by Roan Parrish
“Scattered, how?”
“Uh, like, impulsive. If someone was taking off somewhere I’d go with them. Friend of mine decided to do a three-month bike trip through Canada and I just left with him in the middle of the night. And, uh, I was doing a lot of drugs, just kind of, I don’t know, looking for something.”
His expression was serious and he wouldn’t look at me.
“What were you looking for?”
He shrugged, and fidgeted. “I was trying to understand things,” he said slowly. “I—things had been hard for my brother and I was trying to understand.” He shook his head. “All my life, I was pretty good at everything—pretty good at everything, but not great at anything. Not obsessed with anything. Not…driven to any one thing. And when I finished college, I didn’t know what I wanted to do. I did so many different jobs, dated all these different people because I was looking for that one thing that I just felt more for.”
He shrugged and I got the sense there was a lot that he hadn’t said, but he clearly was done talking about it.
“What about you?” he asked.
“This is exactly what I always wanted to do.”
✕ ✕ ✕
“So who’s the dude?”
“Dude? What dude?”
“Mmhmm.”
Morgan looked at me over the top of her glasses. I was finishing a totally nice tattoo of totally nice flowers on a totally nice guy, but it was a pretty mindless job.
Whenever clients came in, I always reminded myself that I didn’t know their stories. That those extremely generic, middle-of-the-road flowers were likely very personal to the person getting them tattooed.
Even if they weren’t, I didn’t have some kind of campaign against meaninglessness or anything. Tattoos were art. They didn’t have to be meaningful necessarily, any more than you had to have a reason better than I like it for hanging a piece of art in your living room. Besides, half the time we didn’t even consciously process why we cared about things, did we? Sometimes we found ourselves strongly drawn to something for reasons that seemed mysterious. Nothing wrong with that either.
But I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t believe—just the tiniest bit—in a kind of tattoo blood magic. That transmutation of flesh and ink that renders the aesthetic permanent. I felt it. When my machine bit into flesh, my needle whispered secrets in its hushed buzz. It felt sacred to me, the communion of art that changed a body forever.
Flower Guy murmured his approval into the mirror, and I wrapped up his tattoo and started cleaning up my station.
“He was certainly vibing you pretty hard, whoever he was.”
I should’ve known Morgan wouldn’t let it go.
“He works at Melt. He brought me a sandwich. We’ve chatted a few times, that’s all.”
“Who have you chatted with?” Marcus walked the client he’d just finished to the door then dropped into my now-empty chair.
“Dude who was in here last night to see Miss Ginger.”
“Oh, yeah, I wondered who that guy was. Handsome.”
I rolled my eyes. They were never going to let it go. I dumped my station’s debris in the waste bin and sighed, throwing myself onto the battered leather couch along the wall.
“Fine. His name’s Christopher and I’ve been going to his sandwich shop to see him like a pathetic loser, and last night he brought me a sandwich and it’s, like, the nicest thing any random has ever done for me.”
“What? No way. How about the time that girl gave you backstage passes to Lady Gaga?” Morgan chimed in.
“Okay, point of clarification. It’s the nicest thing any random has done for me because I’m me as opposed to because I gave them a tattoo they liked.”
“Why does that make you a pathetic loser?” Marcus asked.
“No, I know,” I said.
“The question stands.”
“Ugh, because, whatever. He has a functional relationship with his mother. He eats balanced, healthy meals.”
“Well, obviously that’s stupid. What’s the real reason?” Morgan flicked her nails at me.
“I’m being totally serious.”
I wasn’t, really. But aside from Marcus himself, who I’d dated for a year a very long time ago, and a woman named Bria, who’d left the city after we broke up (not that her leaving was really my fault), I’d never dated anyone longer than a month. And even that was usually too long. So it was easier to just avoid it, especially when I turned out not to like very many people much anyway. It was easier to be on my own than to make the kind of compromises that nearly everyone I’d ever dated had encouraged me to make.
