I suppose this is not anything unique to the tattoo industry, so there will be lots and lots of you out there who can relate to this. We are open for a set number of hours per day. Those hours are clearly posted on the front door of the place. Those hours are clearly posted in our phone book ad. They are on the website, we get calls on the phone asking for our hours, and those hours have not changed in well over a decade, possibly more. And, yet, some people seemt to be unable to get here within those hours. They come racing to the door just as we're packing it up for the night and then either want to take some leisurely time to "browse", as they say---it's not a fucking bookstore! Or, they want some crazily gigantic tattoo, and are astonished that we actually WANT to leave when our scheduled twork time is over, and get home to our families, significant others, or substance abuse problems. They can't believe that we aren't overjoyed at the prospect of surrendering even more of the little free time we have to attend to some inconsiderate nitwit with no common sense or courtesy for others.
"Oh, come on!" They wheedle and whine, disbelieving that, even though the doors have been open for fourteen hours, we don't want to stay for three or four more. Despite the fact that many of us have been here for eight, ten hours and more, they can't believe that we don't wish to hang out on our free time and work some more. "Just one little tattoo," they beg, or, "Can't we just look around for a few minutes?" Well, in a word, hell no. Manage your time better.
Do you really want to get something permanently etched into your skin by someone who is now pissed off at you because their dinner is getting cold at home, their main squeeze is horny and waiting, or their kids are going to bed without a hug and a kiss from Daddy/Mommy? I never go into a restaurant less than an hour before they close. That is just begging to get your food spit in. And I'll tell you what, as a onetime restaurant employee, we sure the hell did just that to the asshats who came in fifteen minutes before we closed and then lounged over their meal for hours, not caring that they alone were keeping six or seven people from their lives. So, coming in to a tattoo shop and keeping us from home/the bar/bed is a surefire way to get the tattoo equivalent of having your food spit in. You're not going to get a shit tattoo, but we sure as hell aren't going to take our precious time and trick it out.
On Saturdays I put in a particularly gruelling shift, We're busy in the mornings and again at night, so most of us are required to be here for the whole day, which is about fourteen hours. Now, I work until close on Friday night, so when I get here Saturday morning, I'm tired, surly, and dreading a very long day. Once I get rolling, get a few cups of coffee in me, I accept my fate and deal with it. But by the time Midnight rolls around, it's the big countdown until quitting time. And it never fails, one of us will get held hostage until the wee hours by some douchebag who slips in just under the buzzer and gets something huge and ridiculous. I was the lucky one this time.
I was in my section, it was about 1:15 am and I was feeling somewhat chipper, looking forward to the end of the night. Ususally after such a shift, I go home and pass out, but I felt pretty good this time, and had a gumption to go to a club I haven't frequented in a while, do a bit of cruising and carousing. A pal of mine from here was in on it, and we made plans to meet up there for some trouble. Just then, one of the floorwalkers pops in and announces there's a guy out front who wants the playing card suits in a row down his forearm. Sweet, that would be an easy one, make a few more bucks before I hit the road and it would kill off that last bit of time.
When I went out to show him my drawing, he exicitedly okayed it, and then asked about something to go around it. I asked what he had in mind, and he said some tribal. I asked if he wanted just a little around the suits, and he said, "Oh, no, like this," And proceeded to run his fingers all up, down and around his forearm.
"So you want basically a tribal half-sleeve?" I asked in disgust.
He nodded enthusiastically. "And you want to do this tonight?" I asked. Please say no, please say no, please say no, I pleaded in my mind.
"Oh, yeah!" he asserted. I felt my stomach do a flip-flop. A half-sleeve. Of all tribal. At 1:30 am. On the end of a 14 hour shift. Kill me now.
I got to work on his arm, and by 2:30, my phone got to ringing. It was my cohort, wondering if I was coming out or not. "Rub it in, Buttpipe," I snarled into the phone as he laughed heartily at my predicament.
"Sorry to keep you late," my customer said to me after I hung up.
I shrugged. "It's no big deal," I replied lamely. I don't make it a point to bitch at customers about it, I play off like I don't mind getting held hostage, but I sure do fume to myself about it.
"Well, at least you're doing something cool, so you don't mind," he consoled me.
Now, wait just a doggone minute, here. I'm doing something cool? Let's get one thing straight. I like tattooing. I enjoy doing tattoos. But doing tattoos is my job. And I have been doing my job for a long time, I have been in the same shop for a long time, I do my job for long hours, under difficult circumstances and ususally under some kind of stress. It has very much become a job. And if I was doing tattoos purely for the love of doing them, I would do them out of my house for free, and only when I felt like it. But I don't, I do tattoos because I get money to do them. So, therefore, it falls under the same considerations I'd give to someone who works at, oh, let's say, Dairy Queen. I love Dairy Queen. I would have a blast back there making blizzards and sneaking tastes of ice cream, for a while. And then it would become routine, uneventful and repetitive, and I would get annoyed by assholes who come in five minutes before we close and can't decide if they want a Peanut Buster Parfait or a Chipwich. So, as much as I like Dairy Queen, I don't imagine anyone there thinks making ice cream treats is cool, they do it for money and that's that. What I do seems cool to people who don't do it day in and day out for years and years and years. So, the insinuation that I love to stay late to work more galls me. Does anyone want to hang out for three or four more hours to work? Ya think those folks at Dairy Queen relish the opportunity to hang out after close to make some ice cream just for you, because you love ice cream so much that you can't possibly respect the operating hours of a business, and you can't respect the fact that they have lives that don't revolve around serving your sorry ass? Makes a lot more sense when I put it that way, doesn't it?
I was a bartender briefly, and I once worked for a big, gruff guy who used to get mad as hell at closing time. All you bar/club workers know about this; You gave last call, and most people would finish up their drinks and head out. But you had those few assholes who would stay put after the lights went on and the bouncers were bellowing, "Come on people, let's GOOOOOOO!" My boss would tell said assholes to get a move on, and they'd always plead, "Oh, come on, man, let us hang out for a few minutes!" To which he would calmly ask, "Where do you work?" They would tell him the name of whatever corporation it was, and my boss would say, "Okay, at five o'clock tomorrow, I'll be down there and hang out at your desk and keep you there after quitting time." The drunk would look all baffled and say, "Well, you can't....I don't want you to do that..." And my boss would say, "Then quit doing it to me. Out." And that got 'em moving. Oh, how I wish my boss here had the same mindset.
People don't respect our hours because this is considered "recreation", the same way no one respects closing time at a bar. People come here to do something that's fun for them. But that doesn't change the fact that this is work for us. And we're people too, with lives and families and a serious need for food and sleep. So, please, have a little respect. We're happy to do great work for you, but on our work time, not our personal time. Don't make me come sit on your desk at five o'clock and talk your ear off when you're trying to head out of work and get back to your life.
