It was a slow Tuesday in the shop. Charlie sat in his black leather chair, the one with the holes worn in it, and waited for someone to mosey over to his corner. Occasionally, he'd read part of a book from the wire racks up front, but mostly he'd study his art magazines. Charlie's station was clean, except for the walls covered with tattoos he'd finished. Unpaid bills and boxes of latex gloves were a majority of his clutter.
From his corner, Charlie could see the tall sign that attracted drivers into the shop. It read: "Tucker's Oil," in grassy green letters with gas prices underneath. There was a smaller, wooden sign hanging from the bottom that said: "Tattoo" in black. Charlie drew the sign and his neighbor hung it the day after the shop's last inspection. Charlie's portion of Tucker's only met the minimal requirements to stay open, but it was all he had.
The sign shadowed exit 22 off I-90 going west toward Wyoming. Tucker's shared the exit with a Stuckey's that caught most business; the vans and the SUVs piled with kids on their way to a state park or a campground. Tucker's got everyone else; locals who needed the classifieds and a coffee or travelers checking directions. Charlie got the mix. He inked locals and their teenage daughters. He colored bikers and semi drivers. Sometimes, he even tattooed himself.
"Afternoon, Charlie," yelled someone up front.
Charlie leaned back in his chair to see who it was.
"Oh hey Jim. What's goin' on?"
"The usual. Had to stop in to fill 'er up. Done any work today?"
"Had a young man come in earlier, from the camp east of here. Wanted Bettie Paige on his arm."
"Don't we all," Jim chuckled. "Have a good one Charlie."
Charlie stood up and walked out from behind the short walls that separated him from the rest of the store; the rotating sausages, chips, coffee, and moon pies. He stretched his thin legs and smoothed his red t-shirt over his belly. There was rumbling from the interstate; approaching bikers.
Three Harleys slid into the gravel in front of Tucker's. The riders, all men, stepped off their bikes and into the store; they looked stern. Sara, the register girl, greeted them without looking up from her magazine.
"Y'all serious about that tattoo sign or a y'all some jokesters around here?"
"No it's serious," Charlie said, his eyes wide.
"Great. Gear up, we want 'em, kid."
In South Dakota, Charlie was still a kid even at 26. But in his heart, he felt old. He'd been at Tucker's for two years, but on his own for seven. He got his first tattoo at 17 from a college student and, like most, became addicted. He studied tattoos in magazines and on other people; he wanted to be a top artist in the tattoo world. On a good month, Tucker's barely paid the bills. Charlie felt trapped. He had little savings and no support from his family. What he had were people on I-90 wondering if the tattoo sign was a lie.
"Sure. You guys got somethin' in mind?"
"We want this symbol from our jackets."
The man with the long, triangle beard turned around and pointed to the back of his leather coat. The symbol was a medium-sized eagle made of geometric shapes. There was no feather or facial detail. It was bright red and orange, like fire.
"Exactly like that? Same size and all?"
"Yep. Can you do it?"
"Of course. Can I borrow your jacket to make a sketch?"
The man stripped off his coat and tossed it at Charlie.
"It will just take a second. You guys should get a soda over there."
Charlie took the coat to his chair and sat down at his drafting table, a hollow wooden wedge with a light inside and a sheet of glass on top. His eyes battled from the paper to the coat, paper to the coat. He drew quickly and concise, tapping his foot as he worked.
"Done guys, c'mon over."
The bikers made their way to Charlie's corner, behind the short walls. There were lamps everywhere, but only a few were lit. Charlie covered the tattoo chair in plastic and rolled a small stool close to it.
"Who's first?"
The man with the hoop earrings stepped forward. "I'll go."
"Where do you want it?"
The man pointed to his right shoulder, where the eagle was on the jacket.
"Okay. Shirt off and sit facing the chair."