Sometimes that encouragement was clear. If you’re always working, I’ll never get to see you, so just take a night off. Or, I like your tattoos fine, but it’s a pretty nice restaurant, so… Sometimes it wasn’t explicit; it was just me. Me, seeing the things someone wished were different about me and expending a lot of energy not to capitulate to what they wanted me to be.
The chances of Christopher being the exception to all the rules I’d built up over the years seemed mathematically unlikely. So, given that it wasn’t going to turn into anything but me being hot for a guy I had no chance of a successful relationship with, hanging out at his shop made me, by definition, both pathetic and a loser. So there.
⌃ ⌃ ⌃
J,
Oh yeah, I’m very familiar with that look. She gave it to me once when she caught me sneaking into the house junior year, drunk, after a Battle of the Bands thing, and it made me feel so guilty I just confessed to everything on the spot. I get why you don’t want her to come visit. Or Dad. But are you sure I can’t come? I know I don’t understand how you feel. I know it’s not the same for me. But I still wish you’d talk to me, man. I’m not a little kid anymore—maybe I could help.
Kaspar called me, did you know? After he found you, but before they’d told Mom and Dad where you were. He really cares about you, bro. I know that’s not the point, I’m just saying: if you want to go back there, you wouldn’t have to be alone if you didn’t want to be. I know, I know, you like to be alone. It’s just…do you? Or do you just feel guilty because you think you’re a burden on people? Because someone who really loves you wouldn’t feel that way, ya know? I’m not saying it has to be Kaspar, but…I don’t know what I’m saying. I just thought you should know he cares.
Anyway, q for you, big bro. At what point do you either have to make a move on someone or resign yourself to just being friends? I’ve been kinda holding on, waiting to see if Ginger would give me some kind of sign she’s into me. Or even a sign she’s not. I don’t really know where I stand. She’s not flirtatious, and the first times we met, I thought maybe she wasn’t into dudes, so I had no chance, but now I think she’s just not flirtatious in general, because I swear we have chemistry. At least, I don’t think it’s just me? And she does seem glad to see me…but also whenever she sees me she gets coffee and food, so maybe it’s just one of those whattayacall them responses, like a dog and a bell—or is it a rat and food pellets? A rat and a bell? You know what I mean.
Ugh, I don’t know, it’s like every time I’m around her I feel like I’ve known her forever…but also she always surprises me. Like, she feels comfortable and right, somehow, even though she’s really different than me. God, I sound like such an idiot. Good thing you’re such an antisocial loner. At least I know you’re not in there telling everyone else what a dork your brother is. Advice, please?
Love you, bro. You’ll tell me if you need anything, right? I could send it. And I know I’m a broken record here, but if you want to talk…
C
Chapter 5
“It’s so hard to find good help these days!” I moaned in a terrible Old Hollywood accent, and collapsed onto the couch, head hanging upside down over the side, arm trailing dramatically on the floor, blue and black flannel trailing dramatically (and unintentionally) over my face. Marcus fanned me idly with a back issue of Inked magazine.
“Help with what?” Christopher stood above me, holding another paper bag from the shop.
I pushed the flannel off my face and pulled myself right-side up. He was wind-blown, red hair disordered and scarf uneven. His orange-blond stubble was longer than I’d seen it before, and he looked a little tired. But that made sense, considering he opened shop at seven a.m. Still, tired or not, he looked ridiculously hot, and I had a clear picture of what I wanted to do to him: push him up against the counter and kiss him until he turned the tables on me. “Um, hi.”
“Hey,” he said. “I hope it’s okay I dropped by.”
This was the third night in a row that Christopher had come by around eight thirty, and brought food from his shop. The first time had been a few nights after Halloween, and he’d brought me a pastrami sandwich with whole grain mustard and Swiss cheese. He’d stayed for about an hour, chatting with Morgan and Marcus and generally making a good impression.
