A Good and Useful Hurt

by Aric Davis

  She’d found over the ten years she’d worked in body modification that clients and trends changed the same way clothing or popular music did. She still pierced a bevy of navels, but tongue piercings, once just as much a money-making part of the job, had all but dried up since the 1990s. Nostril piercings had taken off in its place. They were one of the few facial pieces that most women could pull off, and it was one of the few that some employers would tolerate. It was the bread-and-butter of these more socially accepted pieces that allowed for the greater deviances of underground society to be not only desired but celebrated.

  Deb’s first foray into scarification had been with strike branding, the use of small pieces of heated metal to burn a design into a client. Unimpressed by the limitations and lack of desired raised scar tissue, she and the industry turned to electrocautery devices. These too were less effective than desired, so Deb taught herself to do scarification with a blade.

  She was already comfortable with scalpels—she’d used them for years to correct scar tissue from torn expanded earlobes—and felt much more comfortable without the limitations of heat as a medium. The industry turned in that direction with her as more and more talented practitioners of the art form began to ply their trade on a new culture of clients wishing to be marked.

  The hardcore work was anecdotal in some ways. If clients assumed you could do one thing, they’d assume you could do another, which was why even though she wasn’t a fan, Deb had set out to learn how to do small implants. None of these things were what paid the bills, but they did help to establish her reputation and portfolio. Even a customer looking for the most rote and simple work liked for their piercer to be well versed in other things, if for no reason other than to know that they were not the most “out there” of that person’s client base.

  Deb had made a good name for herself. She took risks but none so high that they could send her crashing down, and those few small rules, like not engaging in amputation or penile nullification, were as endearing to her customers as the risks themselves. Few enough customers came after those first few weeks for the really gnarly stuff, but Deb was certainly busier in that regard than anyone Mike had ever seen. Her best clients would have followed her anywhere, and they were not the kind of people to balk at price.

  With all of that, though, the work that still made Deb smile was anything that made a customer smile. As rewarding as it was to suffer through an ordeal with an old friend, it was just as rewarding, if not even more so, to pierce a terrified young girl only to see her happy when it was done. She’d once asked an older customer if her cartilage piercing had hurt, and the woman had said, “Not near as much as my husband hitting me.” Such revelations were commonplace at that crossroads of injury; customers bared their souls regularly about the most personal of issues. There was the young man who’d wanted his penis pierced as a way of reclaiming his sexuality from the uncle who’d molested him as a boy, or the woman getting her navel pierced after having a stillborn child. As much as the work could hurt, sometimes it could be a good or a useful hurt.

  That was why Deb understood the ashes.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  His name was Jeffrey, and he was the father of a son Mike had done a sleeve on over the past two years. The boy, whose name was also Jeffrey, had been getting tattooed by Mike while on military leave. Mike had tattooed the younger Jeffrey with the patch for his unit, an eagle in flight with the American flag in its arms, and a “Don’t tread on me snake” on his forearm. Mike remembered thinking that the images would look awkward together, but Jeffrey had let him do what he wanted with the background, and the tattoos had come together nicely. Eight weeks ago, the younger Jeffrey had been killed by an IED while his unit traveled to protect a caravan of supply trucks.

  The father had come to see Mike with a small pill bottle with ashes in it. He wanted an eagle on his right forearm. A woman named Marcia, whom he met in a support group for parents and family members of soldiers lost in the war, had shown him her tattoo, speaking to him at length about it.

  “I hated Jeff’s tattoos. Absolutely hated them. He knew it, too, but it was more of a running gag with us than a serious issue. He’s got to be just laughing his ass off seeing me down here.”

  “How long was Jeff in the service?”

  “He signed up right out of high school. I was so pissed at him about that. Pissed but still incredibly proud, you know? His plan was to use it to jump-start a career as a cop when he got out. Not a bad plan, but Jeff was smart—he could have been a cop either way. He was in his fourth year in the country without so much as a scratch. He sent us e-mails all the time—seemed like everyone in his unit was busted up in some way or another. Not Jeff, though, he just kept right on going.