The biker removed his t-shirt, exposing a beer gut and patches of hair on his chest. Charlie put on a clean pair of latex gloves and lathered soap on the shoulder. He reached for a disposable razor and shaved the fuzz from the skin. He pressed the stencil onto his canvas and peeled it back, revealing the eagle.
"Take a look in the mirror before it's permanent."
Once the biker said okay, Charlie went into his zone. He leaned over the canvas and started his gun. The buzz vibrated his fingers and created a therapeutic hum in his blood. He outlined first, in black. Then he did the color by blocks, orange first and then red. He watched as the pigment bled into the layers of the skin. The bikers shared their story with Charlie, but he didn't ask many questions. They were riding through the state on their way to Vegas, coming from Minnesota.
"You ever been to Vegas, kid?"
Charlie shook his head. He wondered how well a tattoo shop did out there. He wondered what kind of ink a tourist wished for after a round of drinks on The Strip. He thought about the skin on a stripper. He knew a shop in Vegas would charge more than $75 for a biker's eagle.
After the bikers left, Charlie decided he was done for the day. Four hours of drawing eagles made his blue eyes tired. No one was going to come in after 8pm on a Tuesday. He dropped his tool tray into the sterilizer, gathered his unpaid bills, along with the money he made that day-nearly $400. Charlie sat in his '89 Corolla and shuffled through the envelopes, deciding which bill needed to get paid first. The biker money would help some.
Charlie's roommate worked third shift at the Little Debbie plant one county over. Their duplex smelled of peanut butter, but there were always fresh Nutty Bars in the cabinet. Charlie picked up the phone and dialed his father while he found himself a fresh carton of raw noodles.
"Hey Charlie."
"Hi dad. What's goin' on?"
"Oh you know, day's almost over."
"Yeah, hey I had a good day today...at the shop I mean."
Charlie's dad never asked about him. Nonetheless, Charlie tried to call him everyday.
"What does that mean?"
"It means I did four tattoos, that's okay money."
"It might be okay, but you need to look ahead. Look beyond this hobby."
"Ha! Okay Dad, well I'm gonna go eat some dinner before I call it a night."
"Okay son, bye."
Charlie hung up and laughed. His dad would never change; he'd always think Charlie wasn't good enough. At this point, there was nothing to do but laugh.
The remainder of the week brought travelers and young girls into the shop for Charlie to draw on. The weather was nice, so the camps were filling up. The tourists wanted small Asian symbols on their backs and the girls wanted butterflies on their hips. They all left tips.
"Why do you let those girls get tattoos?" Sara asked Charlie.
"Why not? They're 18."
"Well you know they still live at home. Their moms will shit."
"It's not my problem. I don't have to ask their moms."
Sara shrugged her shoulders and popped her gum. The truth was Charlie wasn't thrilled to ink up a young girl's clean skin. But it was money. He knew the better artists had rules about tattooing. No tongue tattoos, no ink on the fingers or toes, no names, etc. But Charlie couldn't confine himself to those limits; he needed all the work he could get. He knew the young girls wouldn't appreciate the talent he had; they just wanted to show their friends. They didn't realize that Charlie reset his gun to make up for their thin skin, that he'd used breakable pigments in case they had it removed in twenty years, or that he'd studied popular tattoo designs for years prior to their arrival.
The week had been good for Charlie. Things were slowly looking up; his stack of unpaid bills was dwindling. He'd paid one each day; tourist season was a big help. When Friday night came around, he stayed at Tucker's until midnight tattooing a hooker. Her voice was raspy and she wore shiny red high heels. She paid him in dollar bills, but tipped well. When Charlie came home, his neighbor was moving out.
"Man, what's going on?"
"Well, Charlie I got a new position at the job."
"Aw man. Well where ya movin' to?"
"Just a few counties over to another small house. How's Tucker's?"
"It's been a good few weeks. I'm about to look for a place of my own I think."
"Really? Wow that's great Charlie. Your dad come around and give you some money?"
