The Learning Curve [Naos]

Atticus closed his eyes and tucked his hands into the jacket pockets near his waist, where he could safely prevent them from reaching for his pipe. He couldn’t explain why a slight uneasiness settled in his shoulders, but it did, and tobacco usually calmed his nerves. However, he didn’t dare pull out his last resort just yet. It was a sad fact that kids always caused Atticus to deliberate more than necessary. Teenagers especially, were a handful. Rebelliousness, curiosity, snark, hormones. Been there. Done that. Didn’t want to deal with it again. Atticus sighed softly however, cracking his eyes open again and watching his new guest with a mix of patience and wariness as he spoke and tossed his back pack down next to a chair. In fact, as the kid joined him near the counter, he quirked one brow and leaned back, arms crossed over his chest, the leather of his jacket whispering as he moved.

The boy seemed harmless enough, but Atticus had no choice but to be skeptical. With teenagers, things were never simple.

After the kid had finished talking, Atticus calmly eased one of his sketchbooks across the countertop toward his guest, who seemed to be interested, at least, in the books. By the time the kid had finished talking, Atticus had to admit he was slightly amused. A small smile appeared on his face. “Had to cover all your bases, hm?” Then he added more seriously, “I’m the owner and artist, actually,” he answered with a faint sense of pride behind the first word. However, his body language didn’t reflect the entitlement; his shoulders only rose in a half hearted shrug and he blinked indifferently before he continued, “And by law I have to tell you that if you’re looking for a tattoo, you’ll need a legal guardian and their consent, sorry kid. That’s the law; as for the rest, well.” He paused for a moment. His tongue brushed the back of his teeth, his mind mulling over whether or not he’d been told the truth. It was not uncommon to have minors walk into his parlor and attempt to convince him that they were older and willing to pay for a good tattoo.

In fact, the more he thought about it, the more Atticus realized that he had pretty much come across every trick of the trade in his time. He unconsciously began to tick them off with his fingers, lowering his hand and staring down at the results. Kids bringing in adults that claimed they were legal guardians. Kids attempting to bribe him with extra money. Kids pretending they weren’t kids. Kids attempting to steal shit so that they could make tattoos themselves. Not to mention—Atticus shook his head and jarred himself out of the list. At this pace it would go on forever. There was no end to teenage stupidity, especially insofar as California law went.

His gaze flicked over to his guest again. “Weekends have more walk-ins. People that have things they want redone or covered up because another artist botched their work.” Atticus paused and smirked. “Or they made a stupid decision and want to erase it by putting another tattoo over the old one. We also have a handful of clients that usually come in on the weekends to set up appointments; if they want something quick and easy, it gets done, but the bulk of our work is done during the week. Scheduled appointments are especially important for intricate designs. Pending the location, and the tattoo itself, price varies by the hour.”

His eyes half closed and he frowned. “Been seein’ a lot of requests for the tongue and inner lip lately. Those can be painful. Anyway, point is, it’s fairly straight forward. You come in, pick your poison and set up an appointment, but like I said, you’ll need a parent or guardian present if you want one. Unless you’re going to tell me you’re 18,” he said, drawling in an exasperated way. It would not be the first time. Atticus rolled his shoulders. “What’s your name, kid? Any other questions you need answered?” He hesitated again before adding, “You’re not…looking for a job, are you?”

Time Stamp: April 30th, 4:00ish
Notes: N/A

Huh. Honesty from a kid. That was a nice change of pace. Atticus looked away for a few seconds, an unexpected weight lifted from his shoulders. He thought he might have to deal with more begging or arguments, but for once it seemed, there wasn’t a drop of teenage drama to be had. How awesome was that? “Tell you what,” Atticus replied, relieved, “if you ever decide you do want one, and you’re the right age, I’ll give you a discount. Sounds like a fair trade for telling the truth. No offense, but most people your age lie about it or bribe me.” He paused before adding in a grumble, “Don’t see the damn point either. Usually only a few years before they can get whatever the hell they want without their parent’s permission…” he trailed off, walking across the room to a water dispenser by the far wall. He grabbed one of the paper cups, jammed his thumb down on the lever and glanced back at the kid while the water in the tank glugged.

