The day before The Rolling Stones played in Denver this lady in my line asks for The Rolling Stones mouth with the tongue sticking out—“oh I’ll have whatever you can do for six bucks. Oh and just write their name above the logo.”
Surely she’s joking, or drunk, or both.
So I just try to get the painting over with, as quickly as humanly possible.
As I paint her arm, the tall, burly man with her sways a bit close, also having drunk too much
“I feel dumb,” he slurs. “Can you take this butterfly off my face?”
“But I just painted it, and it’s what you asked for,” I tell him. “Maybe you can just try to forget it’s there?,”I tell him— “that’s what I do when I paint my own face.” I go back to concentrating on the lady’s arm.
“I’m seeing the Stones tomorrow,” she tells me. “I want to wear this to the concert. Can I keep it on that long?”
I wrack my brain for ideas— all I have is some fixative that isn’t super strong, which I’ll use, of course. “Saran Wrap and surgical tape might do the trick,” I tell her. “And you can hold your arm outside the shower, maybe spray some hairspray on it?”
She keeps repeating that she wants it to last for the concert. I try to be supportive, but there are limits on what I can offer.
When I’m finished I hold up the mirror for her to get a better look.
She’s shocked. Her eyes widen. “Wow, you actually did a good job. It’s amazing.” Her voice sounds surprised. I guess she wasn’t expecting much.
Her friend throws a wrinkled $5 bill on my table to supplement the $6 she was “planning to pay me.”
She tells me two things— first that she’s paying $1200 to see the Stones ‘cause it was on her bucket list. I don’t know what to say, so I just mutter, “wow.” I suppose I respect anyone so hellbent on achieving their dream, whatever that might be.
Second— she tells me that I have a steady hand, and that my work is “fantastic.” Have I ever detailed a motorcycle?, she asks. (I say no, since I haven’t). So she says, in a low voice— go to (something) Dog’s biker bar and tell ‘em Shelley sent ya. (I ask her to repeat the name— a Heart cover band is playing loudly, so I can’t hear her very well. Did she say Salty Dog’s? Hot Dog’s? What type of dog/dawg did she mean??). She continues...”There are a lot of Hell’s Angels who would pay good money for this. I swear, you’ll make a million dollars. Tell ‘me Shelley sent you.”
😳
Is this some kind of hidden calling I’ve been missing out on all this time?? 😅 What if I mess up when painting a Hell's Angel hog— what could possibly go wrong???
(Post script: a trusted friend, who’s father owned a biker bar, has just warned me not to get involved with biker gangs!)
Surely she’s joking, or drunk, or both.
So I just try to get the painting over with, as quickly as humanly possible.
As I paint her arm, the tall, burly man with her sways a bit close, also having drunk too much
“I feel dumb,” he slurs. “Can you take this butterfly off my face?”
“But I just painted it, and it’s what you asked for,” I tell him. “Maybe you can just try to forget it’s there?,”I tell him— “that’s what I do when I paint my own face.” I go back to concentrating on the lady’s arm.
“I’m seeing the Stones tomorrow,” she tells me. “I want to wear this to the concert. Can I keep it on that long?”
I wrack my brain for ideas— all I have is some fixative that isn’t super strong, which I’ll use, of course. “Saran Wrap and surgical tape might do the trick,” I tell her. “And you can hold your arm outside the shower, maybe spray some hairspray on it?”
She keeps repeating that she wants it to last for the concert. I try to be supportive, but there are limits on what I can offer.
When I’m finished I hold up the mirror for her to get a better look.
She’s shocked. Her eyes widen. “Wow, you actually did a good job. It’s amazing.” Her voice sounds surprised. I guess she wasn’t expecting much.
Her friend throws a wrinkled $5 bill on my table to supplement the $6 she was “planning to pay me.”
She tells me two things— first that she’s paying $1200 to see the Stones ‘cause it was on her bucket list. I don’t know what to say, so I just mutter, “wow.” I suppose I respect anyone so hellbent on achieving their dream, whatever that might be.
Second— she tells me that I have a steady hand, and that my work is “fantastic.” Have I ever detailed a motorcycle?, she asks. (I say no, since I haven’t). So she says, in a low voice— go to (something) Dog’s biker bar and tell ‘em Shelley sent ya. (I ask her to repeat the name— a Heart cover band is playing loudly, so I can’t hear her very well. Did she say Salty Dog’s? Hot Dog’s? What type of dog/dawg did she mean??). She continues...”There are a lot of Hell’s Angels who would pay good money for this. I swear, you’ll make a million dollars. Tell ‘me Shelley sent you.”
😳
Is this some kind of hidden calling I’ve been missing out on all this time?? 😅 What if I mess up when painting a Hell's Angel hog— what could possibly go wrong???
(Post script: a trusted friend, who’s father owned a biker bar, has just warned me not to get involved with biker gangs!)
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