Page 1 of Positively Inked
It hasn’t been easy.
Restarting your entire life never is, but at least this time I am doing what I want to do. How many artists can say they own their own tattoo studio before they’re thirty? I guess I have Jason to thank for that, which aside from one good memory is all I have to thank him for. After he broke my heart into tiny pieces, I had taken my life’s savings and everything I owned and left for the big city where I could start fresh.
It had taken a month to get the studio looking the way I wanted it to. I was there every day with the construction company, making sure they took my vision and made it a reality, and they had done such an amazing job. It was stunning.
There were four booths on the right wall for four artists and three booths on the left wall. The reception area was dead center with couches in the front by the large windows for clients to sit on. Instead of a fourth booth on the left hand side, there was a back room for supplies and a small kitchen for coffee and tea. It was a nice, sleek modern design with black tiled floors and walls and black curtains to close the booths off with.
My artists were going to love it, as soon as I found them.
That was the next tough task I had in front of me because with everything that had happened, I hadn’t had time to interview artists and the studio opened in less than two weeks. So I put an ad in the paper and on the Internet, and set three days aside to interview potential artists for the Grand Opening.
I’m hoping this isn’t going to turn into a complete waste of time, because I have already been inundated with almost a hundred messages with stupid questions about the positions that are open, questions I could answer during the interviews. People are desperate for work, I know that, but there is a level of professionalism to be maintained here.
On the first day of the interviews I get up early. I have never been known to be an early riser, to be honest, but my nerves won’t let me sleep late. I have never hosted interviews before today, and although I have done a lot of research about what to ask and what to look for, I’m still scared I’m going to make the wrong choice. Miko, my cat, is sitting patiently by the coffee machine as I turn it on, waiting for me to fill his food bowl. I stroke his head softly and he gives me a sad little meow to hurry me along. I chuckle as I fill his bowl and set it on the floor for him to hop to. I decide I had better eat breakfast, another thing I’m not known to do, but then, since Jason, I have changed a lot.
I fry up some eggs and bacon and pour myself a strong cup of coffee to sip while I wait for the food to be done. The smell of the food has piqued Miko’s interest and he is now weaving between my legs, meowing happily as he plays the role of dutiful kitty in order to score some bacon. He knows I’ll give him some; I’m a sucker.
Making some toast for good measure, I load my plate with the food, drop a piece of bacon in Miko’s bowl, and head over to the little kitchen table in my apartment that seats three. It’s against a window so the sun warms me while I dig into my breakfast. I’m surprised to find that I’m hungry despite my nerves, and I wolf down my breakfast, happily chasing it with my coffee. When I’m done I get a slice of bread to mop up the left over egg yolk and bacon grease. Stuffed, I sit back and enjoy the content feeling of my full belly. The light catches a tattoo on my arm and I smile.
The tattoo in question was for Brady, my high school sweetheart. After we broke up, it was the first tattoo I got. It’s a replica of my prom dress, the happiest memory I have of us being together. It’s there to remind me that even though it didn’t end well for us, we had a good memory and that was important. I touch it lightly, it needs to be touched up as the colour has faded a bit over the years but I’ll get to that later. Right now I have bigger fish to fry.
I take my dishes to the kitchen and load the dishwasher, turning it on before I go shower and get dressed to leave for the day. I pack my laptop up to take along because I want to spend time working on the website and social media account in between the interviews I am doing today. I want to have a large Internet presence to attract clients to our Grand Opening. I pick up my messenger bag and swing it over my shoulder, heading towards the door. I call out a goodbye to Miko before I shut the door behind me and start down the corridor.
“Good morning dear,” my neighbour, Mrs De Villiers, says as I pass her on my way out.
“Hi Mrs D,” I say with a big smile, “How are your hips today?”
“Still creaking but still moving,” she responds with a warm smile. “Now you pop past on your way home and get some cookies; I’m making a fresh batch today of your favourite short bread ones.”
“You’re too kind, Mrs D. Thanks, I will,” I wave to her as I carry on walking. I have been here for a month and she is my only friend. She seems to treat me like the grandchild she wishes she had in her life. From what I’ve picked up, she does have them but they never visit. I’m happy to fill in; she’s such a sweet old lady that doesn’t expect anything. I try and visit at least once a week or help her with her shopping so she at least knows someone is there for her.
