I know I don't really belong here, that I stick out. This is not a place I would have ended up, in my life before the conspiracy.
I'm a little bit early. I know Syd's got another customer right now, that she's marking someone else's skin as I sit in the hard plastic chair of the dungy looking shop and wait. Despite the general grimy look of the studio, I know it's clean enough. It's part of the whole experience, apparently. Syd explained it to me before, during one of the long stretches when she was tattooing my back.
There are things people expect when they get a tattoo. A grungy looking tattoo parlor is one; a heavily tattooed and pierced artist is another. It's part of the deal.
"You," she said to me once, "are an enigma. No one expects to see an Armani-wearing businessman in here."
The door opens, and I catch the movement from the corner of my eye. A mohawked, tattooed, pierced young man, probably not quite old enough to drink yet, strolls inside. I see him do a double take when he sees me. It tickles my sense of irony, and I chuckle; I'm not the one with green spikes for hair and two rings in my left eyebrow.
She's already put in so many hours; all that's left is my left arm. Around 20 hours of work, according to Syd. I unbutton my shirt sleeve and push it up to see the skin. Still unmarked. But not much longer. And then, finally, the tattoo will be done.
A girl walks in; her hair is long and dreadlocked. "Mark," she says to the green haired man who is studying the walls. They know each other; they've seen each other before. Here and elsewhere. I can feel them both watching me, silently wondering what I'm doing here. I don't belong here, right?
They look like they belong here, in this tattoo parlor. This slightly grungy-looking tattoo parlor.
A man walks past me and out the door. He looks like a biker, wearing a leather jacket. Someone else you'd expect to see here.
"I'll be with you in a second, Michael," I hear Syd say from the back of the shop.
"Sure," I say.
It's strange, that after all this time spent in this shop, I still don't belong here. But I suppose I'd better get used to this feeling of 'not belonging.'
Hopefully, it will continue all the way into…and out of…Fox River.
I've never wanted to belong, anyway.