Shortlisted
No Excuses Allowed
Gail Griffin
This was his first gig. But Jack had no excuse for ignoring the basic tenets of things he should definitely not do while being tattooed. They’d been drilled into Jack, repeatedly, by the guys at the office who’d convinced him to get a tatt at the ‘Inkredible Studio’.
The nameplate on the studio’s reception desk indicated he’d be talking to Stella.
‘Ah. Welcome. You must be Jack,’ she said.
‘That’s me and you’re obviously Stella.’
‘First time here?’
‘Yep. Sure is.’
‘You know our client policy NEA—No Excuses Allowed?’
‘Sure do.’
‘Remember, firstly, don’t move around. Secondly…’
‘I know. Don’t try to touch the tattoo,’ Jack chipped in.
‘And, thirdly, don’t try and tell any professional tattoo artist how to do their job.’
‘And last, but not least, don’t make contact with, or knock any tattoo equipment. Especially the tattoo machine or pen, when it’s being used on your body! You know the drill.’
‘Yep. Sure do.’
‘Oh, and turn off your mobile phone. Now!’
Jack acknowledged the warnings with a mock salute. Stella handed him the mandatory health information sheet to read while he sat in the waiting room. Several minutes later, with the paperwork read and completed, and the account paid in advance, there was no going back.
Taking notice of the studio’s interior for the first time, Jack couldn’t help but smell the intense, overwhelming pungent odour that reminded him of a hospital. Unlike the quiet of a hospital, though, the reception and corridors leading from it throbbed with headbanging music, raised voices with lots of expletives, and the persistent buzzing of tattoo machines as they pierced skin. The rumble of motorbikes pulling up to the street front added to the rowdy surrounds, decorated with dark, abstract art.
Hopefully, the pain won’t be too cringeworthy, and the finished effect will be worth it, Jack thought to himself. Feeling his temperature rising, despite the self-talk, he sipped the water bottle he’d brought with him. It also helped to wash down the bile that had risen in the back of his throat.
Thinking about the last twelve hours or so, Jack mentally recounted the preparations he’d undertaken. Determined to be sober, he’d declined to have Friday drinks after work with his colleagues in the Club’s bar. He didn’t want to risk being turned away by the tattoo artist and being told to come back when he didn’t reek of beer.
He’d gone to bed early the previous night and slept soundly. On waking, he’d had a healthy breakfast, to give his body extra nutrients, hydration, and energy to tolerate the process. Afterwards, he’d showered and shaved, then cleaned the chosen area for the tatt on his upper back.
Jack had tossed up whether or not to take any painkillers. Deciding not to, he dressed, confident that one of his black t-shirts and jeans would hide any splashed ink. The t-shirt, too, was easy to remove and didn’t have a tag that would rub on the skin around his new tatt that would be sensitive to touch, according to the guys in the office. They’d warned him the inevitable itching that came with healing would drive him crazy, too.
Interrupting his thoughts was a voice calling his name that triggered a flash of momentary panic.
‘Jack? Come on in.’ The name tag she wore confirmed her identity. It was Amy, the tattoo artist who’d been recommended by all the guys. ‘A really hot chick with a good sense of humour,’ they’d said. She’d earned for herself a reputation for having a light hand and a gentle way with the tattoo machinery. And the bonus? She was easy on the eye they’d all agreed! Man, they weren’t wrong. Jack’s heart skipped a beat.
Nervously, Jack stood up, clutched his water bottle, and followed her into Studio 3. Her assigned workspace. Fitted out, it had overhead cupboards, a benchtop, sink and sterilisation cabinet, a bank of drawers, an upholstered client chair, and Amy’s stool on casters.
‘Make yourself comfortable and I’ll be with you soon, Jack.’
With his t-shirt shrugged off and tossed aside, Jack positioned his water bottle on the floor, within reach, and sat on the dentist-like black recliner chair. Behind him, he could hear movement and a series of rattling sounds as Amy removed the tools from the autoclave. Out the corner of his eye, Jack saw her reflection in a benchtop mirror. She looked sweet. Scootering her stool over to the side table beside him, she lined up the equipment and solutions for sterilising the area being tattooed.