I take the stairs down to the bottom floor of our apartment building; it isn’t a huge building and there is a store on the bottom level that I pass to get out. It’s a small supermarket that carries the bare essentials run by a really funny Egyptian man called Abdi. I pause to grab something for lunch, in case I don’t have a chance to steal away, and while I’m paying him he tells me another lame joke he heard on the radio.
“Hey Lyra,” he says as he rings me up, “A fortune teller asked if I wanted my palm read and I said, ‘No, I like the colour it is now.’” He chuckled at his own joke which in turn made me giggle. It was a nice neighbourhood and Abdi is a good landlord who didn’t crook us.
On the street however, I knew no one, and although this particular neighbourhood was a close community, I hadn’t taken the time to get to know anyone further than my neighbour and my landlord. Still, people greeted as I walked past and I greeted them back. I passed the second hand bookstore that I always promised myself I would check out because I loved to read but never had the time to stop. Although, with the opening of the studio I’d need some new books to read in between clients so maybe I’d stop there before then at least.
I catch the bus to the downtown area and on the sixth stop I hop off to see a sight I am not quite prepared for. There is a queue running down the block from my studio to the corner and around, and the first thing I think is that I’m grateful I got my lunch, because I’m not going anywhere. The second thought is that I’m not going to get a chance to work on my website and social media page and finally, when my brain has caught up with what my eyes are seeing, I start to get nervous and think about how the hell I’m going to do this.
I smile at the people who are closest to the door, “Hi everyone,” I say loudly, hoping most of the people will hear me or at least pass on the message. “I’m just going to get set up quickly and then will call you in one at a time for an interview. We’ll try to do as many people as we can today; if you aren’t called today you can come back tomorrow or Wednesday.”
While I unlocked the doors I heard the message being passed down the line and a few people left, no doubt wanting to come back the next day for a better chance. Others remained where they were. The line shuffled around a bit and I walk into the studio, closing the door behind me. I walk to the waiting area on the right and pull a chair to the sofa and move the coffee table between the two of them. I set my laptop down behind reception and take out a notepad and pencil, setting those in the waiting area.
I go to the door and ask the first man to come in. I lead him over to the waiting area and ask him to take a seat. He hasn’t got a copy of his CV with him, which is disappointing, but I go through the interview anyway. I ask about where he has worked, who he has worked with, what his specialty is, what he hopes to gain from working here. All the questions I had outlined when I had researched about the interviews. His answers are boring and he seems very arrogant and disinterested in what I have to say. It’s not over fast enough.
I ask him to call the next person in on his way out, promising to let him know how it goes if he drops his CV off the next day. He doesn’t look too impressed with me, but I could care less. This is my studio and I need to find the perfect fits for it. I just didn’t prepare for so many people who wouldn’t fit. The next thirteen people are not what I’m looking for at all. They have nothing that makes them stand out. Some are too shy, while others are too arrogant. Some brag about who they have done work for while others simply expect me to know their names and who they are, not bothering with CV’s at all. I note these ones because I know if I do get their CV’s, I’m letting them know immediately it won’t work.
I ask the last person to tell the next person I’m just getting some coffee and will call them when I am ready. I take a deep breath and sigh. Fourteen candidates so far and not one of them do anything for me; I am hoping that I’m not going to have to delay the opening, or worse, hire one of the candidates that I’ve seen so far. I go to make a cup of coffee in the back room and come back, setting it down in front of me. I go to the door, peek outside, and raise an eyebrow at what I see; I ask the young girl to come in.
I say young, but she is probably around my age. She is dressed in vibrant green and black, and I immediately recognize the style as Cyber Goth. She has long black dreads with bright green in between and her make-up matches her outfit down to her metallic green lipstick. She has a black and green crop top on, with belts looping around her body, but from what I can see with the skin that is exposed, she is covered in pinup tattoos. Everything about her instantly intrigues me and I say a secret prayer that she isn’t a tool.
We sit down and I cross my legs. “I’m Lyra,” I introduce myself. “What’s your name?”
“Hi Lyra, I’m Lacy, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” she smiles and extends a hand out with her CV. I take it from her.
“Just give me a moment to go through it please.”
“No rush,” Lacy says and settles back; she fidgets slightly so I can tell she is nervous about this interview. Good, sometimes a healthy dose of fear is good for a person, especially if it doesn’t stop you from doing the thing you fear anyway. I go through her CV and I nod to myself, making notes in the side.