by Sophia Henry
“Awe. Thanks, Sandy. I’m glad you were able to get in, too. What are you thinking about getting today?”
“I’d really like to get a St. Michael like this.” She hands me a picture. “But I want to add one of the jeweled pieces that you’re known for.”
“A blinged-out St. Michael. Okay.” I nod. The patron saint of warriors and the sick and suffering is a frequent request, but I’ve never been asked to give him some bling—other than a rosary or a cross.
“I love your style. Maybe he can be standing on something or—I don’t know.” She shakes her head. “I just want it to have that special piece incorporated that makes it recognizable as one of your tattoos.”
“Yeah,” I tell her, mentally going over a few ways I can do it. “I can make it happen. Where are we putting it?”
She rubs her left bicep. “Right around here. Is that okay?”
“Yeah, that’s a great spot.” I glance from the photo to her arm trying to gauge how large I need to make it. “Let me just trace the area right quick, so I know the space I have to work with.”
“Sure.” She stands still as I grab a piece of paper off the front counter and hold it against her arm. Using a sharpie, I draw a quick circle to give myself a sense of size.
“Is that too small or is it good?” I ask.
“No, that’s perfect.”
“Awesome. Give me, like, ten or fifteen minutes to draw something up. You can tell me what you think, and we’ll go from there.”
“Sounds good. Thank you.”
“Cool. Make yourself comfortable. I’ll come get you in a few.”
There are two lighted tables in the back of the shop where I can trace enough of St. Michael that I need and sketch up a quick jeweled piece to give her an idea of how it will look. I’ll free-hand most of it right onto her arm, adding detail where I need to. Hopefully, she likes the idea.
Once I’ve got the template of St. Michael drawn up, and Sandy’s approval of the piece, I bring her back to my station. Using an antibacterial soap called green soap, I clean the area by squirting it over her arm and wiping it off with a paper towel. Then I use a disposable razor and quickly shave the fine arm hair in the area before cleaning it off with green soap again. The last step is to clean her skin with alcohol to get rid of any greasiness or oily skin in the area. After prepping the area, I apply the template carefully.
After making sure I’m happy with where it is, I say, “Take a look in the mirror and let me know if you like the placement.”
She hops off my chair and goes to the mirror. As she peers at the stencil, she smiles and nods. “It’s perfect.”
“Cool.” I pat the seat. “Hop back on, girl!”
With her approval of the design and placement, I’m ready to set up my machine. As she gets comfortable, I pull on latex-free surgical gloves and dig through my drawer, looking for the needle I need to do the outline. One I’ve found the size I need and a tube, I remove them from the sterile packaging and assemble my machine.
“Any particular colors you want me to work with?” I ask, filling three of the caps on my tray with black ink.
“I’d love some deep purples and blues, but other than that, I trust whatever colors you think will make it look good,” Sandy says, watching me pour the ink.
“I’m gonna start with a small line, and you let me know how it feels, okay?”
“Yeah, okay.” She glances at me quickly and nods her head.
I dip my pinky finger in ointment, then dab it on her skin before drawing my first line. “How was that? You okay?”
“Oh yeah! It’s not as bad as I thought it would be.” Since that first line doesn’t phase her, we’re good to go.
In my experience, most people get through the outline fine—it’s the shading that gets them. Other than a person’s threshold, a lot of the pain depends on placement. Some areas are much more sensitive than others. I’ve only had one person not want to continue after my first line.
I’d only been tattooing on my own for about six months when a girl came in with her boyfriend. From my initial assessment of the situation, I could tell she wasn’t completely sold on getting a tattoo, but it was something he talked her into. All she wanted was the outline of a tiny zodiac sign—I can’t even remember which one at this point.
I prepped her skin, got the okay on design and placement, and started tracing the stencil. She immediately started crying but said to continue. I tried extending the line, and she screamed. That’s when we both called it quits. She said she didn’t want to keep going and I refused to have someone yelling in my chair.
Now that girl’s walking around with a random line on the small of her back. Wonder what she tells people.
