Midnight Muse

The interview for this apprenticeship hasn’t been going well since the moment I walked through the door to Carver’s Ink. I should have turned around as soon as I stepped inside and felt the vibes were off instead of wasting my fucking time. But I need an apprenticeship badly, so I stayed.

I’m officially regretting that decision right now.

The man conducting the interview had forgotten he was even meeting with me today, and I had to wait thirty minutes while he finished with his client before he had free time to speak with me.

He’s lanky and tatted with some of the worst ink I’ve ever seen—is that a clock dripping blood for fuck’s sake? There’s a lion head on his arm and he’s judging me over my art? I bet if he pulled up the sleeves of his flannel any further, he’d be showing a collage of gears forever marked onto his pale skin, too.

He—Chad? Vlad? Something or other, hasn’t listened to a single word I’ve said while I spoke about my time tattooing. That it’s my passion, that I want to make a career out of it. Instead, the guy kicked his sneaker clad feet up onto the edge of the table as he flipped through my portfolio, brushing off the explanations of my work.

I saw the look he gave me when I pulled out my collection of art from my backpack. The way he openly stared at the scars on my hands, running up my forearms. The patches of skin they’d taken from my thighs to cover the gashes ripped open across my palms and up my arms that I’d gotten during the motorcycle accident two years ago. It hadn’t been pretty, still isn’t really, and I fucking hate when people stare.

At this point, I don’t even want to apprentice here anyway, not after all of this, but I’m running out of tattoo parlors to apply to in town. I’m not against riding out to the next city over because I have a reliable source of transportation, but driving all the way out after classes is something I’d rather not have to do.

I set my jaw at his words. I already know it’s going to be bad news so I slip my phone out of my pocket and check the time. Only a few more hours until I’ll be surrounded by a bunch of drunk students with the neighbor I can’t get out of my mind.

I see Quinn more than I’d like. When I’m home, she’s home. When I’m in my room trying to work on my assignments, she’s in her room banging on the wall. When I’m trying to hang out with Ace or Slate, they already have plans with the girls next door.

It’s annoying as fuck.

I’ve had better interviews with the same result. The fact that I keep putting myself through this proves my determination, but I’d be lying if I said that the handful of noes I’ve received isn’t more than a little disheartening. I feel like I’ve come a long way with my tattooing since my accident, when I’d essentially had to relearn how to hold my pencils, charcoal sticks, and my tattoo gun.

All of that pride I’ve built up is slowly deteriorating like an age-old painting.

So, I’m more than ready to pack my things and leave, maybe even swing a fist at the fucker on my way out when he says, “I think you’re very talented with your sketches, but it’s not translating into your tattoos.” He scratches his patchy beard and sucks his teeth but it doesn’t get rid of the cluster of food jammed between them that I’ve been talking to for the past half hour. Yeah, I really don’t want to work here. Not only is this guy an ass, but I’ve seen at least three violations since I walked in.

Imagine if you had to put up with this shit every day.

The man continues because he clearly doesn’t know when to shut up. “Your lines are all jagged, and we can’t have that. I’d be happy to look at your work again next semester when you’ve had more practice.”

No. Fucking. Thanks.

I grind my teeth because there’s nothing else for me to do. How many times have I heard this line before? I know, God help me I fucking know that my lines aren’t the straightest, but I’ve come a long way, and my more recent tattoos aren’t suffering as much because of it.

Why won’t anyone just give me a fucking chance?

“I understand,” I nod tersely, and it takes a lot more effort than I thought to keep my tone neutral.

I’m thankful he can’t see how white-knuckled my fists are under the table.

“What made you want to get into tattooing, anyway?” The man flips my portfolio shut with a harsh snap. The way he asks it makes me feel like I’m about to be told that I should find a backup plan. Based off the way this—and every other interview—has gone, I have one, but this fucker doesn’t need to know that.

“Every tattoo has a story,” I answer simply, because it’s something I believe with my entire heart, and maybe, just maybe, this man can relate to that.

The idiot has the audacity to cock his head, questioningly. “Is that so?”

“The one’s that I get do,” I respond stiffly, hoping that this interview is over because I can’t bear to sit here a moment longer. What’s with all of the follow-up questions? He already said no, so why the hell is he still interrogating me?

I’m being looked at like I’m some dumb college kid with no idea what I want to do with my life and I fucking hate that. I know exactly what I want to do when I graduate and that’s to be a tattoo artist, hence trying to find an apprenticeship at a local shop. I’m not going back home, and I’m not working at my father’s company, no matter how often he tries to reach out to me.

“Well, I appreciate you taking the time to meet with me,” I say, gathering my things. The guy looks at my hands again and I know the question is on the tip of his tongue so I hurry, shoving my portfolio into my bag and rising from the chair.

“No problem, kid. Like I said, work on it and maybe next semester?—”

“Right,” I interrupt, forcing a smile like I’ve never forced one before. It feels like I’m cutting steel and I’m sure it looks more threatening than genuine. “Thanks.”

I dip out of the shop before he can ask me anything else.

I’m glad I didn’t even care to remember his name.