  “Of course, when he did get hurt it was a big one. I talked to the marine who brought him home to us, and he said Jeff had been killed instantly. I thought that was a good thing, and a sweet thing for him to tell me and my wife. He’d met Jeff, told me a couple of stories about my boy that I’m pretty sure left out all the good parts. He’d lost a leg himself over there.”

  “I’m going to go ahead and start now. These first lines here are where I’m going to use the ink with the ashes in it, alright?”

  “That sounds just fine.”

  Mike held Jeffrey’s wrist against the armrest and etched in the bird’s beak, eye, and head. He dipped the needle in the pot of ink and did another line, this one on the body, and then connected the head to it. The bird began to take shape.

  “It’s not too bad,” Jeffrey said, “not too bad at all.”

  “Better watch out, they can be pretty addictive.”

  “I’m not too concerned with that. I think this one will be enough for me. My wife was thinking about coming in to get something on her ankle, but I don’t think she’s all the way ready yet. I’m ready to be done grieving. Maybe this tattoo will make me feel better like Marcia said, and maybe it won’t. I still want to miss Jeff, but I’m done being sorry for myself over it. He died doing something he thought was right, and I know that was damned important to him. I don’t like the idea of him thinking I’m sad because of it. If I could talk to him again, I’d just tell him how damned proud of him I am. Do you have kids?”

  “Not me, at least not yet, anyways.”

  “Well if you do, maybe you’ll remember me, and see that I was right. You can never do enough for your children; you’ll never tell them often enough how much they mean to you. I’m glad Jeff knew that his parents loved him and were goddamned proud of him and what he was doing. But if I could do it all over again, I’d tell him that at least one more time, just to be sure.”

  Mike began lining feathers on the second wing, quick, short strokes of the machine as he pushed in the pigment.

  “We’ve got another son—he’s graduating this spring. Already talking about joining up. Damn near breaks my heart to hear him say it, but how am I going to tell him no?

  “He worshipped—still worships—his older brother and wants to be a marine just like he was. It’s hell for my wife, but what would be worse, crushing his dream or losing another son?”

  “I can’t imagine.”

  “It’s tough, real tough. The fact of it is, though, there’s no sense in fighting it. Why distance us before he leaves, when he’s going to be a man and do what he wants to do anyways? I’m proud of him, too—isn’t that just the most fucked-up thing? I already lost a boy for this damn country, and now I’m set to get myself ready to lose another, but I’ll do it with a smile on my face.

  “There was a time when I was a younger man when I wondered about why I should be a father. How could I do a good job? My old man was no great shakes, I can tell you that much. Something about seeing those boys when they come back all smiles and stories, you can tell they’re grown. Even if it takes them away from you, at least they were with people they cared about doing something they thought was important.”

  Mike finished the outline of the eagle and set the li
ning machine on his table. He took up the shader with its wide magnum needle group and connected it to his power supply. He stomped the foot switch twice to test it and then dipped the needles in a pot of black ink. He stretched the skin on Jeffrey’s arm again, across the wing now, and began to shade the design.

  “How’s it coming?”

  “We’re pretty well on our way.”

  “That’s good. I’m glad I’m here, and I’m glad that you did my son’s work. It just makes this that much more special.”

  “I’m glad to help.”

  Mike, Lamar, Deb, and Becky sat in the lobby of the studio. The last customers of the night had left about a half an hour earlier, and Lamar had gotten a case of bottles from Founders.

  Becky opened a beer with her lighter and said, “So that’s four now, right?”

  “Four what?”

  “Four tattoos with ashes from dead people in them.”

  Mike said, “You know, Becky, that description really classes it up. Maybe we should run a spot on TV where you say that.”

  “Piss off. I’m right, though, wasn’t that four?”

  “I think so.”

