Bridge Street in New Cumberland exudes “Main Street, U.S.A.” It mixes prime rib and Pilates, kayak rentals and ballet classes, people salons and dog salons. Drivers decelerate 30 feet before intersections, and sidewalks refuse to crack.

But turn down 4th Street, and things are less glossy. Bamboo blinds hang unevenly in the Martial Arts Academy building. A coin dealer uses metal detector clip art on his sign. And tattoo artist Frank McManus has mismatched window dressings. The left shop window contains an orchid plant and five bricks. The right window is empty, minus a comatose moth in the corner.

The door is locked for an early evening appointment. After a stint on Spike TV’s “Ink Master” in July, Frank is back in business. I study the policies on the pane, “No Kids, No Checks, No Attitude, No Refunds,” and stretch my neck to hear the needle buzz. A knock and elbow bump later—his surgical gloves rule out a handshake—I’m on the couch, listening to Jim Dzur, 37, describe the pain.

If it’s a line, it feels like an X-Acto knife. Shading feels more like a blowtorch.

“It’s like a really bad brush burn or a lot of bee stings,” adds Frank. “I hate getting tattooed.”

Frank, 29, has been tattooing professionally for six years, which makes him an infant in the industry. In 2002, he dropped out of Cedar Cliff High School months before graduation. “I was always a different kid. They weren’t doing anything to make me a better artist,” he says.

When the library wouldn’t sign his dropout papers because he owed dues, Frank roamed the halls for nearly two months until the principal offered to pay them. Frank insists that quitting school was one of the best decisions he’s ever made.

Jim lets out a sturdy sigh. “I know, buddy. I know it sucks,” says Frank as he finishes some shading around the ankle. Yoda will take another session to complete, but Jim is eager to discuss tattoo culture and the hippo on his belly before hitting the road.

After a smoke, Frank settles in to his “desk” chair. His light blue Vans shirt and checkerboard slip-ons brighten up the dark but cozy parlor. He keeps the Winston Gold Box handy.

True to tortured artist form, Frank says his art teachers hated him because he wouldn’t follow their rules. He sketched everyday in school and then everyday at his gas station job a few years later. That’s where a regular convinced Frank to hand over his portfolio to a couple of “tattoo buddies.” Shortly after, Frank became an apprentice at Permanent Impressions in Lemoyne. He spent two years there before opening Brass Monkey Studios in Harrisburg.

Frank describes the early learning process as “magical.” He lifts his pant leg to show me a skull tattoo he did on his thigh for practice, which he warns is terrible. He had to work upside down and couldn’t hold on to anything for the pain. There are still some unfinished lines.

However, now that he’s received some career recognition and feels satisfied with his style, Frank admits that tattooing is less enchanting. “Now that I know I’m in and I can do it, now it’s pressure.”

Frank beat out hundreds of applicants for a spot on the reality-competition series “Ink Master.” Though his experience was short-lived—he was the first to be eliminated for a scorpion tattoo and baboon cover-up on an inmate—he’s garnered a lot of local attention. “It was a little hard to take at first just ’cause I’m not used to it,” he says. While Frank realizes that the fame is good for business, he doesn’t want it to change him. “If I, in any way, start thinking I’m cool, I might start tricking myself [into an ego]. I don’t like that.”

When he’s not rushing to complete a tattoo on camera, Frank usually spends 30 minutes on consultations and hours on research before picking up a pencil. If he’s doing a Japanese phoenix with a fire and a skull, he might draw the fire 10 different times after studying different Japanese artists. Sketching sometimes takes up to 15 hours. That’s why, when he has time for simple walk-ins, they can be cathartic.

After four years in the city, Frank moved his work to New Cumberland in 2012. His business partner, Bryan Campbell, rents the space so Frank can focus on his art. “I was tired of owning a business,” says Frank. “Upkeep, bills, having a shop phone,” he explains.

Indeed there’s no shop phone in sight, and his mobile voicemail still sounds tired: “Please leave an intriguing message. If it’s boring, please text me.” Fortunately, Frank’s assistant schedules most of his appointments.

In New Cumberland, Frank says he does 40 percent more business than he did in Harrisburg. When I ask why, he references inner-city stigma. People from Colonial Park, the West Shore and Hershey either didn’t want to deal with parking or were too concerned about crime, he says. “I don’t think it’s really anything Harrisburg specific. I think it’s city problems.”

Although he’s tattooed all kinds of people—lawyers, doctors, accountants, cops, drug dealers, ex-cons, bikers—he says he generally likes to keep the conservative elite at bay.

“They have their thing. They appreciate a master’s degree and a super big paycheck and a retirement, and I think that’s awesome. But go and like that. I won’t bother you about what you like, and you don’t bother me about what I like.”

“Let’s just not try to play the ‘everybody’s going to get along’ game,” he pleads, “because we’re not. Maybe there’s a potential for us to reach some sort of consciousness, but right now, we don’t have it. Let’s be realistic about it at least.”

Self-described as “overly philosophical” and wary of the government, Frank tells me that visible tattoos communicate a worldview. The fact that he’s tattooed on his hands lets people know he doesn’t personally value white-collar ideals.

Frank grew up in a more conservative Presbyterian family. But when his grandparents died, he says his family fell out of the strict Sunday routine. These days, his mom, dad, little brother, half-sister and niece attend different churches or no church. Frank remembers sketching on Bibles to pass the time.

At the front of the shop, a messy stack of stencil transfer paper looks like its own kind of sacred text, with rose petal outlines peeking out. Parts of his one-room parlor are orderly—three skeleton paintings are perfectly positioned on the lavender wall—while other parts are chaotic like the papers. But chaos, he says, serves his process.

The only schedule Frank follows is his tattooing schedule. Other than that, sleep and food fall by the wayside. If he’s really inspired, he’ll stay up for 24 or 36 hours; sometimes he won’t eat for a day. Frank refuses to take sleeping pills or anti-depressants because his product wouldn’t be the same, he says. “The reason that I create artwork in the way that I do is because I don’t have a schedule. It’s cause my life’s f***’d up.”

He challenges me to name the last rich kid who made great art. “They don’t have any need to. I need to because I feel like shit a lot of the time,” he laughs, tugging on his buoyant hair.

From the way Frank engages his clients, you wouldn’t know he’s distressed. He introduces his “buddy Hawk,” who lifts his shirt to show me two colorful sparrows for his two children. Frank lets Hawk ramble about his back surgery, shuffle around the shop and arrange the table with lots of pillows. Hawk strolls outside to wait until we’re finished, and Frank, smiling, fiddles with the creases in his jeans.

He whips his hands behind his head and rotates in his chair. “A lot of the time, I don’t feel like I’m making an active decision to create [a piece of art]. It just pours out,” he confesses. “So if I have to stay up for three days, I have to. That’s a true need.”