Read Online To Thine Own Self Be True by Judy Clemens - Free Book Online
Authors: Judy Clemens
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receiving a lecture from Rusty. One he’d probably given hundreds of times. He had Nick over at the work station, pointing out instruments.
“You want to insist on several things,” he said. “Single-use items—things the artist uses only on you then throws them away or sterilizes them. You watch him open the sterile packaging, so you know for sure. Needles, ink, tubes, gloves. You watch your artist pour a new ink supply into a new disposable container. A righteous artist will do all these things, and if yours doesn’t, go find a professional who will.”
He gestured around the room. “You make sure the surroundings are clean, as well as your tattoo artist, and you feel free to ask anything you want about his sterilization procedures and isolation techniques. And you watch him work. Observe someone else getting a tattoo and make sure you like what you see. None of this hiding in the back room stuff. If he’s not doing his work out in the open, you don’t want to know what goes on where you can’t see. If he’s a qualified professional, he’ll have no problem with you doing these things. In fact, he’ll be glad you’re taking so much responsibility. The artist himself is actually in more danger than the customer, with all the people he sees and the bodies he works on. The gloves are as much protection for him as for you.”
Nick took a breath to ask a question, but Rusty barreled on.
“This is, of course, after you’ve found someone who does the quality of art you’re looking for. After all, you’re gonna have this thing forever. Oh, and you’ll have to sign this waiver before a qualified artist will even touch you.” He held out a sheet of paper I recognized, a release that waived Rusty’s responsibility for things from infections following the work, to allergic reactions to the ink, to variations in color pigments. It even said that you realize a tattoo will be a permanent change to your appearance and you’re not under the influence of any mind-altering drugs.
“Change your mind, Nick?” I asked. “You ready to take the plunge?”
He smiled. “I was thinking of something small. Like a hammer.”
A hammer. For a developer. I forced a smile. “Would fit.”
Rusty, oblivious to the sudden tension, clapped his hands once, a sharp, jarring slap. “So, we ready to go?”
We went.
Chapter Nine
Our first stop was a house not far from Rusty’s shop, an attractive, older home on Washington Street. We’d driven in two vehicles, since we weren’t sure where we’d wind up at the end of the day, and Nick and I parked behind Rusty’s Explorer, inventing a space in the semi-plowed street.
We stepped out, gawking at the Christmas scene. Two ten-foot blow-up snowmen waved from the front lawn, while an equally large Grinch swayed where the front walk met the sidewalk. Strewn about the yard were carolers, candy canes, moving reindeer, multiple strings of blinking colored lights, and a nativity scene with an all too life-like cow as part of the livestock. I almost felt like I should check her teats for frostbite, it was so cold. A glance upward revealed a full porch roof, with eight reindeer pulling a sleigh holding Santa himself. A fully lit star and wreath, bright enough to compete with the day’s light, ornamented the eaves.
“Wow,” Nick said.
Rusty grinned. “Come on. You’ll love these guys.”
We were greeted at the door by two large rottweilers with heads as big as Queenie’s entire body. Fortunately, a person came close behind them to welcome us. Her eyes loomed dully above dark semi-circles, and she moved slowly, clutching her arms across her middle.
“Rusty. It’s good to see you.” She turned back into the house, shrugged, and gave Rusty a half smile over her shoulder. “Mickey will be out in a minute, I’m sure.” She shooed the dogs away and gestured us inside. “Come on in.”
She was a small woman, in her early forties, I’d say, about Wolf and Mandy’s age, with an
“You want to insist on several things,” he said. “Single-use items—things the artist uses only on you then throws them away or sterilizes them. You watch him open the sterile packaging, so you know for sure. Needles, ink, tubes, gloves. You watch your artist pour a new ink supply into a new disposable container. A righteous artist will do all these things, and if yours doesn’t, go find a professional who will.”
He gestured around the room. “You make sure the surroundings are clean, as well as your tattoo artist, and you feel free to ask anything you want about his sterilization procedures and isolation techniques. And you watch him work. Observe someone else getting a tattoo and make sure you like what you see. None of this hiding in the back room stuff. If he’s not doing his work out in the open, you don’t want to know what goes on where you can’t see. If he’s a qualified professional, he’ll have no problem with you doing these things. In fact, he’ll be glad you’re taking so much responsibility. The artist himself is actually in more danger than the customer, with all the people he sees and the bodies he works on. The gloves are as much protection for him as for you.”
Nick took a breath to ask a question, but Rusty barreled on.
“This is, of course, after you’ve found someone who does the quality of art you’re looking for. After all, you’re gonna have this thing forever. Oh, and you’ll have to sign this waiver before a qualified artist will even touch you.” He held out a sheet of paper I recognized, a release that waived Rusty’s responsibility for things from infections following the work, to allergic reactions to the ink, to variations in color pigments. It even said that you realize a tattoo will be a permanent change to your appearance and you’re not under the influence of any mind-altering drugs.
“Change your mind, Nick?” I asked. “You ready to take the plunge?”
He smiled. “I was thinking of something small. Like a hammer.”
A hammer. For a developer. I forced a smile. “Would fit.”
Rusty, oblivious to the sudden tension, clapped his hands once, a sharp, jarring slap. “So, we ready to go?”
We went.
Chapter Nine
Our first stop was a house not far from Rusty’s shop, an attractive, older home on Washington Street. We’d driven in two vehicles, since we weren’t sure where we’d wind up at the end of the day, and Nick and I parked behind Rusty’s Explorer, inventing a space in the semi-plowed street.
We stepped out, gawking at the Christmas scene. Two ten-foot blow-up snowmen waved from the front lawn, while an equally large Grinch swayed where the front walk met the sidewalk. Strewn about the yard were carolers, candy canes, moving reindeer, multiple strings of blinking colored lights, and a nativity scene with an all too life-like cow as part of the livestock. I almost felt like I should check her teats for frostbite, it was so cold. A glance upward revealed a full porch roof, with eight reindeer pulling a sleigh holding Santa himself. A fully lit star and wreath, bright enough to compete with the day’s light, ornamented the eaves.
“Wow,” Nick said.
Rusty grinned. “Come on. You’ll love these guys.”
We were greeted at the door by two large rottweilers with heads as big as Queenie’s entire body. Fortunately, a person came close behind them to welcome us. Her eyes loomed dully above dark semi-circles, and she moved slowly, clutching her arms across her middle.
“Rusty. It’s good to see you.” She turned back into the house, shrugged, and gave Rusty a half smile over her shoulder. “Mickey will be out in a minute, I’m sure.” She shooed the dogs away and gestured us inside. “Come on in.”
She was a small woman, in her early forties, I’d say, about Wolf and Mandy’s age, with an
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