“Is this your first tattoo?” I ask, leaning into her.
“Yeah. I’m a little nervous.” She chuckles.
“Totally understandable. Just try to relax, and you’ll be good.”
“I’m ready. I’ve been following you on Instagram for years. I trust you, and I’m so excited about getting this.”
Her confidence in me makes me smile. “Thanks, Sandy, that means a lot to me. Makes doing the tattoo for you that much more special, ya know?”
Usually, I’m so focused, that I don’t talk much while I’m tattooing. I think some clients expect me to be like a hairstylist—keeping them entertained or filling in silence with mindless chatter. It’s not that I don’t care or want to have a conversation, it’s that I can’t focus when I’m talking, and I’m not a good listener while I’m focused. I ask most of my questions at the very beginning while I’m outlining or the very end when I’m putting the final touches on the piece whether is highlights or shading.
“Why did you choose St. Michael?” I ask, holding her skin taut as I follow my stencil steadily.
Because tattoos are a very unique and personal experience, hearing the stories of why people choose the design they do is one of my favorite parts of my job. It means so much to me that they trust me with the story and choose me as the person they want to give them a lasting memory to that story.
“It’s paying respect to my mom. She was in a terrible accident last year and lost some of her fingers.”
“Oh my gosh!” I glance up quickly. “I’m so sorry.”
The story makes me think of Liz, who was in a car accident a few years ago. She didn’t lose any fingers, but she lost full use of her hand, which was devastating for her because she was in her surgical residency when it happened.
“Yeah. It was a crazy situation. She was rear-ended a few blocks from our house as she was coming home from work.”
“She lost fingers from being rear-ended?” I ask, looking at her while I wipe excess ink from her arm.
“Yeah. At ninety miles an hour.”
“Ninety miles an hour?” I repeat, glancing at Sandy. “That’s crazy! How the hell does that happen in a neighborhood?”
“Young kid. I think he was fifteen or sixteen. He wasn’t even supposed to be driving. Took his parents’ car without permission.”
“Holy shit!”
“It was unreal. When my dad and I got there, we saw her SUV rolled over.” She watches me as I work. “No one who saw the car could believe that the person inside was alive. But she was.”
“Jesus. I’m glad she was alive.”
“Yeah. When rescue workers got her out of the car, her hand was mangled. I mean, it looked like ground beef.” Sandy wipes at her eyes. “The doctor said there was no way to save any fingers because they were pulverized, ya know? They weren’t hanging or whatever, they were torn up.”
“I can’t even imagine. How did your mom take it?”
“She was a fucking rock star.” She says, then immediately follows it with, “I’m so sorry about my language.”
I lift my head and smile. “Sandy. You’re in a tattoo shop. If you can drop the f-bomb anywhere, it’s here.”
She laughs. “Mom broke down for about thirty minutes, and then she said she was never cry
ing over her hand again. And she didn’t. She was so strong about it. Her therapist even uses her attitude and how she handled it as a model for other patients.”
“Oh wow.”
“She’s an inspiration to me, our family. It’s just something I wanted to do as a memorial to her and her strength, ya know?”
“Oh my gosh, yeah. That’s amazing.”
Jealousy makes my jaw tighten. It’s not spiteful against Sandy, more like a longing to have the bond she has with her mom. I wish I had that kind of relationship with my mom. But it’s hard to respect a woman who didn’t stand up for me in my darkest moment. It’s even harder to appreciate her knowing she let me walk out the door at fourteen without saying a word to try to keep me there. It was the most surreal moment of my existence. One I still can’t comprehend.
But I don’t reveal any of that to my client. I’ve shared personal stories before, but some topics, such as my parents, are off limits. Anything that happened before I turned fourteen is off limits. A part of me died when my family chose to pay off the person who hurt me instead of pressing charges because they didn’t want to risk tainting the family name.
The piece takes me almost four hours, but I’m stoked at how great it turned out. I can’t wait to see her reaction.
