Chasing Stars

by L. Duarte

  Fifteen years later, they still had not legally become partners. When Joseph died, Rick sought for family, especially my mother and me, but found only an old uncle who wanted nothing to do with the shop. Rick is careless, has more tattoos on his body than you care to count, likes his whiskey too much, and has the worst taste when it comes to women. But, the man is honest to a fault.

  After I almost gave him the heart attack, he told me the story and he insisted I took over the partnership he had arranged with my alleged father. Skeptical, I said thanks and got the name and address of Joseph’s uncle.

  This man, who wanted nothing to do with the shop, also wanted nothing to do with me. After Dan’s persuasion—seriously, who can deny a pastor anything?—he agreed to DNA testing. The result was an eighty-nine percent probability of a relationship. I swear, inheriting my father’s partnership in the shop was awesome, but to know my origin was priceless.

  Rick taught me how to ink and became my mentor just as he had with my dad. I’ve seen pictures of my dad’s work and I am convinced I inherited his talent with ink.

  “What the fuck happened here the day she came over? You check that site of hers about every damn minute.” Rick pulls me from my reverie.

  “Nothing man. I am just star-struck, I guess.” My hand rakes nervously through my hair.

  “No shit. You don’t want to tell me, that’s cool. I’m old school. I understand when a man needs to lay low.” He continues to sketch.

  “Draw a half loop to the button part, it will add dimension to the background,” I suggest over his shoulder. “I can’t stop thinking about her, man. We kissed, that was all. But I just can’t forget it.”

  “No shit, dude.” He peers at me from behind the counter. “And may I ask why nothing else happened? C’mon, with a woman like that in my hands, I would go to seventh heaven and back.” He points to my silver ring. “No offense, man.”

  “None taken,” I say dryly and gather the schedule book, checking the times for any upcoming appointments.

  “I really hate the evening gigs. But this is good money.” I flip the pages as if it is crucial. “Are you going to be around Saturday night?”

  “Are you kidding me? I can’t miss when my lady has a party.”

  A client walks in and I am relieved to busy myself.

  I rub my eyes and stretch my neck and shoulders. Five damn hours of tattooing and I am beat. It is past eleven p.m. on Saturday. I just want a good dinner, and I want bed. Side note: We don’t always get what we want.

  After taping off the tattoo, I instruct my client on its aftercare and bid him good-bye.

  Before my client left, I had snapped a picture of the massive tattoo covering his entire back. The meaning I find behind certain jobs gratifies me. This tat is a beautiful piece of artwork. I examine the clean lines of the pointed roof shape found in the traditional Indonesian house. It took fourteen visits to complete. A photo of the dude’s childhood home inspired the ink. It turns out his parents died in the tsunami of 2004, and he decided to honor them by marking his skin with their home. That’s damn beautiful.

  I discard the needles in a sharps container and disassemble the gun, placing the tubes, tips, and grips in an ultrasonic cleaner. I sanitize the entire surface, gathering the inks and putting them away. When the equipment is clean, I seal it and transfer it to the autoclave. Before I begin the sterilization process, the front door opens.

  “Sorry, we are—” Before I finish the sentence, the singer Tarry Francis props the door open and ushers in Portia and another girl. I hear their giggles and watch flashes from the photographers outside. Tarry closes the door and bolts the lock.

  “Hey, man. I hope you don’t mind that we barged in, but we saw the open sign on.” He drapes his arm around Portia’s shoulders and she intertwines her fingers with his. Her lips turn up in a slow smile.

  “Hey, Will,” she says in the flirtatious way she owns.

  “Hi,” I say.

  “This is Tarry and Niki, my best friends.”

  A taciturn Tarry waves at me and Niki outstretches her hand, uttering, “I heard so much about you. It is so good to finally meet you.”

  “Nice too meet you too,” I say.

  “This must be our lucky day. We have always wanted a friendship tattoo and who better to do it than the god of all inks,” Niki says, trying to lighten the awkward moment.

  “Sorry, guys, I was about to close for the day.” Celebrities think we all should bow to their demands.