  Lamar said, “I haven’t done one yet. They all ask for you.”

  “It’s a privilege, let me tell ya. Pass me a beer?”

  Lamar did, and Mike opened it with a key ring designed for just such a purpose.

  Deb said, “I’ve put jewelry from a dead person in somebody else. Actually a few times.” She drank and continued. “It’s kind of cool if you ask me, like you’re helping them be with that person for a little bit longer. A unique experience.”

  “Yeah, I suppose,” Mike said. “Four of ’em. Huh.”

  Lamar said, “Hey, Mike, any chance I could buy you a beer so we could talk for a minute tomorrow after work?”

  “That sounds fine.”

  Becky jumped in. “Is it about mystery girl?”

  Lamar said, “The reason I asked Mike to talk to me after work, and with just the two of us there, is so that we could talk in private, Becky. If I wanted all of us to know about it, I would’ve just spit it out.”

  “Calm down, cowboy.”

  Lamar made to speak and shook his head. His cell phone began buzzing and dinging in his pocket. He turned his beer up to finish it and then set it back in the box.

  “See you tomorrow.”

  “Bye.”

  “Bye, Lamar!”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Mike and Deb drank two more beers in the tattoo shop before going outside and then up the iron staircase on the back of the building to get to the apartment. Mike unlocked the door and let Deb enter first. She set down her bag on the coffee table and began unbuttoning her coat.

  “So is he going to tell you?”

  “He’s going to tell me something. Better not be quitting—summer’s just around the bend.”

  “He wouldn’t quit on you. I think he’d rather lose an arm.”

  “I just have a bad feeling about this.”

  Deb walked into the kitchen and opened the bathroom door. On the floor was Sid. Deb walked gingerly around her. Like she can fucking see her, thought Mike. She closed the door, and as always, Mike waited for the screams. They didn’t come, so he put the bottles in the fridge and sat at the kitchen table and drank his beer. A few minutes later she came out. Mike didn’t look at the bathroom and, mercifully, she closed the door behind her.

  She sat next to him at the table. “What are you thinking about? You look like somebody just walked over your grave.”

  “Nothing. Just a weird day.” He drank from the bottle.

  “Then it’s not nothing. It’s OK to have a weird day, especially when that day includes injecting a dead kid into his father.”

  “What do you think about the war?”

  “I don’t like that so many people are getting killed.”

  “No, I mean what do you think about the war.”

  “I just told you. The reasons for it are immaterial—I hate that people, people on both sides, are dying. It makes me sad to see all the flags at half-mast and know that some poor kid, who ought to be driving around like an idiot trying to get a piece of ass, is dead.”

  “They need to get you on CNN.”

  “I don’t think I’ve got the face for TV.”

  “Don’t think the networks are ready for a girl with a tattooed face?”

  “No, not yet anyways. I’ll need to get a job at a local station first. Work my way up.”

  “That seems reasonable. Get yourself on a major in what, six months?”

  “I hope I don’t have to wait that long—I have laundry to do.”

  “That’s tough. Big career squashed before it even gets going. You want a beer?”

  “Sure thing.”

  “’Kay.”

  Mike opened the two beers with his key chain and passed one to Deb.

  “Thanks.”

  “No problem.”

  “So I was thinking, and you can say no if you think it’s a terrible idea—”

  “I’m not breaking in anywhere.”

  “You’re a butt. I want to take a trip. With you. I think it’d be fun.”

  “I’d love to go on a trip with you. Do you think the inmates can handle the asylum?”

  “We’d only be gone for a couple of days. There’s a piercing conference in Vegas, and I’ve always wanted to go. Good networking, and the whole thing would be a write-off.”

  “I’ve never been to Vegas.”

  “Did you ever want to?”

  “I did—I mean I do. I’d love to go to Vegas with you. When’s your conference?”

  “In about six weeks. I’ll book the flight tomorrow.”

  “How much will tickets be?”

