Transcendence

My three o'clock appointment. I sit down on the stool by my client, snapping on a pair of vinyl gloves. We don't use latex anymore - too many allergies. I ask the shirtless man before me how he's doing, but all I get is a grunt as he stretches himself out on the bench. We joke in the shop that the untalkative customers might as well be corpses. The tattoo, which spans the entirety of his back, is merely an outline at this stage. Shockingly black against his skin, it represents three hours of my hard work. But it never feels like three hours. I tell him I'm glad to see he's been caring for it properly. Many people don't, and the tattoo gets infected. When all I get is a nod, it makes me wonder if he's shy or just rude. I pick up the silver box and piping machine that is my tattoo "gun" (only scratchers - bad tattoo artists - call them "guns" though). I pop the barrel out of the tattoo machine, slide a new needle through the silver cylinder and then clip the whole mechanism back into place. I tap my toe on the foot pedal just to test it, and the needle hums a familiar tune. Flipping the long power cable over my shoulder, out of the way, I ask the client if he's ready. He shrugs, which I take as a yes. I wipe down his back with rubbing alcohol on a clean cloth, then settle myself more comfortably. Lowering the needle to his shoulder, I gently press my toe down again.
   Tak tak tak
The machine shivers
                          across a smooth canvas of flesh,
black ink mixing with red
                and pooling in the contours of his back.
Hand is steady,
                         marking him for the rest of his life,
moving back and forth
                        with gentle arcs over his shoulders
then his spine.
                 Adding depth to the faces, expressions.
His back is warm
                      shivering at the touch of the needle.
Needles in my eyes,
                from staring too long, hunched over him.
Slight pang of guilt;
                                 cadaver at my mercy winces
foot presses too hard on the pedal.
                                         Machine purrs, pleased
by the attention
                               and digs a claw into his spine.
Before long, hand cramps.
                       Swipe away sweat on forehead and
wipe canvas clean again.
                                    Arch spine to hear a crack
before continuing, kicking it into third.
                                        Soon the needle curves
across the bottom of his ribs,
                            and I decide to stop for the day.
It's jarring not to have the hypnotic buzzing of the needle in my ears. Everything suddenly seems a bit too real. I gingerly sit back, setting my machine aside. I exhale for what seems to be the first time in four hours, and cast a critical eye over my work. Not bad. I use a clean cloth to gently wipe away the blood and ink that has collected on his back. He sits up when I am finished, face pale. He does not speak, and at this point I don't expect it. Canvas is silent.