Ty's Tattoos, Part II "Nearer the Bone"

“Ready for you. ” Brando nods at Tamsin and gestures toward a reclining chair, the kind you find in a barber’s shop or dentist’s office. “Unless you want to wait for Freddie to come back from lunch.”
      Tamsin shakes her head. She hops up into the chair and unstraps the sandal on her right foot while Brando retrieves fresh instruments from the autoclave. I lean on the edge of the booth to watch. The singer growls from the speaker: “You were always waiting for me...patient for me...‘til you got me hooked.” Tamsin’s foot keeps time with the music.

      “So,” says Brando, sitting down again on his stool. “What’re we doin’ here?”

      “An eighth note. About an inch high, right here.” Tamsin points at a spot about two inches above the knob of her ankle. “Black outline with a dark purple center. Here, I made a sketch.” She tugs a piece of paper from the pocket of her cutoffs.

      Brando takes the paper in one hand and Tamsin’s ankle in the other. He rolls her leg gently back and forth on the chair’s footrest. “Can do that. About forty-five dollars. D’ya fill out the paper-work?

      “Yeah. Last week.” Tamsin produces another folded paper from her pocket. Brando studies it, then hands it back, nodding. “I’ve had a tattoo before,” Tamsin says. She points again at the rosebud on her thigh. “Got it in Boise three years ago. I’m thinking of having it extended. Maybe a vine.” She traces an imaginary stem with her fingertip.

      “Can do that. I’ll show you some designs when we finish this.” Brando pulls on fresh gloves and swabs Tamsin’s ankle with an antiseptic cloth. Taking a safety razor from the drawer of his worktable, he shaves a small patch on her already-smooth leg where he will put the tattoo, then swabs again.

      Tamsin leans back and smiles at me. “You really oughta get one.”

      “I think I’ll just watch for now, if you don’t mind.”

Brando glances at me, sizing me up as a potential customer. I don’t know what his decision is. What he sees is a middle-aged woman with short hair going silver all around her face, wearing jeans and a t-shirt that says “Dolphin Biology Research Lab.” Sometimes, in the laundromat, when people read the shirt and ask me if I’m a biologist, I say “yes” just to make the conversation interesting, but the truth is, I’m a secretary in an insurance office, and I got the t-shirt at a garage sale. Whatever he thinks, Brando turns back to his work, filling a small vial with ink and fitting a new needle in his machine.

      Tamsin scoots herself up in the chair. Brando grasps her leg at mid-calf and pulls her back into a recline. He holds her leg firmly and gently and starts the tattoo machine. “What are you afraid of, honey...I’m nothing but a dream,” the singer croons.
      The first touch of the needle makes Tamsin wince and pull her leg away. I jump a little, too, jarring the wall of the booth and earning a disapproving look from Brando. He readjusts his needle. “You know, this one’s gonna hurt more than that other. There’s not as much flesh on your ankle. We’re nearer the bone.” Again, he takes her ankle and pulls her leg toward him. She closes her fists on the arms of the chair.
      Brando’s needle draws a black line. Tamsin draws in breath sharply and, between clenched teeth, sings: “My heart is hard...but it is pure...your heart is softness...the sweetest cure.” The buzz of the machine rises and falls, stops and starts. Tamsin writhes in her chair, but Brando never lets go his hold on her leg.
      I watch the needle trace a small eighth note on the flesh. The note floats above Tamsin’s ankle; its tiny flag waves and curls. “I’m just a shadow,” the note sings, “a wisp of smoke.”
     The shop door swings open and three teenaged girls enter. “Help you?” asks Brando, his needle pausing.
     The girls giggle and point at each other. “She wants a tattoo,” they say, nearly in unison, and laugh again.
     “Look around.” Brando nods at the books of illustrations. “Be with you when I’m done.” He goes back to his work.
     The girls wander the shop, examining the tattoo samples on the walls. One of them comes over to Brando’s booth. “Hey! Tamsin!” she exclaims. Tamsin looks up and smiles.
     The girl turns to me. “She went to our high school,” she explains. She calls to her friends. “Hey, guys, it’s Tamsin!”
     The other girls come over and stand beside me, peering over the partition. “Hi, Tamsin,” they say. “Does it hurt?”
     “A little.”
     “A little,” the girls repeat and continue to watch reverently. They begin a muted chorus of oohs and aahs as Brando dips his needle again and again, first into the ink, then into Tamsin’s leg. She rolls and pulls, but Brando holds her fast. She pants and sings, the machine buzzes, and I watch and remind myself to breathe.