When he’d left, I’d felt this drop in the pit of my stomach, like the air leaving a balloon. While he’d been casually hanging out, everything had felt sparkly and exciting. As he’d walked out the door, Marcus had leaned close and said, “If you think it’s doomed to fail with that guy and you aren’t even going to try then you are a total idiot.”
The thing was, I knew he was right. But I hardly had enough time to make everything in my life work as it was. Add a relationship into the mix and…yeah, no way.
Even painting, which I loved, had been on the back burner the last couple of years as I made the shop into what I wanted it to be. Agreeing to do Malik’s show had been aspirational. I’d known it would force me to take time for the work, which I wanted to do anyway.
Uh, that and Malik had dared me.
Well, goaded. A neat little praise sandwich between slices of goading. “You haven’t shown me anything new in a fucking year, Ginger! You’re so damn talented I can’t stand to see you not make time for your painting. Or, I dunno, maybe you’re all about the quick one-and-done now, more interested in making bank than making art…”
I’d committed to the show even though I’d known Malik was goading me, because he was right. I wanted the shop to succeed, and to me success was about doing the best work we possibly could, in the most ethical way we possibly could, for the greatest number of awesome people we possibly could. But a big part of that was money. I’d taken on a huge financial burden, and even though I loved being in charge of the shop, building it into my ideal, the money part of being the boss fucking sucked. I’d had to learn by doing, and I’d made a lot of mistakes. I’d gotten better over the last year or so, but it always felt like a slog since the money side of things wasn’t where my passion lay.
I was determined for it to be a success though. Because it was my hope—and now Marcus’s, Morgan’s, Lindsey and Tara’s. And also because I’d be goddamned if I didn’t prove everyone who’d doubted me wrong. My parents, who thought tattooing was trashy and worthless and an embarrassment. The people who gave me shit when I was an apprentice, insinuating that Jonathan was only giving me a shot because he wanted to sleep with me, or that clients wouldn’t take me seriously. And everyone who asked to speak to my boss, even after I’d told them I was the owner of the shop.
I wanted every single one of them to eat shit, and I also had a hundred ideas for ways to improve Small Change, things we could do as a shop to connect with others in the industry, and to help out our neighborhood. But for that to happen, Small Change very much needed to be in the black. Recently, that had meant working nearly every day, from open to close, and taking care of all the other shop business any moment I could spare. And it was working, even if I was tired all the time and woke up at least once a week from anxiety dreams where the shop burned down, or flooded, or once was whisked away in a tornado, and landed in Northern Liberties, on top of that retro-chic bowling alley, two feet in striped socks and bowling shoes sticking out from underneath it, then shriveling to nothing.
So yeah, a relationship? If it meant taking time away from all the things I’d been working my ass off for, then it was very much not on my immediate to-do list.
Last night had been the second night Christopher had come in, and he’d brought sandwiches for Morgan and Marcus too, which was the kiss of death because now they’d tell him anything. He’d bonded with Marcus over some band they both liked and earned major points with Morgan because he’d complimented her manicure. I’d gone to the bathroom and come back to hear Morgan telling Christopher I lived in the apartment upstairs.
“Oy, social foul using sandwiches as conversational lubrication to fast-track information gathering!” I’d said.
Now, Marcus looked up from fanning me and said, “It’s great you dropped by.”
“Yeah, great,” Morgan echoed, shooting me a sharp look. “Isn’t it great, Ginger?”
“Yeah, it’s great,” I muttered.
It was my friends I was irritated with, but Christopher’s face, usually open and sunny, clouded over. And guilt flooded me because I hadn’t meant it to be directed toward him at all.
“Shit, sorry,” I said. “That was an asshole thing to say. I totally didn’t mean it like that. It is great, really. I’m glad you’re here.”
He scrubbed a hand over his jaw and tugged on his scarf. “Maybe I’ll just leave these for you guys.” He put the bag on the counter.
“We can’t find another tattooer,” I explained.
“Huh?” He turned toward me.