“Alright, Sandy. You’re all finished.” I squirt green soap on the tattoo and wipe it off to clean it up. “Check it out and let me know what you think.”
She jumps off the chair and rushes to the mirror. “Oh my gosh!” Her hand flies up to cover her mouth. “I love it.”
“It looks rad, right?” I ask, removing my gloves and following her to the mirror. “Do you like what we decided for the jewel placement?”
Instead of having St. Michael standing on something, I made a jeweled heart across his chest. It fit in well with the piece and didn’t make it look too hokey.
Her glassy eyes meet mine in the mirror. “It’s absolutely gorgeous. Better than I ever could have imagined.”
“Awesome,” I say smiling. When my clients are happy with my work, I’m happy with it.
After explaining the care instructions and giving her my card, Sandy pulls me in for another hug, this one more intense and tighter than the one from when we met. “Thank you so much,” she whispers.
It’s not something that happens often, but every once in a while, I get emotional from my client’s reactions. Some people are so grateful, I can’t help but feel with them. It’s usually memorial pieces or pieces like this one that has profound meaning for them.
Chapter Six
Emily
When Bryan and Ike said they wanted to take me out for a drink after work, I expected we’d head to a bar, have some beers, and get to know each other a bit. I did not expect that they’d take me on a mini bar hop. We start at Mardi Gras, a chain daiquiri bar that originated in New Orleans, then stop at another place for a quick shot before rolling up to our final destination.
“This is the main event, Em,” Ike says, holding the door to The Wolly Worm open for me. “We had to stall a bit until everyone got here.”
I’m confused at what he means until I hear loud cheering coming from a high-top table in the middle of the room, and multiple voices calling us over to join them. I’m slightly overwhelmed, but excitement overrides the initial anxiety when everyone welcome me with smiles, hugs, and drinks.
After a few shots, I feel like I’m with my crew at The Usual Market, my home away from home in Charlotte. Most of the people here are tattooers, or friends of tattooers, so the conversation is easy.
When Kelly, Ike’s girlfriend, rushes up and asks if she can have her photo taken with me, I’m surprised. It’s pretty damn surreal to be in a city I’ve never set foot in and have people want their picture made with me. Obviously, I agree to her request, which starts a flutter of flashes and photobombs. The photos aren’t just with me, of course, the entire table starts taking selfies and videos. Black marker notes and neon graffiti cover the dingy dive bar’s walls which serves as a perfect backdrop.
“You’re Em Vicious, right?” A guy with a reddish-brown beard and hazel eyes asks, sliding into the space next to me when someone else steps away. Dark, red hair peeks out of the back and sides of a black beanie.
Surprise that someone recognizes me has me choking on my IPA. “Yeah,” I finally say.
“I thought it was you. Heard you’d be in Philly this week.” He reaches over, holding his hand out for me to shake, which I do. “I’m Sully. I own Immortal Tattoo and Body Piercings over on Front St.” His broad chest strains against a blue, plaid flannel. The shirt is so tight, I’m surprised it doesn’t rip with every breath or at least pop a button. Not that I’d mind if it did. Sully is jacked.
“Sully from Immortal,” I repeat because the name triggers a memory. Sully Morgan is well-known for his interesting twist on black and gray. He uses red somewhere in every piece. It might be a lot or just a hint, but it’s always there, and it looks absolutely gorgeous. “I worked on a client today who said he gets all his work done at your shop.”
“Obviously not if you worked on him at Kandy’s,” he says.
“Well, if you hadn’t noticed, I’m kind of a big deal.” I tease. “Everyone wants ink from me.” I’m hoping it comes across as the joke I intend, and not that I’m full of myself. Everyone recognizes it’s a paraphrased line from Anchorman, right?
“You joke, but it’s true. I tried to get you at my shop, but Louis said you were booked in Philly.” When we’re jostled from people trying to get past us, he places a hand on my back. “Anything I can say or do to get you back here?”
Suddenly, “Livin’ on a Prayer” by Bon Jovi comes on and everyone at our table bursts into karaoke.