“You’re a long way from home,” he said flatly. Atticus took a drink of water once he had enough, creating a brief pause in their conversation, just long enough that he could sort a few details out. Naos eventually went on to give his name as well, but, Norway? That was different too. Atticus had expected something odd—not that—but there was definitely something that set Naos apart from the usual rowdy crowd he dealt with. He considered Naos for a second longer before downing the rest of his water and crumpling the empty paper cup in his hands. He still didn’t know enough about this kid, but since Naos—or Otto? Yeah, he looked more like an Otto—hadn’t lied about his age, Atticus might as well be fair as well and confess the truth. Besides. There was something he sensed, something still hidden in the kid’s personality, that Atticus liked. It was subtle, observant. He still couldn’t pin it down entirely, but if the conversation continued long enough, he might figure it out.

Atticus rolled his shoulders and sighed, tossing what remained of the cup in a nearby trashcan. “I’ll be honest with you—yes and no. When I was your age all I had to do to get a job at a parlor was to show up on time, sweep the floors and stay out of the artist’s way. It gave me the opportunity to study what they were doing over their shoulder as well. Today’s more complicated. A lot more rules,” he said, then growled, “I get some art majors in here from time to time hoping for internship credits. Others are just artists looking for a way to make a living, but what a lot of them don’t understand is that you can’t come in and expect to have a crack at inking. Like any other place, you start at the bottom. Which means: you clean. I have to train new employees in how to deal with biohazardous materials, and you still don’t get anywhere near the ink until you know how to clean the place and keep it clean. We’re talking sterile.” Atticus paused. “That’s for everyone’s safety. Artists may seem to work only on skin here, but contact with blood is common. Which is why all employees, experienced tattooists or not, start at the bottom and learn the safety basics.”

If there was one thing the old parlor he used to work at taught him—that Atticus actually appreciated—it was the value of that hard work.

“It takes a lot of discipline, respect, and study, frankly. If you don’t have a thick skin, don’t bother showing up, because I have to test your resolve along the way.” Atticus shook his head. Sometimes he had to push buttons and test limits, but what boss didn’t? “I’ve seen a lot of college kids come in here looking for an easy process. Sorry. This isn’t one of them. Critiques are intense. Tattooists might create art, but we do it on people, and our mistakes are permanent, which requires you not only own up to them, but you accept criticism. Frequently. After a while, if you’re lucky, a year, sure, you might get some experience with the machine, but you won’t touch the ink until you can prove you can create clean lines and understand how, when and where to exert pressure, not to mention when slow, or speed up the needle. Portfolios? Always keep them handy. Most tattooists, myself included, like the energy of lines, but we also like them clean; if you don’t know much about contrast, you’ll learn about it here, because it’s pivotal.” His eyes flash. “Last but not least, I don’t need to hire sappy, coddled college kids that want an ego boost. Check yourself at the door before you come into this shop with any ego, actually. Customers can be whiny; they can bitch and moan about what they want, but they’re the ones paying you, and whether you like it or not, your ego’s gonna take a few hits in this house as a result.” He snorted.

“That’s America for you. Everybody feels entitled, so everybody complains. Oh sure, you think, I can deal with that. But most kids come in here expecting a small bruise on their pride.” Atticus breathed out another laugh. “No. This is America. Expect full body casts.” He sighed in spite of the joke and looked at Naos again. “Does that sound even remotely enticing?”

Time Stamp: April 30th, 4:10ish
Notes: Yay for research. xD

Atticus resisted a smile. That was a hesitant, if not thoughtful, ‘No thanks,” in so many words. No one would blame Naos for that either; he might be tempted to consider it as a part time thing for the future, but it wasn’t as if Atticus had expected much more than that. Generally speaking, Naos didn’t seem the artistic career type—and he confirmed it, as Atticus expected. Ah well. The older man shrugged in gesture of good faith, finally breaking out a relaxed smile. Even college kids that dropped by often walked away from the tattoo parlor feeling confident in the fact that they couldn’t handle the workload, much less sustain the patience to reach the level of apprenticeship that they really wanted. He was still waiting for the day when someone truly passionate about the craft walked in with their portfolio and asked for a job.

“To each their own,” he said simply. He paused however, considering the last question Naos had asked him, carefully. Eventually, Atticus leaned back against the counter, resting his arms on either side of it, staring across the room at some of art on the walls. It had taken a long ass time to reach this point in his life, he concluded, and sometimes when he realized how much of his time had been dedicated to playing with color and line, he wanted to laugh. In the grand scheme of the universe, ink and tattoos might as well be whimsical afterthoughts. At the moment, his eyes glazed, remembering. As seconds ticked by, his smile began to wane. A sigh left him before he finally spoke, an exhausted sound that seemed to settle in his shoulders. “Everybody has their ego bruised at some point in life,” he said vaguely; his gaze shifted and settled on Naos. “It’s unavoidable. Artists maybe a little bit more often than most, but any work is up for criticism once you’ve put it on the table. There’s always going to be somebody that doesn’t like you, or doesn’t like what you do.” Atticus rolled his shoulders. “Whether you like it or not, sometimes it’s a good thing, to have your pride beaten black and blue. It…teaches you. Makes you better.”

