The Nereid

 

1. Plug up the power supply.

Don’t listen to their bullshit. It’s going to hurt. When you gather up the courage, or the funding, to catch the 34 by Harvard Square into Allston, don’t listen to them. Shaking their heads and grinning, rubbing their hands over blue-black ink. The tattooed don’t have CIPA disease, but “the tree remembers what the axe forgets”. You walk in that door anyways. Past the glowing pink sign in the window, dulled by sunset’s glow. Blinking: “TATTOO”. There are stickers in the windows around the door. On it, an old-school PUSH sign is tacked-up at eye level. It’s ok if you stumble over your words in the shop, fumble for your ID. Enjoy it, the smell of A&D ointment and smoking metal. And don’t be discouraged when the guy leans in to listen, shaking all his piercings like a tambourine. He just can’t hear you over the speakers.

 

2. Put a nipple on the armature bar pin, or A-bar.

There’s an old school Coke machine in the corner. You should get one, just because. While you sit by the window on a leathery couch, waiting to meet your artist, don’t feel weird staring. There’s no bare skin, and yet it’s everywhere. Butterflies and octopi creep up calves and forearms like opals. Mind the display case full of “Quality Body Jewelry” to the right, behind a row or two of hoodies and t-shirts with the shop logo splashed across it. Typical neo-tradish style. It’s cool if you want to ask the piercer how much she charges for an eyebrow ring, but don’t get cornered actually getting one in all your anxious mumbling. She also can’t hear you over the speakers. You don’t have enough saved for a piercing and a tattoo. Plus, you kind of heard you should tip and you’re still working out if you can, or should. Still gotta catch the T home.

 

3. Connect the tube vise under the A-bar.

When your artist finally emerges from his booth, relax. I know your heart’s pounding and your throat’s closing and your pits feel kinda hot, but take a deep breath. He’s only going to smile. Shake your hand. Ask what you want. Where you want it, is this your first time? The nod doesn’t have to be so sheepish. His booth is to the left, behind a powder blue curtain. It’s got the staples: Horiyoshi III, Mammoth Book of Tattoos, Sailor Jerry flash. Stare at those books to combat hyperventilation. You can even thumb through one, if you want. I’m going to tattoo you ten seconds at a time, and if it’s too much just say something, cool? Speak up. Even their little machines have to scream.

 

4. Get your tube grip and connect it to your tube tip, tighten it well.

Clench your stomach muscles. You’ve got to stop breathing so fast. Just watch him put the thing together, the little machine. How all the pieces are set on that plastic-cloth thing they use at the hospital, gleaming under the lamp light. One day you’ll know the difference between an A-bar and capacitor tubes. For now, though, just admire the way he adjusts the pieces in purple latex gloves. Don’t imagine those six-inch needles in your arm. The shop has ointment, and plastic sheets, but it’s not the doctor’s office. You know it’s only going into the dermis, not the blood. It will bleed though. He’ll probably try some small talk, ask about the symbol, ask about the placement. Feel free to explain yourself, just speak up.

 

5. Drop the needle pointing downwards through the tube.

Don’t explain the symbol itself; he knows what a yin-yang is. It’s pretty common. There’s an entire poster of them by the couch. Pages and pages of flash in flimsy plastic hanging like a giant accordion. It’s everywhere really, flash art and acrylic paintings on canvas, skate decks. Roses, panthers, women, crawling up every wall. There’s a skull on the shelf above him, holding up the books. Do you think it’s real? Don’t ask, just tell him about drawing that little symbol on your wrist since grade school. It’s ok to laugh about getting your ass whupped for drawing on yourself, day in and day out. He’ll probably ask what you think Mommy will do when you get home. Shrug.

 

6. Put the tube up through the tube vise.

When he’s done with the machine, don’t flinch when he turns to reach for your arm. Just hold it out. When he grabs a plastic razor from under the desk, he’ll rub green soap over your wrist and lightly run the razor across it. It’s ok to smile, the green soap smells like the kind in the bathrooms in fifth grade. Every time you drew on yourself, you had to wash it off. Ms. Ford hated you. Ask him why he shaves first, and make sure he can hear you. You need to know that tattooing can push hair back into the skin and cause ingrown hairs, or catch the needle and cause unnecessary pain. Later though.

 

7. Push the needle top over the nipple and tighten the tube vise.

Make sure to stay absolutely still while he sets the stencil. If it goes on wrong, the circle will be permanently warped. The first time, it’ll be a little far left, and you’ll get sweaty trying to figure out if you should say something. You should. Over the speakers. Over the machines. Lucky for you, he’ll spot it, rub it off, try to place it again. Take note of how long it takes him to figure out it’s wrong. This time it’ll be right, so when he asks tell him so. Scream it.

 

8. Connect the wires that look like a Y into the machine.

Take a deep breath. Don’t worry, nobody can hear it over the speakers. His little machine will roar to life. Hold that wrist on the armrest steady. Stare up at the art.

 

9. Push the pedal.

Six years later, your first client will take your chair. So glance up at your art. Tap the pedal. Make the machine scream. Take a deep breath. Don’t worry. Nobody can hear it over the speakers.

 

Briana Almeida