“Sing with us!” I tell him, pulling out my phone to record it for my Instagram story. I’m not above using Sully to bring people to my social media. He’s a legend.
When the song ends, Andrew, the photographer tasked with taking photos of me at the shop this week, walks up. I didn’t realize he’d be following me after hours, but I guess it makes sense as the tattoo lifestyle doesn’t end at the shop—it’s whatever the artist is doing.
“Impromptu photo shoot?” He asks.
I glance at Sully who nods. “I’m down.”
“I know the perfect place,” Andrew says, leading us to the back of the bar, near the bathrooms, where there’s a huge mural of a tie-dyed jackalope on the wall.
“You sure about this backdrop?” I ask, side-eyeing the jackalope. A creepy, rabbit-looking thing doesn’t fit the aesthetic of my branding.
“Trust me. The colors in this thing will look amazing. And it’ll be zoomed in, so you won’t even see the jackalope.”
“I nod. “Cool. You’ve already got enough unflattering pictures of me, so adding a like the perfect kind of torture.”
Andrew lifts his head from adjusting the settings on his Canon digital SLR. It looks almost exact to the one I have back home, though I know he’s got a ton more skills than I do. Photography is a passion of mine, but I keep it pretty simple.
“Sully, you stand here,” Andrew says, taking the large man by the shoulders and positioning him behind me. “Look at EmVee, but EmVee, you look away.” He backs up and holds the camera to his eye. We hear a few clicks before he says. “You have a t-shirt on under that flannel, right?”
Sully nods.
“Perfect, take off the flannel.”
“Whoa, Andrew!” I say, giddy from the drinks we’ve had. “What kind of photo shoot is this?”
“Completely professional, which is why I need to get his sleeves.” He winks and lifts his camera again, capturing the shots.
“This shoot got x-rated real quick.” When Sully speaks, his beard tickles my neck, and I start to laugh, which makes him laugh.
“Stop smiling!” Andrew commands.
“I can’t help it!”
“Sully, your sleeves are wicked,” Andrews says. “EmVee, lift your tank top so we can get your stomach p
iece.”
“Maybe I should do that?” Sully asks, hands sliding under my tank top. He stops at the top of my ribcage, so close to my boobs it’ll probably look like he’s grabbing them in the shot.
“Perfect. Right there!” Andrew shouts.
Once Andrew is satisfied with the shots, he lets us go back to the table, where we join the group as they’re toasting another round of shots.
I have no clue what time it is, or how long we’ve been at the Wolly Worm, but our crowded table has dwindled to only a few, so I know it’s getting late.
I’m so drunk, I can barely stand up. I’m also starving. “Ike, dude, I’ve gotta eat, or I’m gonna die. Is there anything vegan around here?”
“Yeah, there’s a great place a block away. Let me grab Bryan.”
As we stumble onto the street, I drape one arm across both guys’ shoulders, allowing them to hold me up. After all the drinks and shots we’ve had tonight, I don’t know how I’m going to make it to one more place, but I need something in my stomach to soak up the alcohol, so I’m willing to keep going.
They lead me to the Inked Soccer Mom, a funky place with a ton of vegan options. Philly is coming through with so many awesome food options, which has me thinking about moving. Sure, I’ve said I wanted to leave Charlotte before, but I never thought too much about it. Though, I always thought moving west to the mountains and settling in eclectic Asheville would be cool.
I’ve been in Philadelphia for twenty-four hours and feel like it’s someplace I could live. I’d have to get used to the brutal winters, but it’d be worth it to be in a bigger market with cool people and tons of rad places to hang out.
As soon as we finish eating, I lean into Bryan and let my head fall on his shoulder.
“Em?” he asks. I hear him, but I can’t lift my head. He puts his arms around my waist and brings me to my feet. “Let’s go, Em. You’re wasted.”
Thankfully, he and Ike ride with me to my hotel and make sure I’m in the door before they leave. I shuffle slowly through the lobby, get into the elevator, and press the floor for my room.