The Parlor

             I’ve always loved being a tattoo artist. It’s the kind of job where you get to see into the minds of other people and express their thoughts through your art. You meet all kinds of interesting folks with interesting stories. This one wanted some Bible verse that got them through some hard times, that one wanted the logo of their favorite band from high school, the other just wanted another eagle because they REALLY loved America. The thoughts and desires of every person were unique and being able to make those thoughts come to life gives me some kind of purpose, I guess. But the most interesting client I’ve ever had was Mr. White.

             Mr. White wasn’t his real name, or at least it wasn’t as far as I knew. He never told me his real name; was always more of a silent fellow. The first time he came into the parlor, I thought we were gonna get robbed. This man was built like a tank; easily 6’ 3” and bulging head to toe with muscles, giving him the tattoos on his arm was like engraving a stone tablet, or some huge oak tree. He had shaggy grey hair down to his shoulders and a big white beard, not long and scraggly but thick and well kept, where his nickname came from.  He wore a big, black leather jacket and always rode up on the strangest motorcycle; a big Harley that made seemed to purr or hum rather than roar. He always carried a black leather bag as well, but he never opened it while in the shop. Now I’ve had to deal with some rough and nasty customers before, but the piercing eyes and melancholy look this guy had said “You do NOT want to fuck with me.”

             The odd look about Mr. White was matched only by his tattoo requests. Every few weeks or so he would come into the parlor and get the same exact tattoo; a single tally mark on his right arm adding to the growing number of marks. He never said what they were for. In fact, he never even said more than the “I need another one please” and a gruff “thanks” afterwards. At least he was polite. The tally marks were never anything special or expensive, just a black line that took all of ten minutes to do. He had come in 23 times and every single time gotten the same little mark. Of course, I told my friends and colleagues about this guy and everyone had their own theories abut what the marks were for.

             “He’s a hitman who marks himself for every time he’s killed.”

             “He’s a spy and each mark is secret code to the other spies.”

             “He’s a huge Doctor Who fan and needs to know when he’s seen the Silence.”

Every theory and story was crazier than the last. Personally, I didn’t really care what they were for; he was always polite and always paid, so it didn’t really matter to me. Not until that day in December anyway.

             It was just a normal Saturday afternoon, maybe a little on the slow side. I had just finished giving some teen girl a little butterfly that she had been wanting to “show Mom I’m not a little girl.” I was alone in the shop counting the register to pass the time when Mr. White came in. I was a little surprised to see him, since I didn’t hear his bike’s usual distinct noise. He was also dressed a bit out of character; he still had on his signature jacket but was wearing what appeared to be red sweatpants with white trim over some very glossy black boots. He had on a pair of glasses I had never seen either and I think the lenses may even have been fake. Just as usual he came up and said, “I need another tally mark please.” I led him over to the chair where he took off his jacket, revealing plain white wife-beater underneath. I got my equipment all set up and started to go.

             Halfway through making the line, Mr. White’s phone started going off. He raised his left hand to tell me to hold up while he took the call. For the first time ever, I heard him say more than just his tattoo order. “Hello? Yes. Is that so?” (He let out a big sigh here.) “Well I’m sorry to hear that. Give my condolences to Mr. and Mrs. Peters. Yes. Yes. Alright. Goodbye.” After he hung up, he put his phone away and, in another first, opened his bag. I didn’t mean to be nosy but being as close as I was it was impossible not to see into the bag. It was only open for a brief moment, so all I really saw was a quick flash of some colorful cloth before the bag was closed. Mr. White had pulled out a small notebook and pen and, in his lap, flipped open to a page. All down this page were names: Billy, Susy, Cathy, Ben; all written very neatly down the left margin. Covering the rest of the page were a bunch of little stickers, like what kids would play with, of all different shapes and sizes.

             As silent as ever, Mr. White took his pen and flipped to the end of this list of names. Right after the name Connor he wrote in another one; Amanda. He then turned to me looking more weary and solemn than ever and said “Hey chief, today you better make it t..two..” He never finished that sentence. Instead, he started crying, and not just some little sniffles, but a full out stream of tears. He put his hands to his face, pushed the glasses up, and continued to sob into his hands. He was crying so hard he didn’t even seem to realize the book drop from his hand. I picked it up looked over the cover. Embossed in gold letters it read “St. Foillan’s Children’s Hospital: Nurses’ Logbook.” I looked up at this poor man, still weeping in my chair, and felt the deepest pain I ever have for another person. I gently put my hand on his shoulder and let him finish.

             After about 10 minutes and some deep breathes, Mr. White turned back to me and said “Sorry you had to see that. Let’s finish these two up then, shall we?” I handed him back his log and started my work again. After I had finished, he got up and started making his way to the register, pulling out his wallet as he went. I got to the register and said, “No charge sir.” He looked at me inquisitively through blood shot eyes, so I said it again. “No charge sir. Connor and Amanda’s will be donated back to the hospital.” He stared for a moment or two, then gave a weary smile and said, “Thank you.” He put his wallet away and made his way to the door. Just as he left, I called out “Sir, I hope you never have to ask for another tally mark.” He paused for a moment and without looking back, responded “So do I.”