Читать книгу Meatspace - Nikesh Shukla, Nikesh Shukla - Страница 14

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Should I banter with my tattoo artist? – Google Girls tattoos nude – Google

When it’s my turn, I stand up and walk over to the chair on autopilot, as if this whole lark isn’t my decision anymore. Sitting in the chair, I feel like I’m halfway between barbershop and dentist’s office. So, somewhere between tensed up and relaxed down. Sick Charlie asks to see the design again so I show him the printout. I found a font online I like, it’s called Bell Gothic, and typed up ‘Everyday I write the book’ in it, printed it out, and now that’s in Sick Charlie’s hands. He inspects it. I’m not sure I like this guy. He does not give 2 shits about me. I wonder what he’s thinking. He’s seen a lot of tattoos in his time. He has an opinion on each one, hot or not. Will he put extra special effort into the ones he likes and just emptily, by the numbers, do the ones he thinks are so-so, okay, and pretty shit? Does he just rush through the really bad ones?

‘What do you think?’

‘Yeah, man. All good.’

‘Do you get it?’ I say. Everyday, I write the book, I think to myself. It’s a political statement. I could pitch this to the Independent or the Guardian. ‘In a world of digital interactions, endless tweets, Facebook haikus, ebooks, I’m taking a stand for the analogue world. I’m feeling the writing on my arm, my writing arm and that’s how I will write, with the knowledge that I have etched out my statement of intent on my own skin. What’s more meatspace than having something tattooed on the meat of you? Everyday, I write the book. It’s there for ever, it’s permanent. You can’t throw it away. You can’t dispose of it. You can’t delete it. You can’t cache it. It exists. When every word typed on Google is recorded on a server somewhere, this is the most important statement of them all, the physical manifestation.’ I take a breath. ‘Plus my dead mum was a really big fan.’

I stop talking and Charlie stares at me.

‘Right, okay.’

He returns to ghosting out the tattoo on my forearm in marker pen. He’s doing a great job of copying what’s on the paper. I chose the font because it looks futuristic, like some signage from Tron.

‘So,’ I ask. ‘Seriously, what do you think?’

Sick Charlie looks up at me and grimaces. ‘Look, do you want this or not? Because we’re about to be at the point where it’s too late.’

He looks at the clock. It’s nearly office closing time. Maybe he has a hot date tonight.

‘Hot date?’ I ask.

‘You don’t even know the half of it,’ he says, not looking up from the copy job he is mimicking on my forearm.

Great, I think. I’m a rush job before he goes to get his end away. He doesn’t care about this tattoo, whether its kerning looks good or whether its execution is considered and thought out. I’m in the punter zone. I am to shut up and be inked. I look around the room. Aziz is nowhere to be seen.

‘Did you see where my brother went?’ I ask Sick Charlie.

‘What?’ He just looks at me and shakes his head.

Then I see Aziz at the door. He’s outside, looking for a light for a cigarette. A girl walks past and he mimes to me that he’s going to get a light off her. He winks as if the light is just starters for what he has in mind. He throws me a thumbs up and disappears.

‘Ready?’ Sick Charlie says to me. He holds up his machine and suddenly it occurs to me – I can’t do needles. They freak me out. They make me pass out. They make me sweat. They make my skin slick with worry and anxiety. How did I not remember that needles were part of this whole thing? What was I thinking? I’m an idiot. I turn to the other side of the room and nod furiously, tensing my arms. Sick Charlie pats the area he’s working on, strokes it and pulls at it. Which might be comforting but he’s wearing rubber gloves. So the whole thing feels like a medical procedure. And the drill-drill buzz of the machine is whirring away, banging and banging and I can feel it, without looking at it, approach my skin. I can feel it hone in on the spot it’s to attack and reconfigure for ever. I can feel it approach me quickly. Heat all up and down my arm. I can hear it pound and pound in its grooves and then connection – impulse, pow. It scratches furiously from side to side and I hazard a look. I take a peek, just a quick peek. I see it happening, all in reddening, dampening close-up. So I close my eyes. This only focuses the scratching. I open my eyes and I see the apex of Sick Charlie’s head as he squints and bends over my arm, working away. I’m nearly straddling him. I try to make my arm as loose and goose-like as I can. But all I can feel is the scratch-scratch-pinch of the gun and it’s hard to concentrate.

