I got a guy I've been tattooing for 2+ years. He's in bad shape. Had open heart surgery after getting sepsis started from a tooth infection, has a pacemaker in. Knew he did stints in jail and on drugs but usually had his shit together. Not today.
He showed up shirtless, soaked with sweat, tweaked out of his fucking mind. Has his 'girlfriend' with him that he's never mentioned once, who promptly shows up and goes in the bathroom for 10 minutes. As I'm prepping him he literally cannot stop moving. I smell the strangest odor. One of his eyes is bloodshot like he got punched. We get the stencil on and I lay him down and realize that his entire body is wafting with this overpowering plasticine sweat odor that I've only smelled out in the street in passing from the worst kind of druggies. It's either meth or crack cocaine.
Do I get to tell him to get the fuck out? Even as he admits that the giant bottle full of orange juice he brought is half vodka? I have half the mind to do so when he gets on the phone and starts yelling about some guy living in his apartment planning on doing a driveby, he's gonna beat some fucker up, all this crazy fucking shit that is so far removed from normal that I become frightened of speaking up. This is a person who could very well be HIV positive and I am put in the position of either A) kicking his ass out of the shop and dealing with the fallout or B) tattooing him despite the fact that he is shaking, sweating, and tweaked. I go with B because I've lived in the city all my life and I know standing up for yourself or making the wrong comment has gotten some fuckers killed.
Halfway through he bottoms out. He's passing out in the chair. Girlfriend tells me he hasn't been sleeping, but twice I have to physically use my body to stop him from rolling out onto the fucking floor. My room reeks of sickness. The stink is still here.
I'm so angry about it. I'm angry about my entire fucking job situation and the fact that as a 120-lb white chick I have to put up with literally anything that comes through the door. I hate I have to be nice and understanding of people that bring in their entire clown car of fucked up shit and dump it in my chair. I'm pissed I had to listen to some crackhead trying to fake a cool accent run her mouth the entire goddamn time. I'm angry that I did one of the best tattoos of my career on a guy that's going to be dead within a few years. I'm angry because it's been three fucking hours and I swear on my loved ones that the stench of burnt crack cocaine or meth sweat is stuck in my nostrils, despite a shower bomb, scrubbing, brushing my teeth, and washing my hair.