Sometimes. Atticus’ frown deepened at the internal correction. There were moments when he wondered—when he felt the weight of his wedding ring, the same ring dangling from a golden necklace around his neck and hiding under his jacket—if lessons like that were really worth the pain they caused. Pride, as much as anger, or grief, could really define a man.

He shook his head. “I guess you could say I’ve taken my fair share of hits, but who hasn’t?” He found himself laughing for a second. “It’s L.A. This city’s full of people that use each other as stepping stones and punching bags. If you’re raised here, you either learn to grow a thick skin or avoid it. Speaking of which.” Atticus glanced at Naos again. “I know you mentioned a guardian, kid, but I’m surprised your parents aren’t here with you. City like this? Let’s just say the bright lights of the casinos cast more shadows than anybody cares to admit. Watch yourself around the streets, especially at night; there’s been trouble recently in the city. Though that’s…pretty much a given every damn day,” he growled.

Time Stamp: April 30th, 4:15ish
Notes: >.> I hope this post is okay.

Atticus turned away from Naos, frowning. He was walking around the counter area, where he would usually handle new customers, but instead, he knelt down behind it, stifling a grunt as he relied on his weaker leg to support himself. “Give me a sec, kid,” he growled in explanation. If he was going to stand around and chat, he might as well get work done at the same time. There were a few designs he had yet to flesh out and run by his client; if he could work in one or two more versions of the tattoo, all the better. Atticus lifted and dragged a cardboard box out from under one of the shelves; he pulled the flaps apart, ignoring the whispers they made as he shifted things around. At last he reached in for a smaller sketchbook, a little bigger than a typical hardcover book; he tossed it up onto the counter and sifted through the riot of art supplies still crowding the box until he located a Ziploc bag full of various sketching pencils. Finally, he set those down on the counter as well, pushed up from the ground and gently nudged the box back toward the shelf with his boot.

“I think it’s more of question of what hasn’t happened,” Atticus said, scooping up his supplies again. He sighed and flipped through a few of the earlier pages in his sketchbook. His client had requested something very specific, but there had been no rule that said he couldn’t experiment. Typically speaking, Atticus could draw up ten to twelve different versions of a tattoo before showing them to a customer, and even then, the big payouts demanded more drafts. He suspected that his latest client would fall into that category—she had an eye for detail and the way Atticus judged it, she would know what she wanted when she saw it, and not a second before. In the end, however, the effort was always worth it. Atticus shook his head and crossed the room to sit back in one of the chairs allotted to customers when they arrived. He spoke half heartedly with Naos as he did so. “I don’t read the paper. But in this kind of profession,” he continued absently, his gaze scouring each page of his book, studying the previous versions of the same tattoo he had already sketched, “you hear things. People talk. Sometimes they don’t know when to shut up,” he added in a grumble.

He found a fresh page, opened the Ziploc bag and took out the lightest pencil he had. “I guess what I’m trying to say is, I haven’t seen any of it myself. There are rumors, and then there’s the truth. Stories of rabid dogs; the issue at the law offices. Kids dying. Weird shit in general, stuff that hasn’t happened in years, if ever. I hear some of the criminal groups are on the rise or at least…getting bolder.” Atticus shrugged. “Rumors. I can’t say which ones have more merit than the last. And frankly…most of the time, if it doesn’t bother me, I don’t care.” And that was the truth. “Just watch your back, kid and you’ll be fine. L.A.’s not the safest place, but you can earn her respect.” He paused and lifted his gaze, eyes darkening. “Some people are born wolves, kid; they grow up snapping and snarling. And some are born sheep, blissfully ignorant of danger. And you can usually tell which are which, if you’re lookin’ hard enough.” After a few seconds, and a minor smirk, Atticus shrugged and looked away. “At least you can after you live a while. Instinct’s important. Sometimes your gut reaction is the only thing that saves you from whatever’s lurking in the dark.” He paused.

“Not that I’d need to tell you that, right?”