  “Oh.” I hear the disappointment on Portia’s voice, and it almost undermines my decision.

  “It’s kind of late. Tomorrow, I should have an opening,” I say.

  “C’mon. It is not a big one and we will not have an opportunity like this any time soon,” Niki says. “Please, I am not beneath begging, you know.” She continues with a soft and calm voice, very different from Portia’s. She gazes at me, and her hazel eyes are sweet and pleading. How does anyone say no to her?

  I rub the drowsiness from my eyes and inhale, “What you guys have in mind?”

  Portia beams, Niki claps her hands, and Tarry rolls his eyes at their excitement.

  I gather my sketchpad and point to the table. “Let’s get started.”

  Their plan is to get a matching tattoo, but after a few minutes of deliberating, they are unable to come to a consensus on what to ink. Portia wants a star, Tarry a small music symbol, and Niki a dragonfly. No offense, but they are not very original. Well, that’s why I am here, the god of all inks.

  “What if I do this?” I quickly pencil the three figures, melding them together and forming a small circle. It is a unique design that is meaningful to each of them. “It will be a little bigger than each symbol alone, but if I overlap each symbol at the right angles.” I intertwine one inside the other. “It will still be a decent size.”

  I notice Tarry raising an eyebrow. “Sweet, man.”

  “I so want one,” Niki exclaims.

  “It will be a few hours to complete the ink on the three of you.” I hand them hard copies of the aftercare instruction and liability waivers.

  “What if only Tarry gets his tattoo done today and we set a future date for ours? He is going back to LA tomorrow,” she says.

  “Sounds good.” Tarry signs the waiver. “Can I use your bathroom first, man?”

  I walk to the front window and pull down the blinds, the nonstop flashes from the paparazzi momentarily blinding me.

  “I’m getting a refill on my coffee, you want some?” I say over my shoulder as I stride to the back of the shop.

  “No, thank you.” They both shake their heads.

  “Be right back.”

  As I fill my cup, I hear the studio door open and close. I glance over and Portia is standing in the middle of the room. For a moment, she seems unsure of what to do.

  “Sorry for intruding,” she utters.

  “No, problem. Does anyone ever succeed in saying no to your friend?” I put the coffee down and search for sugar.

  “Yeah, Niki has this way of persuading people. You have no idea of what she forces Tarry and me to do.” She lets out one of those throaty laughs of hers and, against my better judgment, I laugh too.

  I examine her face, in search of the passion I saw in her eyes the time we kissed and I see it there. Before I have time to think, my body betrays me and I close the space separating us.

  The fire ignites in my body the moment my arms embrace her and I feel her body yielding to mine. My lips crush against hers, with a hungry kiss. My fingers pull her hips closer to my erection. I am lost in the perfection of each soft curve of her body. Time and space disappear. Fueled by desperation, need, and desire, I tighten my embrace and thrust my pelvis against hers. Hell, I need this woman.

  The doors open and my eyes pop open. An apologetic Niki immediately shuts the doors, but the moment is broken.

  “Sorry.” I step back. My breathing is irregular, my pulse is zooming, and my body’s temperature increases to wh
at feels like a thousand degrees Fahrenheit.

  “Yeah, you say that a lot. Well, I am not. Actually, I am sorry that you are sorry, but I can’t help that, huh?” She spins on her heels and disappears out the door.

  For a moment, my idiotic body wants to follow her. I step back and fight the urge. My hands clasp the kitchen counter, and I try to calm my erratic breathing. Frustrated I punch the counter and droplets of coffee spurts over the counter. “Damn it.”

  After regaining control, I head back to the shop. Portia is nonchalantly peeking from the blinds. She glances at me and an indifferent mask is in place.

  Tarry must notice the tension. He approaches Portia and cups her face in his hands.

  “Are you all right, peaches?”

  I could kill him for touching her with so much intimacy. But, Portia and I don’t belong to each other.

  “Oh, I am fine, it’s just these paparazzi. I wish they would leave.” She smiles, though it doesn’t reach her eyes.

  I stride across the room, retrieve the signed paperwork, and shove it inside the drawer. I gather the equipment and point to a corner seat. “You can sit right there.”

