Page 1 of Deadly North
1
GIGI
“Uh, I’m sorry, but um…” I peer at the rough sketch in front of me, trying desperately to remain professional. “Is this a drawing of Mickey and Minnie…”
He grins. “Banging it out, doggie style. Yeah.”
The man, who’s wearing a leather vest over a dingy used-to-be-white muscle tank, grabs the strap of his shirt and pulls it down, revealing a blank area of skin on his massive right pectoral. “I want it to go right there,” he says, nodding toward the spot. “Can you do it?”
Can I do it? Sure, of course I can. And I’m not even really sure why this particular tattoo idea is fazing me at all. God knows I’ve seen pretty much every kind of tattoo in my time as a mobile tattoo artist. I’ve taken The Body Bus — the mobile studio that I run out of a converted Ford C2 Transit bus — to dozens of biker rallies like this one over the past few years. I’ve seen some of the craziest ink you could ever imagine. At this point in the game, it’s pretty damn hard to surprise me.
But I have to admit, I’ve never been asked to tattoo anything quite like this pornographic image of Mickey and Minnie. The former of whom is… ahem…massivelywell-endowed.
It’s a little intimidating, to be honest.
“Minnie seems to be enjoying herself,” I murmur, stalling for time.
“She sure did.”
“She, um,did?” I blurt. Is he saying he has actually had sex with Minnie Mouse? Do I have a certified nutcase on my hands?
The man snickers. He’s impressively muscular for an older guy. He has to be at least in his mid-sixties. His long hair and beard are completely gray, as is the tuft of hair poking out from under his shirt. “Yeah. My Minnie, that is.” He points to the female mouse in the picture. “My wife. My name’s Mick, and hers was Mary. So, somewhere along the line, she got nicknamed Minnie, ‘cause of Mickey and Minnie, and the name just stuck.” He points to the ink on his left bicep, which I hadn’t noticed sports a name in cursive.Minnie. “See?”
“That’s romantic,” I say, trying to sound enthusiastic. “So, uh, your wife approved this tat, then?”
The man’s grin fades. “Nah. She died last year. Cancer.”
Ugh. Open mouth, insert foot.“Oh, wow. I’m so sorry.”
“Thanks. She was a feisty one. We fought like cats and dogs sometimes, but we could always resolve things by bangin’ it out. She was my wing-babe.” He lifts a hand and waves it around. “She came to these biker rallies with me for over twenty-five years. I been to Sturgis with her twelve times. Miss her.” Mick’s voice grows a little hoarse. He clears his throat, and points at the sketch again. “She’d laugh her ass off about this,” he says with a chuckle, but the tinge of grief in his tone is unmistakable. “So you can do it?”
Wow. Now that I hear his whole story, I have to push away my doubts. That actuallyisreally romantic. And sad. “Sure, of course I can. I’d be happy to,” I say kindly. “Have a seat, and I’ll go inside and make the stencil. Sit tight.”
Mick sits down in the adjustable chair under the awning extending from my bus. I use this set-up outside specifically for festivals and rallies, so people can see me work. It’s good advertising. I get a lot of follow-up business from people who stop to chat and leave with one of my cards. Inside, the bus, I sit down at my table to draw. I can hear Mick shouting hello to people and shooting the shit with passers-by as I work.
When I’m satisfied with the stencil, I feed it into the thermal imager, then go back outside to show it to him. I prep him and transfer the image onto his skin. When everything’s ready, I hit the volume on my stereo system, and Shinedown’s “State of My Head” starts blasting into the speakers. Then I sink into the work.
There’s a lot I love about being a tattoo artist, especially one with my own independent shop. I love the freedom and independence. I love the creativity. I don’t even mind the chit-chat with customers who want to talk the whole time. But maybe my favorite thing is when it’s just me and the canvas of someone’s blank skin. When I can get into the zone — aided by my favorite music — it’s almost spiritual to me. I love creating the most beautiful image possible — a work of art that will live on and be appreciated for the rest of the wearer’s life.
Even when that work of art is Mickey giving Minnie the business from behind.
Mick, unsurprisingly, is the chatty type of customer. As I work, he tells me more stories about Minnie. I find out they were never able to have kids, though they both wanted them. She had a huge craft room in their house, which is still there more or less untouched because he hasn’t had the heart to get rid of anything in it. Her favorite food was fried chicken. And she loved Disneyland, which I guess is appropriate. I get a sudden image of Mick walking around The Happiest Place On Earth with his new pornographic tattoo, and it makes me suppress a snort-laugh.
Mick is rough around the edges, for sure, but this guy really loved his wife. It’s a real shame she died, but at least she had something good with this man while she was alive.
“What about you, Red?” he asks me, gesturing at my flame-red, spiky dye job. He smirks like he’s the first one to ever think up that nickname for me. “What’s the story with you? You partnered up with a guy?” He pauses, catching himself. “Or a gal?”
I suppress another snort. “Nah, I’m too independent for relationships,” I say, taking a moment to stretch my muscles. “I don’t need a guy weighing me down.”
“You play the field, eh?”
“Something like that.” I don’t add that in my case,the fieldhas been pretty much a barren desert for quite a while now. “I’m just not really interested in being what most guys want in a woman long-term. I’m not traditional enough, and I don’t know when to shut up. I’m messy, and I don’t know how to cook. I’m not exactly the Suzy Homemaker type.”
“Hell, neither was Minnie. She couldn’t cook worth a goddamn, and her idea of foldin’ a fitted sheet was balling it up and tossing it in the linen closet. That’s not what I was lookin’ for in a woman, though.”
“Well, then you’re a rare one, Mick. She was lucky to have you.”
Mick blows a raspberry. “Shit, the right man’s out there for you, Red. Don’t give up on love just ‘cause you’re not everyone’s cuppa tea. The best women aren’t for everyone, anyway.”