‘So, I’m Amy. Thank you, Jack, for trusting me with your tattoo. I just need to confirm that you’ve read and understood the information sheet Stella gave to you in reception. Especially the client policy: No Excuses Allowed.’
‘Read and understood, Ames,’ Jack quipped back. ‘NEA.’
Ignoring his attempt at familiarity, Amy asked, ‘So, Jack. What tattoo do you want done today?’
Turning to face her, Jack outlined exactly what he wanted. ‘I’m a Cats supporter and I want their logo and my member number here.’ He indicated the placement of the new tattoo on his back, just below his neck, in between his shoulder blades. Amy ran her hands over the area. Caught off-guard, Jack sucked in his breath at the warmth of her touch.
Making no comment about his reaction, Amy said, ‘Aha. I see you’ve already prepped your back. Did you have a healthy breakfast?’
‘Absolutely.’
Nodding her approval, Amy said, ‘Good choice, the Cats’ motif,’ as she reached for the ring binder on the side table. ‘I’m a bit of a fan myself.’ Flicking through the book of designs, Amy found exactly what Jack had imagined.
‘Perfect,’ Jack said, when she shared the logo design with him.
‘I’ll use a stencil to do the outline of the shield first and then the printing before I do the stripes,’ she stated. Turning and opening a nearby drawer, Amy withdrew a new set of latex gloves. Slipping her hands into them and snapping them caused Jack to wince.
Awkwardly, he joked, ‘You look like a surgeon about to perform some internal on me.’
‘Trust me,’ countered Amy, winking and smiling wickedly, ‘You wouldn’t ever want me to administer that procedure on you. Or anyone. I’m a creative artist, not a doctor.’
Together they laughed, and Jack started to feel a little more at ease, for the first time.
Amy handed Jack a mirror while she held one at his back. ‘Let me know when I’m on the spot you want and I’ll mark it with a felt pen.’ Confirming the position for the stencil transfer on his upper back, Amy then said, ‘Just so you know, I’m using a tattoo pen. Are you okay with that?’
‘Sure. Not familiar with it, but you’re the expert.’
‘I find pens easier to use as I can swap out the cartridges. They’re quieter. Lighter. Vibrate less. Put minimal strain on my hand. Give me more control.’
‘Whatever works. I wouldn’t dare to tell you how to do your job.’
‘Obviously Stella read the riot act about risk reduction. Yes?’
Jack responded with a rapid nod of his head. ‘Yep. No Excuses Allowed.’
‘Good to know. Okay. Relax, and I’ll get underway with the printing, then the tracing and linework. Try to switch off any way you can.’
Switch off? I’m about as switched on as any guy can get, Jack thought, trying to ignore a faint stirring in his groin as he turned to face downwards in the chair.
Silence fell between Jack and Amy as she efficiently sanitised the area to be tattooed with a wipe. Jack felt its coolness and inhaled its cleansing smell. He could feel goosebumps popping up on his back and along his arms. A strident click announced the turning on of the battery-operated tattoo pen. Swallowing a nervous gulp, he braced himself for the first punctures and the inevitable pain.
‘So why does a nice-looking guy like you with a good body want to deface it with tattoos?’
Taken aback initially by the compliment, Jack blushed and stammered, ‘Um. Er. Everyone else at work is doing it, and I thought I should too.’
‘Isn’t that bowing to peer pressure like we used to in high school?’
‘I… um…guess so. I never thought of it like that. It just seems to be the done thing with us millennials. Something else to experience…’
‘That’s one way of rationalising it, I suppose. I could think of less painful experiences if given a choice. Anyway, let’s get going. Ready?’
‘Ready as I’ll ever be.’
Dread almost overwhelmed Jack. Amy placed the stencil on his skin, did the outline of the shield before doing the printing and stripes, just as she had outlined earlier. The buzzing of the pen made it impossible for Jack to ignore the process and the accompanying pain.
After some time, Amy announced, ‘Done. Now for the shading and colouring. How are you holding up, Jack?’
‘Barely,’ he replied, squirming and gasping for breath, and all the while trying to look cool. ‘Why is it no one tells you how painful this is?’
