The Tattoo Shop - Part 1

“Hey, I’d like a tattoo of my girlfriend’s name. You guys do that, right?”

The man sitting behind the counter looked up from his phone with a chuckle. “Yeah, we do that. What’s your girlfriend’s name,” he asked, although the way Mason heard the word “girlfriend” made it seem like the man wasn’t particularly happy with the request.

“Jenny,” Mason replied, slapping several bills on the table. The man blinked but then snatched them up.

“Alright big man, come on back,” the man said. Money seemed to have gotten rid of his attitude, but not his nonchalant demeanor. That was fine. Mason didn’t expect a tattoo parlor in this part of town to be a bustling hub of enterprise.

Mason followed the lanky tattoo-shop owner, himself covered in the marks of his trade, and then had a seat on a dingy chair that looked like it belonged in a dentist’s office from the late ‘50s.

“Where do you want it?”

“On the shoulder--right one,” Mason said.

“Well, take off your shirt then.”

“Um, can’t I just roll up my sleeve?”

The man looked down at Mason with a look that said he’d given the same explanation a thousand times before. “Hey man, if you want your tattoo fucked up because your sleeve comes down, that’s up to you.”

Mason grumbled, then removed his shirt. He wasn’t particularly well built--the word “average” seemed to define him quite well--but he still felt self-conscious about the small amount of pudge that surrounded his middle.

“So, um, is this going to hurt?”

This time the man didn’t even bother looking at Mason as he held up the tattoo machine. “This thing will prick your skin between 50 and 1000 times per minute. Do you think that’ll hurt?”

Mason gulped, and at that the man struck him on the arm in a good-natured punch.

“I’m kidding with you bub--you’ll be fine. There might be a little blood, if you want me to do something fancy, but just a name? Probably be done before you even feel it,” he said.

“Alright,” Mason responded, although he wasn’t entirely convinced.

The man began to swab the area just below Mason’s shoulder with alcohol and then dabbed it away, leaving his skin feeling cool. Then, the man brought up the machine and a loud buzzing sound signaled the beginning of his work.

As Mason sat in silence (it wasn’t as though he wanted to carry a conversation--and besides, the buzzing of the machine was too loud anyway), he gritted his teeth in discomfort. It wasn’t exactly painful, but neither was it pleasant. To take his mind off things he began to daydream, and for some reason he began to imagine himself eating a cheeseburger. It was a pleasant distraction, but also somewhat bizarre--Mason wasn’t exactly given to imagining food.

“Done,” the man announced, and as he wiped the area clean Mason looked down to see his work, and almost immediately bolted out of the chair.

“What the fuck is this? Her name is JENNY! Not James!”

The tattoo artist held up his hands to try and mollify his enraged customer. “Woah, woah, sorry buddy, I must’ve misheard. Don’t worry, I can fix it.”

“Fix it? How the fuck do you fix this?” Mason yelled.

“It’s easy man, you just add some new shapes to the M and suddenly it’s two Ns. Relax man, just sit back down and I’ll have you fixed right up.”

Mason felt what he should do is demand his money back and leave, but this wasn’t like a faulty Xbox--this was a tattoo. Either he has this guy fix it for free or he has to pay someone else. Begrudgingly, he sat back down in a huff while the man got to work fixing his mistake.

As Mason stewed he felt his thoughts running mostly toward how stupid this idea was to begin with. James never liked the idea of a tattoo, but Mason had always felt it was such a romantic thing to do, to have your love for someone permanently etched into your body. He didn’t care so much about the long-term pitfalls of such a thing--he just wanted one.

His stomach growled and Mason realized he was also strangely hungry. Maybe he’d get a snack on the way home.

“Alright, all fixed,” the tattoo artist announced.

Mason looked down and once again felt a surge of rage. Rather than the flowery heart below the name “James”, there was what looked like a cartoon pig’s face staring back at him. “Um, it’s not exactly what I was thinking of,” Mason said with obvious reservation.

This time the tattoo artist put his hands on his hips and looked at Mason like he was just being difficult. Suddenly timid, Mason blurted “but it looks nice, really.”

“You don’t like it,” the artist said flatly.

“No, really, it’s nice. But it’s not exactly what I had in mind,” Mason admitted.

“Well, what did you have in mind?”

“Well,” Mason thought for a moment, “how about like a big fuckin’ hamburger?” The words came out without him even thinking about it. Actually he was kinda hungry still…

The tattoo guy chuckled. “Sure, big guy, coming right up.”

Big guy? Mason thought as the buzz of the tattoo machine started up again. Well, maybe he had put on a little weight. Come to think of it, his pants were starting to feel a little tight. Might need to get a new pair relatively soon.

As the tattoo gun did its work Mason’s body began to inflate. First a few pounds, then more, until the formerly “average” man crossed the fine line between average and pudgy. His arms swelled up until all definition was lost, his flat belly softened and began to pooch over the waistband of his jeans, themselves looking far less loose-fitting than when he’d walked into the tattoo parlor some time ago.

Mason sat there in the chair oblivious, only wondering what he’d pick up on his way home for dinner.