  Tarry strips his shirt off and lounges in the chair. Instinctively, my eyes scan his torso and arms. I notice the tats and the needle bites on his arms. The track marks seem recent. “Are you clean, man? I won’t tattoo anyone stoned,” I say bluntly.

  “I’m cool, I’m with the girls.” He frowns, somewhat exasperated.

  “Good. Where do you want the tat?” I ask.

  “I thought of along the ribs,” he points to his left side.

  I examine his inked body. His left arm has a sleeve of diverse symbols. His chest has an eagle, a guitar, and musical notes. My eyes are attracted to the lonely tat on the inside of his right bicep. It is a script of the names Portia and Nillie linked by three chain loops.

  “You have some cool tats,” I offer.

  “Thanks, I got this one when I was drunk,” he laughs while pointing to a guitar on his chest.

  “As long as there are no regrets.” I slide on my gloves.

  “Nah, it is not my favorite, but it’s OK,” he shrugs.

  Portia and Niki pull chairs and seat next to us. I began the tattooing process.

  “Thank you for agreeing to do our tattoo, Will. When we were twelve, we created this kind of bucket list and getting a matching tattoo was on it,” Niki says in her melodious voice.

  “Oh, really?” I start with the outline.

  “Yeah, man. And this is better than walking through a sea of butterflies,” Tarry laughs.

  “Huh?” My hand steadily draws the dragonfly.

  “Every winter, about twenty million monarch butterflies travel ten thousand miles, migrating to Michoacán, Mexico, where they hibernate and reproduce,” Niki says.

  “And Nillie dragged us there to see it.” Portia rolls her eyes.

  Niki sticks her tongue at Portia and continues, “Anyway, there is a mystery surrounding them. Their life span is shorter than the length of the journeys, so they die before returning and teaching the route to newer generation. When it’s time to migrate, the monarchs born in Mexico are leaderless orphans that find their way back to the US or Canada, often returning to the same region occupied by their ancestors.”

  “Wow, what are theories of how they find their way back?” I ask.

  “They are one of the few creatures with a built-in compass enabling them to orient themselves to their destination without knowledge acquired from an older generation,” Niki explains.

  “Nature is surreal,” I add, wiping up the blood on Tarry skin.

  “Right? This past February, we went there. It is unbelievable; you can hear them fluttering their wings,” Portia says.

  “It was incredible to see them, Will. They are extremely beautiful with short lives dependent upon a delicate balance,” Niki says.

  “It is kind of sad that their lives are so short,” Portia replies.

  “But they achieve amazing things before dying,” Niki says.

  “Yeah, true,” Portia says pensively.

  In all honesty, I watch the trio with a bit of awe. Tarry is today’s greatest pop singer, Niki is the daughter of a legendary TV show producer, and Portia is an Oscar-winning actress. However, in my shop talking about butterflies they seem as normal as I am.

  I spend the next hour tattooing Tarry. From time to time, I glance at Portia, who is quiet after the butterfly conversation. I continue the tat, listening as Niki continues to relate her full knowledge about the monarch butterfly.

  In my mind, I compare Portia to the butterfly. According to Niki, they feed on milkweed, becoming highly poisonous to their predators. Their beautiful wings, colorful and long, are the giveaway of how poisonous they can be.

  I wonder if this is my warning sign, if I became her predator I am bound to die from her poisoning. I discard the thought, there is no way she will ever become my prey.

  “Shoot me if I ever drink again.” I peek from under the covers.

  “I better load my gun,” Niki growls from the other side of my queen bed.

  “Seriously, Nillie, my head is about to explode. I need an aspirin, coffee, and three liters of purified water.” I scramble out of the bed.

  “I will have all of the above,” Niki prompts, pushing herself to her elbow. “And you are going to tell me all about that kiss.”

  “There isn’t much to tell.” I shrug, walking to the kitchen to escape her scrutiny.

  My head throbs each time my bare foot thuds on the floor of the apartment. Approaching the kitchen, I sense the glorious aroma of coffee.