"Yeah right man. That'll never happen. I've been saving. You know, putting aside a tattoo here and there. Adds up I guess."
"Sure thing. Well keep it up, kid. You're doing well."
"Thanks man. Let me know how the new place is."
Charlie went into his half of the peanut butter house and fumbled through his art books until he fell asleep on the floor. When he awoke the next morning, he went to the bank.
"I need to talk to someone about financing a building."
The clerk looked Charlie up and down; from his miniature blond mohawk to his worn Chuck Taylors. It was the look Charlie always got; because he was just a kid in South Dakota. She pointed to the waiting area outside the glass offices.
"Wait there."
Charlie waited and hoped there was no one out driving who wanted a tattoo. When he was called, he walked into the office and sat next to the candy dish. He told the woman what he was hoping to do and she scowled at his left arm; the one covered in psychedelic designs. She gave him a few building options, but listed even more problems. All buildings had to be new or completely renovated to agree with the local tattooing laws. "New" meant money and "makeovers" meant even more money. She suggested he stay at Tucker's for a few more months to save money. Charlie asked if she wanted a tattoo-she refused.
He followed her advice and pushed his guests to tell everyone about his corner. On slow days, he offered to do touch-ups on drivers who'd just stopped in for soda. He coaxed Sara's friends to come in and get hearts on their ankles. He called his dad and asked him if he'd like a tattoo-he refused. Charlie kept moving.
Three months later, Charlie walked briskly into Tucker's with a grin on his face. Sara was there; she didn't look up from filing her nails.
"Today's my last day."
"What? Why?"
"I got my own place. No more Tucker's, no more sharing a sign."
"Wow. Why leave now, you've done pretty well here."
"I know, but I've always wanted my shop, my address, my sign."
Sara shrugged and got back to her nails. Charlie waited in his corner and spent free time packing his things. He tattooed a semi driver who wanted a nude Elvira figure on his shoulder.
"Good work, kid," the man told him.
Charlie loaded the Corolla with boxes and supplies and drove home. He opened the door to the other half of his peanut butter house and setup his tools. It wasn't a shop on The Strip or near South Beach, but it was his. He opened a box of neon tubing and hung the square in his front window. He plugged in its cord and rolled the switch. "TATTOO" lit up the entire room; a blue and orange glow.
He hadn't talked to his dad in a good week. His heart was beginning to cool from even trying. But he couldn't think about that now, his work was cut out for him. The new location brought a new batch of tattoo virgins. He hoped they'd get addicted like he was and return over and over again. He'd done a wolf for the lady next door and a cross for her boyfriend. He'd started a "Starry Night" rendition on the arm of the garage band singer on the corner. He was still eating noodles and Nutty Bars, but he thought less about it.
He called his dad mid-week.
"Dad, you know I don't work at Tucker's anymore."
"Oh so you called for money, great son."
"Nope. Actually you should stop by my shop soon."
"Your shop? Since when."
"Since...well since awhile. I've been building clients and doin' okay."
"That isn't really what I meant when I said you should look beyond Tucker's."
"But this is what I've wanted. You should think about stoppin' by."
Charlie knew his dad was disgruntled, but he tried not to think much about it. Only Charlie knew what was best for him and he was just glad he really didn't need the money from his dad. He knew his shop wasn't up to his father's standards; it probably never would be.
Later, Charlie was in the middle of a sketch-a thorny rose for the woman bartender in the city, when a truck pulled up. Charlie kept working. It was Charlie's father. He approached the screen door and stood.
"Dad. You okay?"
"Sure son, why wouldn't I be?"
Charlie opened the door to the shop. His father stepped inside with caution as if the floor would fall in. He slowly gazed at the posters on the walls and looked the bartender up and down.
"Dad, well, this is it."
"Okay, well do you have time to give me a tattoo?"
Charlie's eyes grew wide.
"Sure. You got somethin' in mind?"