needles & pins

the meet cute

deftones — needles and pins

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I took a deep breath, anxiously tapping my fingers to the drilling beat coming from my headphones.

My first day as a professional tattoo artist. Two tedious years of being a minimum wage apprentice – or in other words, a total doormat – had been leading up to this very moment.

I studied the street from the large tinted windows of my new studio: it was busy as ever in downtown Albuquerque.

The faint hum of voices kept me entertained, though time was ticking by and my first client was nearly an hour late already.

They'd walk through that glass door any moment now.

Any... Moment... Now.

The door brutishly swings open, as if on cue.

"Yo, I'm here for my tat."

A scruffy-looking guy with disheveled brown hair and tired eyes slumped into the chair before me.

The room was immediately polluted with a strange chemical aroma mixed with stale cigarette smoke.

"Jesse, right?" I slipped my headphones from my neck, "you know you're forty minutes late?"

He frowned slightly and looked down at his wrist, as if expecting a watch to be there.

"Sorry, uh, my boss is a total asshole and wouldn't let me leave work on time." Jesse explained with an apologetic half-smile and shrug of the shoulders.

His voice had a sense of familiarity, though I couldn't quite pinpoint it.

"It's okay. You're my first customer... like, ever, actually. So I guess I'll let you off the hook."

He leaned forward, clasping his hands together with a magnetic glimmer in his eyes.

"Right on. You'd better not fuck it up then."

I smiled and gestured for him to lay on the fold out chair, kicking the pedal. The satisfying whir of my new tattoo machine filled the gaps of the otherwise silent atmosphere.

As the needle began piercing through his pale skin, I noticed an array of track marks and small green bruises dotted around his veins. I never liked to jump to conclusions. Maybe he'd recently been to hospital and had a catheter... or something.

It did concern me though, as a recovering addict myself – and judging from his whole exterior, narcotics were a definite possibility.

He reminded me of the people who once pushed me into the darkest stage of my life. It was a weird sense of nostalgia.

I was snapped from my train of thought when I felt a cold hand tap my shoulder.

"All good?"

His eyes darted away for a split second before once again meeting mine.

"Yeah, yeah," he hummed, "I just really recognise you from somewhere. It's weird, man."

I swallowed, a lump forming in my throat. It finally clicked. Jesse and his friends had sold to me a couple of times in the past.

"Really? I'm pretty sure we haven't met."

He quirked an eyebrow.

"Maybe it's deja-vu or something."

"Yeah. Probably."

I don't know why I felt the need to lie. Why would he judge me? He's the one who sold to me. Still, I wanted to detach from my past self and avoid an uncomfortable conversation about rehab.

I gently wiped down the fresh ink and felt his arm twitch. His skin was bleeding slightly, which probably meant he had a considerable amount of alcohol in his system.

"You're all done," I mumbled and walked straight to the cash register.

He hopped up and held his arm up close to his face, eyes wide, similar to the likes of an excitable puppy.

"Fuck yeah. Tribal scorpion, bitch."

"That'll be seventy dollars. Cash or card?"

Jesse's smile faltered at the blunt tone in my voice. I felt a sharp pang of guilt for being a buzzkill.

"Uh, cash."

He patted his pockets and fumbled around, his eyebrows furrowing. He was kind of cute, honestly. His scattered, chaotic energy served him well. Endearing.

"Well, this is like, totally awkward," he avoided eye contact and instead focused his gaze on my neckline, "I thought I had cash on me."

Not only had he been drinking before the appointment, but now he'd somehow forgotten his money. What a delightful first client.

"Whatever, there's an ATM just outside. I can wait here for you."

He ran his fingers through his hair and appeared to be thinking for a moment.

"I haven't got my card on me either. Look, I'm really sorry. I swear I'm good for it. What about this instead?"

He pulled out a small baggie full to the brim of a white powdery substance and placed it on the table. His striking eyes slowly moved up to mine as if he were trying to put me under a spell, instantly oozing seduction and charm.

The sight of the drug made my heart race instantly.

This boy was trouble.

I had a moment of hesitation – of weakness – before pushing it back toward him. "No."

"It's Grade A shit, okay? You'd actually be making profit."

"If you're not going to pay me properly, I guess I'll... I'll have to call the cops."

He grabbed the bag and shoved it back into his pocket, inhaling through gritted teeth.

"Hey, hey, you don't want to do that. Can I just owe you?" He seemed a little perplexed that his stunt didn't work. "I'll have the cash by tonight. I'll text you."

I bit my lip and looked down at my chipped nails. I knew from first-hand experience to never trust an addict when it came to money, but I frankly just wanted this interaction to be over with.

"Fine, you've got my number from the booking. Text me. No later than six, though, okay?"

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