Time Stamp: April 30th, 4:20ish
Notes: Sorry. I take forever sometimes. x___x Hm. Need to think of some other things they can discuss. Or end the thread soon. Whichever works lol. Any ideas? >.>

The whisper of pencil on paper ceased—not that there was much of a sketch there yet to begin with. He barely had one, faint line scrawled across the sheet. Atticus leaned forward, withholding a breath that wanted to become a laugh though, lifting the same hand with the pencil and touching a few fingers to his forehead. Man, this kid, a thought marveled. He was amused, but he waited until Naos had finished saying what he needed to say before responding. It had been much too long since he argued philosophy—especially with someone Naos’ age. By the time he finished, Atticus was rubbing his temple and still fighting back a laugh. “Sometimes I wonder myself,” he replied cryptically, wearing a smirk. Atticus quieted for a few seconds more, his brown eyes flashing until he finally sighed, the amusement lingering, but only just so. “It’s just an expression kid, and it’s much more accurate than you give it credit for.” He was still smiling, but he leaned back in his seat again, set his sketchbook down on his lap and twirled the pencil poised between his fingers. “Good policy you have though. I never said to depend entirely on one thing or the other—only that it can serve a purpose. Logic, instinct, intuition—not a single one of them will keep you safe alone. That’s just not how life works.”

Atticus shrugged his shoulders. He’d let people with fatter heads and more time on their hands debate the small details, but some facts were well known, and irreversible. “Depend on anything too much and you’ve trapped yourself; the real skill comes in when you catch yourself doing it, and manage to crawl out of the hole before it becomes too deep. Most people can’t. Or won’t. Take your pick, kid, but wolves or not, sheep or not, snakes, bears, whatever you think people are, most never change. Too much effort.” He paused and his brow furrowed. “For that matter, they don’t need to. When you find something that works for you, you typically stick with it. But everything, everything, kid, is a gamble, and you’re lucky if all that’s on the betting table is your bank account.”

He sighed, looked back down at his sketchpad and lowered his hand to continue working. This time, a few more “phantom” lines appeared. Later, Atticus would go back over the ghostly outline he made and darken the more meaningful lines. “I’ll give you one thing though. Most kids your age don’t think twice about shit like this. Cars, girls, boys, money, booze, sex. You name it, they’re more interested in the minutiae than the bigger issues.” He paused and snorted. “Damn if I don’t miss it from time to time. Could do without the moodiness and hormone crap but the rest of it?” He smiled. “If blissfully ignorant isn’t heaven-on-earth, nothing is.” Atticus glanced up however, and fixed Naos with his stare. “Kid that thinks as much as you do though—I wonder if it’s the bane of your existence. I hear too much knowledge can kill a man, too, kid.”

Time Stamp: April 30th
Notes: Man I hate philosophy lol.

It was official. Atticus liked this kid, even respected him. The simple fact was that Naos caught on to the truth a lot faster than most adults did was enough to earn that much, especially these days, when nobody knew what the hell they were doing. As he watched the momentary lapse in confidence come over the kid, then the burgeoning realization dawn, Atticus found himself smirking, the pencil in his hand pausing again. There were a few more sketch lines now, but anyone looking over Atticus’ shoulder would marvel over how he later turn such small lines into a detailed piece of art later. Now he’s getting it,a thought mused as Naos looked up and shrugged. Damned if you do. Damned if you don’t. Logic of the universe.

“There you go, kid, that’s the spirit,” Atticus lauded, more entertained than he had been all day. He leaned back in his seat, laughing under his breath, watching Naos snatch at least two business cards from the front desk area. It seemed their conversation was at last coming to a close. Atticus assumed that Naose wrote his phone number or some type of contact information down on the one card he set aside on the countertop. It wouldn’t surprise him if, one day, Atticus did decide to call him in for an extra pair of hands around the parlor. “Fair enough,” he replied, “Do me a favor kid, and take care of yourself. I’ll keep it in mind, and that discount? Still applies.” He snorted, but just as he Naos seemed to be gathering himself, it seemed Atticus’ next customer was already on their way in. He wouldn’t be heading home like he originally thought then, but as he pushed up from his seat and offered his hand to the rough and tumble biker type that ambled in, Atticus figured the tradeoff wasn’t that bad.

So he might be busy for a bit longer—but he’d had an interesting conversation, one that wasn’t as one sided as it usually was. And for once Atticus actually didn’t have to play the part of therapist. “Good luck kid,” Atticus added with a final nod toward Naos. He tucked his sketchbook under the crook of his arm and finally turned away as he heard the parlor door close. Work called.

Time Stamp: April 30th
Notes: Thread complete. PMed Destiny. xD