  “No way, Jose: my trip, my treat. You can save your pennies for gambling.”

  “We have to at least go dutch.”

  “C’mon, Mike, don’t be old-fashioned. Let the lady open the door for once—I promise I won’t get mud on my petticoat.”

  He frowned and drank from his beer; it was bitter and cool in his mouth. “I’ll have to think about it.”

  “No, you don’t. I’ll book the flight and rooms tomorrow. I want to stay in the pyramid one, or in the one that looks like New York.”

  “What weekend is that?”

  “I think the twenty-first, why?”

  “We should see if there’s a fight that weekend.”

  “That would be awesome.”

  “You like boxing?”

  “No, but you do, and I’ll get to wear a little slinky dress and you can wear a suit. It’ll be bitchin’.”

  “I think I love you.”

  “You know you love me, ya doof.”

  She upended her beer and finished it before replacing it on the table.

  “Finish that beer—you’ve got work to do.”

  She stood, licked her lips ravenously, and walked to the bedroom.

  “Don’t dawdle.”

  Mike was already standing, his new beer now cold in his belly. “No ma’am, wouldn’t dream of it. Vegas, huh? I’m going to have to practice cards with Lamar—I haven’t played in forever.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Phil woke covered in sweat from head to toe, his head splitting. This wasn’t working, the waiting wasn’t working. He needed another one, now!

  The last bitch hadn’t stuck at all. Was he going to need to kill once a week? Last night everything was fine, and now this. He looked at the clock; it was past four a.m., far too late to correct everything by getting drunk. His head felt sludgy. It was going to have to be tonight, and that was just all there was to it.

  Phil made it through work, barely, and set out to Shawna and baby Tasha’s house. It was time. He’d wanted to wait for the right moment for them, and this was going to have to be it. Fuck it, who cared if it was being rushed a little. Phil parked the car a block from their house, grabbed the four-gallon pack of Ziploc bags, and crossed through black suburban lawns, staying a
s far from light as he was able.

  When he reached the now familiar house, he crept to the backyard, taking care to watch for anything that seemed off, but it was as quiet as it always was. He walked to the back door and silently lifted it in its track and slid it open. First get Shawna under control, and then get the baby. Let her watch.

  He passed through the black kitchen, down a hallway, past the baby’s room, and then walked into Shawna’s room. It wasn’t until Phil reached the bed that he realized that the bitch wasn’t here.

  He ran from the room to baby Tasha’s crib. Maybe Shawna was sleeping somewhere else in the house? She never did, though. Never. The crib was empty, but Phil had known it would be. They were gone. Phil loped into the kitchen now, nerves frayed. They never left. Where could they have gone? There was a calendar hanging on the wall next to the door. The next three weeks were X-ed out, and said, “Florida!!!”

  She’d never know how lucky she was. Or maybe he’d tell her, when he came back for her.

  Phil drove all over town, eyes at the ready for any indication that any woman could be the right victim. He saw a promising brunette walking a dog, but when he circled her the third time by curling the truck around the block, he saw her get her cell phone off of a belt clip. Next to the phone was a small, semiautomatic pistol.

  There were easier pickings to be had.

  He saw a small red-haired boy on a huge bicycle, a dog eating pizza out of a box, and a huge woman riding an electric scooter. He saw a college-aged girl holding hands with a buff-looking man walking at a drunken pace, a group of four women dressed in business clothes walking into an upscale bar, and a prostitute so road-weary that he couldn’t imagine taking her, much less paying for the right. Phil saw a girl in impossibly tight pants walking into an apartment building, a miniskirt-clad pair of very dodgily-dressed young women gallivanting with young men, and finally, he saw a normal-looking blonde woman carrying two trash sacks out of the tattoo shop from before. Phil stopped the truck. Not bad. The place was a regular honey hole for bitches. It wasn’t Shawna and the baby, but they’d be gift wrapped for him in a couple of weeks.