Do we talk? I’m not sure of the etiquette. My dentist is monologue-happy, meaning he’ll natter away with his fingers in my face. My barber, the sexy Swedish girl or her colleague, who is very tactile with the backs of other customers’ necks, they can’t shut up with their other clients, but me, I don’t know what it is. As soon as I get in the chair, they clam up. They ask me a few awkward questions about how my week has been and I answer them amiably and ask about their weeks and they monosyllable me. Why don’t they want to talk to me? Maybe they can sense that I just want them to ask me what I do for a living, so I can say ‘Oh, I’m an author’ coyly and await their being impressed. Because that’s part of the whole doing something creatively full-time and semi-successfully, you get to tell people that’s what you do, and never qualify it with ‘Oh, and I have a day job at the council, reconciling council tax receipts’. Nope, you’re the creative thing and that’s all. Barbers don’t seem to care about that. God, it vexes me. I just want to show off. Why won’t they let me show off?

I look down at my arm. He’s not even finished the first ‘E’. We’re in it for the long haul.

There’s not much you can do to inspire banter in a tattoo artist’s chair, because you don’t want to break their concentration. Eventually, the scratching becomes an uncomfortable irritant, rather than a painful blat-blat of needles. The thumping indie’s more irritating than the irritating scratching on my arm. It’s jolly. It’s up-tempo. They sound young and happy. What the hell am I doing? Who gets their first tattoo at age 30? A guy who thinks he’s younger than he is. That’s who. It’s okay for Aziz because it’s just the sort of behaviour you’d expect from him. But squeaky ol’ me? Nope. I barely stay up past 2 a.m. I’ve never done drugs except for the odd doobie toke that didn’t take. I worry that this is a slip towards something more serious. I’ll end up trying crystal meth. I’ll buy skinny jeans. I’ll start taking my fashionable self seriously, ditching my uniform of jeans and t-shirt for something more transient, like espadrilles. This is all wrong and it’s too late. Because if I back out now, I’ve got the start etching of an unfinished tattoo and if there is one thing I’m consistent at, it’s seeing shit through to the bitter end, even if I’ve decided it’s a stupid idea since. What a complete tool. The scratching on the arm is constant until he has to move to a new area, which hurts because these new parts of skin have to get used to the procedure that’s taking place. He never looks up at me. It seems like he’s rushing. Is he rushing? I don’t think he’s rushing. Probably. How do you know? What is an appropriate amount of time to spend on a lowercase ‘v’?

When Sick Charlie finishes, he gives me some saline solution to use to keep the tattoo clean. He wraps it in cling film and says to me, ‘Leave that on overnight, while the skin is still inflamed.’

‘Okay, thanks, man. Good job, etc,’ I mumble, trying not to focus on the irritated burn on my arm.

‘Does it hurt?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’ll pass. You slept through the worst of it.’

‘This isn’t the worst of it?’

‘I could have done anything while you were asleep.’

I can see the letters exactly as I printed them out and I think, yes. Okay, that’s dope. I like that a lot. I think I look amazing. I shake his hand, rather limply, because my newly tattooed arm is attached to the hand that shakes. And I say my goodbyes, struggle with getting my coat on, which is a shame because I’m hypnotised by the ink. All I want to do is look at it and get drunk. I open the door and I feel it coming. This is it now. My life is about to change. Oh yes. Tomorrow I will show strangers and loved ones and I will say, oh yes, it’s because I write. It’s an aide memoire to always be thinking about literature. It’s a kick in the teeth reminder that I am a writer. And it’s a good tune, I will say. People will inevitably ask, do you like that song by Elvis Costello and I will say it’s one of my favourites. It’s not. I like it. But it’s not one of my favourites. Depending who they are, I’ll say it was my mum’s favourite.

I leave the tattoo studio and phone Aziz. It goes straight to voicemail. The same stupid message he’s had since we were kids. I leave him a breathless message saying how amazing my arm looks. I feel bloody alive, I think to myself. I was sceptical at first but now it’s here and it’s done and it’s indelible, I feel like a fucking rock star, and I’m already a writer. What more could I want? This is definitely going to make my life change, I think to myself. There’s no way it cannot.