Part 42 (2/2)
”Thirty-one days, to allow me to apprentice, and then you can vouch for me to get a different visa that lasts for longer if you want to keep me on.”
”Let's not get ahead of ourselves,” she says. She's flicking through my black, leather-bound portfolio. Tina Azume is my favorite artist. She's got such an idiosyncratic style, and I fell in love with it the moment I saw it.
Like her face, the lines she draws are full of sharp angles, and yet have this wistful, flowing quality to them. It's almost like if water was geometric.
I can hardly believe I'm sitting in her office, talking with her! I'm star-struck. I burp, and taste stomach acid mixed with champagne.
”You did the tattoo on your foot yourself?”
I look down at my right foot instinctively. I'm wearing my favorite blue-and-white pinstripe flats, so I can't see the whole web of intricate and interwoven beanstalks that I designed myself. But I do see a bit of it.
”Yes,” I say.
”How?”
”W-what do you mean?”
”How were you able to? I mean, with what instruments? Where?”
”I was friends with a local artist back home in Chicago. She said that if I wanted to practice on myself, she'd let me and watch me.”
”And you weren't her apprentice?”
”No.”
”So she just let a unlicensed friend use her tattoo equipment?”
I swallow. My heart stops dead. Should I have lied?
”Yes,” I whisper.
”Quite a risk for her to take.” Tina Azume is eyeballing me now, and her face has gone from mere indifference to something approaching hostility. ”I don't do that in my shop.”
”I understand.”
”Take off your shoe.”
I blink, and then immediately slip it off. She extends a hand, and I'm not sure what she wants me to do.
”Your foot, please.”
A little embarra.s.sed, I lift my foot into her hand, and she holds it and pulls my toes down flat, and then peers at my tattoo.
”Your hand must be steady, especially since it hurts on the foot, and since you did this upside-down.”
I don't know what to say, so I don't reply.
”You are skilled with curved lines a they are smooth. These are vines?”
”Well, in my mind they were kind of like beanstalks.”
”But they are not straight?”
I shrug. ”I started off with them straight, but after drawing and redrawing the design, realized I liked them more vine-like, tangled.”
She sets my foot down, and I slip it back into my shoe.
”It's impressive for someone so young. Most people don't start getting into practicing body art until their mid-twenties, sometimes older. You've got a good hand, and a good eye. I can see that from your drawings.” She gestures gently at my portfolio that's in her hands.
”Thank you,” I whisper. I feel my heart quicken with excitement, antic.i.p.ation.
”But being a tattoo artist is not the same as being, simply, good at drawing. Tell me, what other skills are vital?”
”An excellent knowledge of the health-related ramifications of getting and giving tattoos,” I say. ”And also effective communication. Nothing is worse than a tattoo artist who cannot communicate with her client.”
She just stares at me, as though she's expecting more.
”Um,” I stall, buying time. ”Mental discipline. Tattoo sessions can often go on for hours, and an artist must not only know how to concentrate and not get distracted, but must also know her own limits.”
”And that's just the tip of the iceberg,” Tina says, slapping my portfolio shut. ”I like your style, but I must say I see a little of my own in it.”
”I've been following your work since I was fifteen,” I say. ”On your website, on tattoo message boards, and social network groups.”
”I see. And where are you living now?”
”Near St. Kilda.”
”Ah, so just down the road?”
”Yeah,” I say, grinning. ”I walked here today.”
”Don't walk home at night if you can avoid it,” she says. ”Especially on weekends.”
I hold my breath. ”Does this mean that, I, uh-”
”Yes, Penelope. Bring the license form tomorrow morning so I can sign it. I'm normally in the shop at eight, but you'll now be opening up for me, so I expect you to be here at seven-thirty.”
I nod enthusiastically, but she sees the confusion on my face. Tattoo shops don't usually open so early.
”I run an online business,” she says. ”I sell temporary tattoos, and various paraphernalia. Some accessories, too, like rings, earrings, broaches, pins, badges, that kind of thing.” She waves her hand carelessly, but I'm just even more impressed.
”That's amazing,” I say. ”So you're like a total one-woman show.”
For the first time, she smiles. ”Not anymore, I guess. I'll be handing off some of those duties to you. Pay will be minimum wage, and I expect to only give you two days off a week. Also, you must work weekends and all holidays.”