Tatted

Ace didn’t start the day, his dreams ended and he woke-up. Most of his dreams were a swirl of color and ink. Ace spent most of his evenings inking people’s arms, butts, backs, ankles and necks. Some people are very clear and bring in their designs. Most come in the shop with some vague idea of a need for something that will make them feel better about themselves. Make them feel cool. Make them feel something different than the mundane, mediocre and general boring feeling that follows them around like a stain on a white t-shirt.

Ace sat in his corner apartment and realized that at the other end of town, he would be paying a lot more for the “loft” space he now occupies. He actually like his place. The 14th floor allows him not to have curtains because no one can see in and he rarely needed to turn on lights because of the large windows allowed him to use mother nature to light his day.

At night he occupied the small, dense space of the tattoo shop. Freedom tattoo. Yep. That’s his place. Ridiculous really, just how much money he makes. Tattoos for the rich who come here for the “experience.” Tattoos for the poor who come here after winning $100 dollars on a lottery scratch-off ticket. Tattoos for the stripper who comes here to cover something that usually isn’t covered. As for himself, he only has two tattoos. One on the inside spot of each wrist, just below his hand.

 It’s his day-off. Mondays the shop is closed. Crossing the large room to the kitchen space Ace glances at the canvas that sits near the window. A reproduction of Van Gogh’s Starry Night in the shadows of early evening makes the twilight view that much more alive than it really is outside the window.

 He opens the frig and searches for the last beer only to find it’s not there but already on the counter, empty. It’s his evening off.

 O’Leary’s then, he nods to himself. Dolly, his cat, lifts her head as he closes the door behind him, then tucks her head back into her shoulder.