Tattoos & Graffiti

Part One

Epic Summer To Do List B4 I Turn Eighteen:
#1- Get myself an effing tattoo from The Canvas.

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It's dark, I've got my fake ID card in the pocket of my black skinny jeans and I'm going to get myself a freaking tattoo.

The air conditioner is off, the windows are down and slightly chilly night air nips at my skin as I take in a deep breath, basking in the glow of the bright street lights. This is my first time coming to this part of town without the sun to help guide my steps and it seems to me that I've been missing a lot. This part of Downtown L.A. is very much alive when the sun goes down; buzzing with music, drunken shouts and business transactions. And unfortunately—or maybe, fortunately—this is my kind of scene; the kind where I can function without having any worries of being anchored down to my obligations.

I square my shoulders to prepare myself as I drive towards my destination; The Canvas. It's a relatively small tattoo parlor which is very popular around this part of town because of its reputation for creating amazing tattoos. The walls look like they've been brushed with gold under the moonlight and the sign board displaying its name is pitch black. It's a short building with a dark roof which I could touch if someone lifts me up high enough. It's sandwiched tight between two other buildings that I'm very familiar with; a barber's shop and a slightly rundown pizzeria. Unlike its neighbors, the tattoo parlor is still open for business without fear of shutting down.

I park and make it to the door without any trouble. There's a sign indicating it's open and I can't see anyone standing around. It could mean business is slow, which is just fine with me—more than fine, actually. I've never really been the patient type.

"Okay Scarlett," I say out loud, giving myself an impromptu pep talk. "You can do this. You can so get a tattoo today. Your ID looks authentic and you're even wearing lipstick."

My heart is pounding and I'm not sure why. Maybe it's because I made this bucket list while I was extremely drunk and ready to fulfill my greatest desires. But right now, I'm sober and I don't even know why my drunk self wanted a tattoo in the first place. Standing right in front of this parlor, I don't even know what kind of tattoo I fucking want.

But whatever. You only live once and shit, I guess.

Steeling my spine, I shove most of my weight against the door. It moves, creating a bit of space and I quickly slither in before I can lose my courage or worse, before it can slam shut in my face.

The place is illuminated with bright fluorescent lights and smells oddly of ink and something similar to cologne. The floors are tiled and the walls are basically graffiti; there is virtually no color scheme. Different paintings of paintings having paintings in them; it's a never ending cycle of a concept I can't see or understand. There's a counter at the deeper end of the parlor with nothing but big looking books stacked on it and a door, probably leading to the bathroom, at the back of the counter. Of course, there's a chair with a table full of tattoo making stuff—needles, bottles of ink, a tattoo machine—right beside it along with a large mirror hanging in front of the chair. There's also a black couch in the corner, probably for customers to wait and the general atmosphere is cool because of the working air conditioning system.