a snarl, its teeth and muzzle dripping with blood, and a serpent coiled around a bleeding cross.

  “What if someone doesn’t know what they want?”

  “People always know what they want,” Sailor said. “Even if they do not think they do. I have helped many make their decisions. Customers are never disappointed when they leave this room.”

  The last frame, an empty one with the remnants of sticky adhesive from a price tag marring the top corner, hung on the wall next to a tall, narrow doorway covered with a dark cloth. No light peeked around the curtain, and a faint trace of dust speckled the bottom edge—the only evidence of dust in the room at all. As Jason turned away, the sound of small feet pattered across the floor. He paused, waiting for a mouse to emerge, but the curtain remained still, and the sound ceased.

  Sailor finished setting up and sat on the stool with his hands on his upper thighs. “Sit here,” he said, indicating the chair beside him. “Have you given any thought to what
you want?”

  Jason sat down with a small smile on his face. “A griffin.”

  An easy decision, once he’d thought about it. Easy and perfect. Six months ago, Shelley went away for a girl’s weekend with Nicole. Not long after she left, he went to the bookstore and bought a paperback. He couldn’t remember the title or the author or even the story, but he remembered the cover and the creature on it—a griffin with gold wings and green eyes. He read the book in one sitting, and the image of the griffin stayed with him for weeks, long after the story faded from his mind.

  He’d tucked the book away on a shelf; a few weeks later, he’d found an empty spot in its place. When he asked Shelley if she’d seen it, she’d given him a cruel smile that said what he’d already known. Shelley wouldn’t be able to throw this one away, and the tattoo would serve as a promise to himself—never again would he give up control over his own self.

  “Ah, a griffin. One of my favorite things. Powerful creatures,” Sailor said.

  “Good thing they’re not real, right?”

  “Yes, quite a good thing. I imagine they would cause considerable trouble.”

  Jason laughed. “And I’d like it to have green eyes and golden wings, please.”

  Sailor lifted the briefcase, balancing it on his legs, started to hum the same unfamiliar tune and pulled out a sketchpad and pencil. “Where do you want the griffin?”

  “My upper arm. The left one,” Jason said.

  “Good choice. Would you like the wings outstretched or back?”

  “Outstretched, definitely.”

  “Black and gray or color?”

  The cadence of Sailor’s speech was soothing, completely at odds with its rough smoker’s growl. This close, the lines on his face resembled crevices or vast bottomless canyons that spoke of many years, but more than the lines, his very skin pushed out an innate sense of old age. For the first time, Jason realized that the odd, ashy smell did not come from a cigarette, but something darker and thicker—strange, yet not repugnant.

  “Color.”

  Sailor’s pencil made short, scraping noises on the paper. “Menacing or simply imposing?”

  “Um, imposing.”

  “Anything in your griffin’s talons?”

  “My ex? Just kidding.”

  Sailor laughed softly, but his watery eyes were serious as his hand moved across the paper. He finally lifted the pencil, nodded once and flipped the sketchpad around. “Is this the sort of griffin you had in mind?”

  Jason’s voice vanished as he marveled at the intricacy of the design. The griffin appeared ready to step out of the page. Ten times—no, a hundred times better than the cover of the book. Its wings were outstretched, each individual feather drawn with precision. From the razor-sharp points of the talons and beak to the tuft of fur at the end of its tail, it was perfect. He wouldn’t have believed anyone capable of drawing that much detail in such a short time if he hadn’t seen it himself.

  Jason swallowed and found his words. “Wow. It’s beautiful.”

  “Well, if you are going to have something permanently etched into your skin, it should be a damn good something.” Sailor pulled the handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes. “Allergies,” he said, tucking it back in.

  “Will the tattoo have that much detail?”

  “No, it will have far more. This is just a rough sketch, after all. My skill with the needle and ink far surpasses that with pencil and paper. I believe you will be quite surprised with the end result.”

  “I’m almost afraid to ask. How much will this cost?”

  “Ah, the price. Yes, there is always a price.” Sailor turned his eyes down to the sketch and hummed his tune again. “I am quite sure we will be able to do this in one sitting, so I will give you a small discount. Say, four hundred dollars.”

  Jason blinked in surprise. The price was far less than he’d anticipated once he’d seen the sketch, and he'd been worried he hadn't pulled enough cash from the bank machine. He had a credit card but hadn't thought to ask Sailor if he even accepted them. “Sounds good,” he said, and fished the money from his wallet.

  Sailor pocketed the cash without glancing at the bills. “I almost forgot.” He opened his briefcase again and rummaged through its contents. “I need your signed permission. The city frowns upon tattoo artists proceeding without permission.”