‘I have no idea how painful it is for guys. Women say it’s a bit like childbirth. You forget what it’s like once it’s over and you’re happy with the result. I need to warn you now, though. This is the most painful part coming up. If you know how to meditate, do it. If not, just try and keep still. Some clients find deep, deep breathing helps to offset the pain.’
The searing pain interrupted Jack’s attempt at deep breathing. ‘Easier said than done. It’s burning, razor-sharp pain already. Geezzzz. Far out!’
They both fell silent for a while – Jack concentrating on trying to block out the pain; Amy on the task.
First to break the silence, Amy urged, ‘Tell me more about why you want this particular tatt,’ in an effort to engage Jack in conversation while she turned her attention to finishing the shading and colouring.
‘Born and bred in Geelong. Never lived anywhere else. Or ever wanted to. Love the place. Aaahhh!’
‘Hang in there, Jack. You’re doing really well. Remember to breathe. Try to relax. Zone out.’
‘Believe me, I’ve been trying.’
‘I know I shouldn’t say this, but I don’t understand why anyone would want to do it to their bodies.’
‘Do any of your clients admit to being addicted?’
‘Some do. Not many. Keep talking, Jack. Tell me more about the Cats,’ Amy encouraged.
‘Spent every winter at the footy as a teenager. My whole family follows the Cats. Wouldn’t have dared to support a different team.’
‘Did you go to the Grand Final?’
‘Sure did. I yelled so much I was hoarse for a week.’
At that point, Amy stopped. ‘Take a breather while I get another cartridge.’
‘Thanks. I need it.’
‘So, what is it that you actually do for a job?’ Amy continued.
‘I’m on the corporate team for the Cats. Event management. Publicity. Marketing. That sort of thing.’
‘Sounds like a great job,’ Amy said, as she loaded up another cartridge.
Jack stretched his neck, turned his head, and winced at the pain. Closing his eyes, he took a prolonged breath in through his nose and released it out through his mouth. Opening his eyes, he breathed out once more, giving his body a shake. He reached over the side of the chair, grabbed the water bottle, and gulped.
‘Ready?’ Amy asked.
‘Yep. As ready as I’ll ever be. Let’s do this.’ Settling back, face down in the chair again, Jack asked, ‘So, Amy. What about you? What got you into doing tattooing?’
‘Me? I graduated from uni with an arts degree. Creative, visual arts, that is. Loved it, but it doesn’t pay the bills in the real world.’
‘You must be one of the very few tattoo artists that isn’t covered in tatts. Got any at all? I didn’t see any.’
‘No. I don’t trust anyone to do them on my body. Besides, they’re permanent. They can’t be washed off.’
‘Ah! If you like, then, you can sign my logo and add your phone number while you’re at it.’
‘Funny, Jack. Ha, ha. You wish.’
‘You can’t blame a guy for trying… So, do you like working here?’
Eyes down, totally focused on the job, Amy replied, ‘It’s a side hack. Gives me time to do my art. I sell it at the markets.’
‘How’d you learn tattooing anyway?’
‘I once dated a guy who owned a studio, and he trained me.’
‘Ever date any of your clients?’
‘No. Never have.’
‘Never have, but would you ever?’
‘Maybe… ’
Abandoning that line of questioning, Jack fell silent as he reached for his water bottle and guzzled down another mouthful. Totally immersed in the process, Amy continued.
‘On the final finishing touches, Jack. Almost done.’
In the silence that followed, Jack’s smartphone rang. Without hesitation he dived into the pocket of his jeans and pulled it out, knocking Amy’s arm skyward.
Her loud ‘Nooooo!!!’ echoed in the hollow studio space.
Later, Jack would recount the incident to his friends, ‘And, just like the slow-motion clips you see on TV, the tattoo pen flew up to the ceiling fan, hitting it. The ink squirted out all over my face, my clothes, the recliner. All over the floor. Like a friggin’ juggler, I dropped my phone. It flew across the floor. Slammed into the wall under the windows! I was a fumblin’ mess.’
‘Seriously? What the hell, Jack. Talk about nomophobia,’ Amy cursed, as she reached for a fistful of sterile wipes. ‘You’ll need these.’