“That’s the help we can’t find. And why I’m in a shitty mood that makes me say mean things to nice people. Who bring sandwiches. We’ve gone through a gazillion portfolios and there’s no one that’s right for the shop. And we’re swamped. So. I’m sorry. Stay, really.”
A small smile touched his lips. I could have sworn he looked more tired than usual. Weary. But he grabbed the bag and handed out sandwiches, then sat on the couch next to me. “So what would make someone a good fit? What’s wrong with all the people you’ve seen?”
I loved the way he seemed interested in everything.
Marcus groaned. “Well, on the artistic side, it’s about getting someone who’s good at the right things. Like, Ginger’s magic at black and gray. Especially detailed work. Realism. Portraits. Pinups. Not that she’s not great at other stuff too, but that’s where she really shines. I like black and gray, but I specialize in old school stuff—imagine nineteen forties or fifties-style tattoos—and traditional Japanese images. It’s bold color and intricate lines. So, what we’re missing is someone who’s really good with bright and subtle color work, and someone who does what you’d think of as more cartoonish work. New-school-style, exaggerated forms, super saturated color, color work with no outlines, all that kind of thing.”
“Then it’d help if they weren’t the scum of the earth,” Morgan said around a mouthful of tuna melt. “Like this one’s douchebag ex. Great tattoo artist, great with color work, less great at the whole not being a bag of dicks thing.”
“Your ex?”
I nodded. “For better or for worse, tattooing is a small and incestuous world. Especially in Philly.”
“It’s these fucking dudes,” Morgan said, then quickly looked at Christopher. “Er, sorry. But it’s a sad truth.”
“I get it,” Christopher said with a shrug. “Or, I mean, I probably don’t get it get it, but I have heard tell that it’s an issue.”
“It’s a whole fucking volume,” Morgan said.
“The thing is we can’t afford to hold out for the perfect person forever because we’ve gotten slammed lately,” I explained. “We can’t keep up and I’m playing the evil boss, keeping these lovelies away from their homes and families and like…dogs and stuff.” I cringed as I looked at Morgan and Marcus. “Sorry, a thousand times sorry.”
It seemed like all I did recently was apologize to them for this. But the idea of letting the wrong person into the shop I’d worked so hard to build filled me with panic.
“We want the right person t
oo, boo,” said Morgan, and Marcus nodded.
“Yeah, it’s our home too.”
“We got written up in Philly Mag,” Morgan told Christopher. “Most queer-friendly shop in the city. Only female-owned shop in the city. Which, awesome, but now… Ya know. Biz, she is a-booming.”
“That’s awesome. The only female-owned shop? I would never have guessed that.”
We all smiled grimly. From the outside, the tattoo business seemed to have changed a lot in the last decade. It was more and more common to see tattoos on women, so people imagined that translated into the business itself. In fact, in a game like tattooing, where you needed to really know someone for them to be willing to teach you, where an apprenticeship lasted years, and then it took years to establish yourself in the business, the industry ran ten or fifteen years behind the street trends at least.
And no matter how much things changed at the level of female interest in tattooing, the number of talented artists drummed out of the business by macho posturing, unwanted sexual behavior, and abuse, not to mention good old-fashioned misogyny, was staggering.
I thought of them often, the ghost crew of talented women who were the casualties of that toxic attitude. I thought of how different the industry could be—how much better—if they had a place in it.
I took a huge bite of my sandwich and sank back into the couch, chewing with my eyes closed. A BLT. Delicious, like they all were. I couldn’t believe there were people alive who hadn’t wanted these sandwiches.
“—been working really hard on her paintings for a show coming up.”
“Omigod,” I said, jerking upright. “Did I just fall asleep sitting up, with a sandwich in my mouth?”
The crumbs on my chest and the leaf of lettuce resting limply on my collarbone pointed to yes. Jesus. I risked a glance up at Christopher. But his expression was…fond? I really hoped I didn’t have mayonnaise on my face.