When the guy told me his name, I heard “Chris,” but I had to sign a waiver and he’d written Rist as the tattooist on the form. I said it softly under my breath, “Rist,” and figured it was probably the most off-the-wall nickname for Christopher he could come up with that wasn’t already commonplace. As I handed back the waiver, I said, “Cool name.”
He shrugged and looked over my driver’s license. “I like it. You go by Tommy, Tom, what?”
I wished I had a neat derivative to call myself, but I didn’t. “Tom’s fine. Tommy. Whatever.”
If I had hoped for a second smile, I didn’t get it. Instead, he nodded at the panels of preprinted tattoo art that hung beside the counter on poster frames. “Why don’t you pick out a design while I set things up? Won’t be long.”
“What kind of price are we looking
