Next to where she sat reclined, the tattoo artist was busy assembling his tools, the machine, the inks, the needles, and the stencils.
Outside, the snow fell as if letting the world know it had nothing better to do. Worth noting, as you’ll understand later.
She had chosen the tattoo artist because when she walked in, “Where It’s At” was playing and he looked a little like Beck. More like a Napoleon Dynamite vibe, truth be told, but definitely more than a passing resemblance to Beck. He was the only one in the shop that didn’t have a tattoo. She remembered the old expression about going to the hair stylist of a person with a nice haircut and wondered how she could apply that rule in this scenario.
He had greeted her with a friendly “What are we looking for today?” to which she produced a small piece of artwork depicting a child riding a sled down a hill. A cheery winter scene that seemed to exude movement and innocence.
“And where would you like it?” he asked.
“On my ribs,” she replied, lifting up her shirt and pointing.
“That’s one of the more painful spots to get a tattoo, you know,” he said.
“That’s the point,” was her response.
He nodded and began to sketch out the tattoo.
It was as painful as advertised and to take her mind off of it, he asked her why she was getting the tattoo. What it meant to her. It was always good to get the client talking.
“When I was a teenager, I was the last of my friends to learn to drive. The idea of being behind the wheel terrified me. It didn’t help that my father wouldn’t teach me. It became a thing between the two of us. Then one day, during the worst snowstorm we’d had in a decade, he suddenly grabbed the keys and said he wanted to teach me to drive. ‘Time for your lesson,’ he said. Complete whiteout conditions. It was absurd, but he insisted. He took me to this giant church complex that had a huge parking lot. We were obviously the only ones out in the storm so we had it to ourselves. It was terrible. A disaster. I was scared and slid all over the place. I couldn’t see more than two feet in front of the car. Finally, he said I’d learned enough and it was time to go home. I went to switch seats and he told me I was going to drive home. I refused, saying there was no way I could do it. He just sat there. The two of us sat there for like twenty minutes until I started to cry. I thought that would be the end of it- he was usually a sucker for my tears- but instead, he got mad and told me to drive the damn car home. So I did. It took me two hours to drive the five miles, and we got stuck twice. It was the worst two hours of my life.”
The tattoo artist didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t been watching her facial expressions or listening to her vocal inflections as she talked, engrossed as he’d been in the tattoo, so he wasn’t sure what the point of the story was or how she felt about it. Now, he was afraid to ask. In the background, he heard the other artists and clients talking, the sound of needles puncturing skin and the small whimpers of the recipients.
She kept pretty quiet after that except for humming lyrics to a song through gritted teeth as he worked on a particularly sensitive spot.
“Hands down, Calechee bound
land-locked, kiss the ground
the dirt of seven continents going
round and round
go on ahead Mr. Citywide
hypnotized, suit and tied.”
Two hours later, the tattoo was finished. She seemed to like it. He told her she took the pain like a champ. She paid him and started for the door. Outside, the snow was really starting to come down, so he called after her. “Drive carefully.”
Without looking back, she said, “It’s too late for that.”
On the counter, he saw she had written a little note at the bottom of the credit card receipt. “To appreciate the beauty of a snowflake, it is necessary to stand out in the cold. Aristotle said that. Smart man.” Next to the quote was a smiley face.