  “Buenos dias.” My lips turn on a smile, when I see Estela by the sink.

  “Buenos dias, señorita Portia.” She rinses a plate and dries her hands. “The usual coffee and orange juice?”

  “Yes, please, Estela. For three please, Tarry spent the night over.” I scowl as the sound of each word stabs my skull.

  I slide on the barstool at the kitchen island and wait for Estela to prepare the tray. I have known her my whole life. Basically, she raised my father and, in a way, she watched over me the many summers I spent in New York. When she discovered my passion for all things Spanish, she would take me on day trips to the Bronx, where I played with her grandchildren. I still don’t know if Dad ever knew of our escapades.

  “What happened, Niña? You don’t look too good.” She hands me a tray, with a bottle of aspirin.

  “Bad hangover, Estela,” I grimace.

  “Your papa called yesterday, he said he will be here on Monday and wants to have dinner with you,” she says with her thick accent.

  “OK, I’ll check my filming schedule, and let him know,” I respond nonchalantly. “Gracias.”

  “De nada, mi amor.” She smiles.

  As I stumble back to the room, I sigh heavily. Really, I can’t fool anybody. When my father makes himself available, I drop the world and run to him, like an idiot puppy. I resent myself for this, but I can’t help it.

  The door to my room is open and I spot Tarry, wearing only boxers, lounging on my side of the bed.

  “I come bearing gifts.” I place the tray on the nightstand.

  “Cure for the hangover?” Tarry growls.

  “Close enough.” I open the drapes of my oversized window, blinking repeatedly as the glare from the midday sun invades the room.

  “C’mon.” Niki stuffs a pillow over her face.

  I regret opening the shades, but I want to talk to Tarry and he leaves for LA today to begin recording his new album. Tarry and Niki are the only friends I really have, and in the last few years, we don’t see a whole lot of each other. Tarry is always on tour, Niki is busy with Mr. Hateful, her boyfriend, and I am in different locations filming. A moment like this is precious and doesn’t happen often. God, I miss them so much it hurts.

  A vast halo of nothingness encompassed my life before they came along. Niki was my first and only girlfriend. I lived in an upscale neighborhoo
d in LA, when Niki moved next door to me. I had just turned four. Her father is a TV show producer, known for being soft-spoken, attentive to details, and a perfectionist. He busies himself producing sitcom hits, and mourning the loss of Niki’s mom. He often tried to be a good dad. He did, but looking at Niki seemed too painful for him. She looks a lot like her mom. To make it up to her, he did everything Niki ever wanted, including allowing her to be friends with me.

  By the time, we turned nine, we were inseparable, and that’s when Tarry moved to the house across the street. He hopped aboard a wrecked train, and he wrestled us to take charge. His words not mine. In a way, he sort of did take charge. He guided us in and out of trouble.

  Growing up, Tarry lived with both his parents, unusual in LA, but true. However, he was more invisible to them than I was to my parents, which is a shocker. His mom and dad own a major record label. Music is their only and real passion. Once, they forgot Tarry in London, where they have a second home. They noticed his absence somewhere over the Atlantic. So, they got to LA and called the housekeeper to ensure Tarry was taken care of, until they sent for him.

  Tarry was six at the time and sat next to his suitcase for hours, waiting for them to come for him until he fell asleep. When he told us, he made a joke out of it, but I saw on his face that the neglect deeply hurt him. The worst part of the story is Tarry’s parents don’t do booze and were sober at the time.

  People always assume money grants a free ticket to everywhere. Though we had all the money most people can only think of, we were the rejects of the plastic city of LA, where artificial is the norm and the normal is outdated. For different reasons, the circle of kids that is exclusive to the wealthiest, excluded us. It is hard to pinpoint the moment we became the rejects. Once it happened, the elite society ran away from us every single time we approached. In hindsight, we probably initiated the process by refusing to fit in the proper boxes shaped for us. Call it what you may, but we simply refused to follow the beat of their drums. We were three misfits who complemented each other. Niki was lonely and shy. Tarry was lanky and socially awkward. And me, well, I was the…never mind.