‘Sorry, sorry, sorry. I forgot,’ Jack gushed as he tried to stand and retrieve his phone, while taking the wipes being offered.
Amy pushed him back down onto the chair, saying, ‘Stay where you are. Get it later. Remember NEA, Jack? No. Excuses. Allowed.’
‘I wasn’t thinking…’
‘Too right you weren’t. I agree with you there. Leave your phone on the floor for now. It’s not going anywhere.’ Using her spare hand, Amy grabbed a printed sheet from the pile on a nearby bench and passed it to Jack. ‘Here. Read this After Care Information while I clean up the mess you made.’
Silence fell between the two of them. There was a hesitant knock on the studio door before Stella’s head appeared. ‘Is everything all right in here?’ she ventured.
‘It is now, thanks, Stella. Our nomophobic friend here decided to answer his phone when it rang.’
Shamefaced, and wanting to avoid eye contact with anyone, Jack put his head down and attempted to get up off the chair to retrieve his phone from the floor, before Amy warned, ‘Leave it, Jack. Stay there while I finish cleaning up this mess.’
Stella scolded him with, ‘Jack! I warned you.’
‘Yes. I know. I know. My fault entirely. I’ve already apologised to Amy. I guess I’ll be doing the walk of shame out of here.’
‘You sure will. Everybody in reception heard the racket,’ Stella confirmed, turning on her heel, walking out, and closing the door.
‘Just as well the pen didn’t pierce your carotid artery.’
‘Geez, Amy. If you’re trying to scare me, you’re succeeding,’ Jack said.
‘Pay back, Jack. You scared the living daylights out of me, as my Nanna used to say.’
‘Would your Nanna say I deserved to be punished for being a naughty boy?’ Jack added mischievously.
‘Absolutely,’ said Amy, laughing despite herself.
‘Then I’ll need to make it up to you. I’m truly sorry.’
‘Apology accepted. Now, back to the job at hand. A final wash and wipe with warm water, soap, and a single-use wipe, and you’ll be done.’
In no time at all, Jack was finished.
Peeling off her gloves and disposing of them, Amy took two mirrors from a drawer and held them at the right angles so Jack could see the final result. ‘Happy with that?’ she asked.
‘Yeah. Good job, Amy. Thanks.’
‘Mmm. It’s the first one I’ve done for a fellow Cats supporter.’
Jack didn’t even try to make a joke this time around when Amy put on another pair of gloves, before applying an ointment to his new tatt. He lapped up the last chance to have her hands on his body when she applied a sterile dressing. He couldn’t help himself. ‘Oh my God, that feels good,’ he cooed.
True to her professional reputation, Amy ignored the comment and advised, ‘Make sure you protect the area and keep it clean. Hygiene is paramount to the healing. It’s probably going to take about two to three weeks, once the swelling goes down. Anyway, I shouldn’t have to remind you about this. You know it already. All you need to do now is follow the advice you’ve been given… But then you knew not to answer your phone, and you ignored that.
‘Any questions?’
‘Yes. Will you give me a chance to make it up to you?’ he begged on bended knees.
‘Depends on whether or not you’re prepared to walk the Hall of Shame.’
‘Hall of Shame? Where?’
Pointing through the now open door of the studio, Amy said, ‘Down the hallway to the front door.’
‘Only if you’ll come with me to the Cats game, tomorrow night, at the GMHBA Stadium? And before you answer, I’m asserting my right as a client to remind you of your client policy, No Excuses Allowed, NEA. What do you say?’
Laughing, she replied, ‘What can I say? Your visit’s left an indelible impression upon me. You give me no choice. I finish work here at six, usually…’
‘Six it is. And, Amy… No Excuses Allowed!’ Jack winked as he stood up, sauntered out of Studio 3, and exited through the front door to the laughter, clapping, and jeers of Stella and the clients in the reception area.
Gail Griffin enjoys writing short stories – both fact and fiction – poetry and memoirs, that exemplify her quirky side. She finds inspiration in the everyday, and experiences, gained from an eclectic career.
Return to the Geelong Writers Prize 2025 page
Leave a Reply