  He pulled a sheet of paper from the briefcase and handed it over. Jason didn’t know what a standard tattoo consent form looked like, but this one had Sailor’s name and address at the top center. After that, a bunch of legalese stated he was older than eighteen, any and all risks were assumed by him, not the tattoo shop, and he granted permission for Sailor to use the image created for marketing purposes. Jason lowered the pen and stopped just before the tip touched the paper. A faint shadow of writing, spidery and ornate, appeared underneath the typeface. Odd. He looked up to find Sailor watching with an anticipatory light in his watery eyes.

  Jason looked back down at the paper but saw nothing strange. It must have been a trick of the light. Or something.

  After he signed the form and handed it back, Sailor smiled. “If you ever change your mind about the tattoo, come back and see me. Tattoo removal is also one of my specialties.”

  “Removal?”

  “Yes. You would be surprised. Sometimes people change their minds. Sometimes they decide a tattoo was not the smartest decision to make. Especially a tattoo with this kind of detail. The devil is all in the details. You are warned—the removal is painful, and it leaves one hell of a scar.” He gave Jason a quick wink. “So,” he said as he put the paper back into his briefcase. “Shall we begin?”

  7

  An hour later, Jason sat white-knuckled with beads of sweat on his forehead. He’d overheard one of his co-workers say a tattoo felt like a cat scratch, but at the moment, he was only inclined to agree if said cat was a tiger.

  “Still with me?”

  “Yes,” Jason managed between clenched teeth.

  “Not so good with pain, are you?”

  “Guess not.”

  “The pain will not last forever,” Sailor said. From time to time, he stopped to take out his handkerchief and wipe his eyes, a quick little lift and dab. “I think this might be my best work ever.”

  Each time the needle touched Jason’s skin, it left a red-hot jolt behind. Jason looked down, surprised that Sailor almost had the outline complete. The tattoo gun buzzed and hummed, the sound echoing in the air when Sailor paused to dip the needles in the ink. The smells of ash, blood and ink mixed together and hovered in the air—a dark perfume of art in progress. Jason swayed in the chair as bright spots of light danced chaos in front of his eyes.

  Sailor pulled the gun away. “I suggest we get you something to eat before you pass out.”

  The pain in Jason’s arm receded to a tiny throb of irritated flesh. Before he could speak, Sailor rolled his way to the back of the room, pushed through the dark cloth, and returned a few moments later, humming under his breath, with a bottle of soda in one hand and a chocolate bar in the other.

  “Here. When you finish these, we shall start again.”

  “Okay.”

  Sailor wiped at his eyes as Jason took the first bite of chocolate. “So what will be your next act of newfound independence? A motorcycle perhaps?”

  The chocolate lodged in Jason’s throat, and he took a drink from the bottle. “I’m not sure yet.”

  “Perhaps a girl? Get yourself laid well and proper? Perhaps visit a strip club and bestow single dollar bills upon women with plastic breasts and artificial smiles?” He nodded as Jason blushed.

  “I thought so. You look like a man who has been deprived.” He winked, and a tear ran from the corner of one eye to his cheek.

  Lift. Dab.

  Jason swallowed another bite of chocolate. “Shelley, my wi—my ex, hates tattoos and motorcycles and thinks strip clubs are practically the devil’s den.”

  Sailor chuckled. “Doubtful, alth
ough many a young man has gotten into trouble within their walls. How long were you married?”

  “Seven years—well, almost eight.”

  “That long? You must have married young.”

  “Yeah, we did.”

  “Ah, the folly of youth. How unfortunate, or perhaps not, since Shelley’s misdeeds led you to me.”

  “Have you ever been married?”

  A deep peal of laughter rang through the room. “No, no. Never. I am not the marrying kind, as they say. Since you are finished, shall we begin again?” He plucked the empty wrapper from Jason’s hand.

  “Sure.”

  When Jason felt the bite of the tattoo gun again, his arm sang out in protest; he half expected to look down and see his skin hanging in ribbons of raw flesh. The coppery smell of blood rose up, strong enough to taste.

  “I assume the change in your marital status was quite unexpected?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, not to worry. A young man like yourself will find a new friend soon enough, and your wife will become a distant memory.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Oh, I am certain of it.”

  He whispered the last so low, Jason could barely hear the words over the steady hum of the tattoo gun.

  Just a little pain.

  It wasn’t the end of the world, and the tattoo was going to be unbelievable when Sailor finished. The needle bit, then lifted, and Sailor wiped away blood.

  “Yes, I think this will be one of my masterpieces.”

  He started to hum, and his hand moved faster across Jason’s skin. The scratch no longer belonged to a tiger but to a creature with razor-tipped claws. Jason closed his eyes, breathed in and out, counting to five each time, and listened to Sailor’s wordless tune. When Sailor lifted the tattoo gun away from his skin for the last time, Jason shook out his cramped fingers, unsure how much time had passed.

  “See, that was not so bad, was it?” Sailor took out his handkerchief.

  Lift. Dab.

  “Let me clean it up a bit, then you can take a look.”

  Sailor ran a moistened cloth across the tattoo, and Jason held his breath as his skin shrieked. Sweat ran in a cold trail down the center of his spine.