The Hipster Chronicles

by Faith Andrews

  Scowling yet smiling, I flipped him the bird and made my way to the front of the shop. Once at the reception area, I pulled my hair out of my face and into a messy-but-tight topknot. With my tongue circling the inner side of the piercing at the corner of my mouth—a habit I’d probably never abandon as long as I wore the tiny metal ring—my eyes scanned the waiting area. Two teenage girls scrolled through their phones, enthusiastic with rebellion. A couple held hands, an engagement ring on the woman’s left hand, the man’s tattooed arm resting on her knee. An older dude with graying hair displayed an impressive portrait of a pin-up model on his calf. And then there was him. A rugged, blond-haired blue-eyed, all-American dude with virgin skin and a nervous grin, beckoning me toward him. Please let it be him. He definitely doesn’t want a rose.

  My eyes darted in a Russian roulette sort of fashion as I awaited the moment of truth. Who would it be? Whose skin would be forever marked by my hand. I loved this part of my job. The meet and greet. There was something strange and beautiful, intimate even, about being the artist designated to permanently decorate another human being. Granted, this was just a run of the mill walk-in and not an appointment in which the client actually went about researching my work and sought me out, but still—my art + their body . . . forever. I found myself eager to discover which of these strangers would grant me the honor.

  “Well? Which one of you lucky peeps is my next victim?” I finally blurted, my anxiousness getting the best of me. Anxiousness was a bad word for it. It was more like the adrenaline rush you experience right before riding a roller coaster, and I’d never tire from this particular exhilaration. Even if it is a rose.

  After one more pregnant pause of silence, he stood. All-American boy. A grin drew my lips up at the corners. It was a smile I felt tugging at my anatomy. I could barely control my hands from involuntarily clapping and rubbing themselves together.

  I walked a footstep closer. He did, too. We stood toe to toe and then he declared, cracking his knuckles, “One scared shitless victim comin’ right up.”

  A scaredy cat. How cute. I would’ve never guessed based on his appearance, but then again, I knew all too well that looks could be mighty deceiving. Sixty percent of my milky, freckled skin was covered in ink and I had more holes from piercings than I did from God. But I was a daddy’s girl and my big brother, Milo, meant the world to me. I was a softy at heart—my outer shell did not match my innermost nature. I liked that I could encompass both hard and soft without much effort, and used that power to greet my latest client.

  Extending my left hand—my working hand—I stepped closer to him. “Hey, I’m Marley. No reason to be scared. I promise I won’t bite.” It was something I said to all seemingly uneasy clients, but for some reason, this time I meant it. I would take care of him, or at least promise not to laugh if he cried from the pain.

  “Hey. Jasper. Nice to meet ya, Marley.” His smile was a mix between charming and terrified. I had to wonder if he was here on a dare. No one this visibly nervous wound up in here of their own accord without bringing someone for moral support.

  “Jasper,” I whispered, leaning in closer. “You sure you want to do this?”

  Gulping and closing his eyes simultaneously, he nodded. “I’m sure. And I’m sorry for coming off like a . . . well, like a pussy.” He whispered the last part and looked around to make sure no one was listening to our private conversation before his eyes settled on mine again. Innocent. Sweet. Genuine. It wasn’t often someone like him, in packaging like his, came in here looking for ink—from me. Before I could say anything, he opened up to me like a blooming flower, thirsty for what was to come. “It’s just . . . I’m new here. I’m embracing my surroundings, trying new things, livin’ in the moment. Ya’ know? It’s not so much my fear of needles that has me shakin’ in my boots. It’s more the fear of the unknown.”

  I almost staggered from his directness. And his drawl. A southern boy. Fascinating. Jasper had piqued my interest within a matter of minutes. I’d totally do him up a rose if that’s what he was into. Even though I smiled—practically giggled, actually, from my personal joke—Jasper’s demeanor still resembled one of a deer in headlights. It was then I contemplated the unthinkable. Maybe I should get him stoned. A puff for me, a pass to him, everyone’s calm and relaxed. But suddenly I remembered. I was a woman. One hell of a badass woman, might I add. He didn’t need a joint to calm his nerves. He had me. And I was about to welcome him to the neighborhood and pop his tattoo cherry all while giving him my very own dose of southern hospitality.

  I rose up on tippy toes and curled my arm around his neck. “Come on, Jasper. You’re in good hands. I’ve got you.”

  ANYTIME I MET with a client, I sized them up. Their tattoo choice usually said a lot about the person they were, or who they wanted to be, anyway. Each of mine meant something special to me, with careful consideration as to placement, color, size and significance. Sure, there was always that random kid who wanted a meaningless butterfly, or some Chinese character just for the sake of getting inked, but the majority of people who decided to mark their bodies for all of eternity put a modicum of thought into it.

  Jasper was no different. Much like me, his tattoo came with a story; a good one, too, might I add. That story and the way he told it with his whole body had me unable to tear my eyes away from him as he spoke. Be it his southern accent or his rugged good looks, I didn’t know. What I did know was that I was intrigued for the first time in a long time. You see, this country boy was the furthest thing from my type. Then again, you had to actually date to have a type and I hadn’t been on one in over a year. I was busy. I was preoccupied. I was burnt out from too many disappointments. I blamed Brooklyn and the whole hipster community. Slap a pair of suspenders and some facial hair on a dude and all of a sudden, they’re God’s gift. Not many other options in these parts. Hence my sudden fascination with Jasper.

  With my unwavering attention on his mouth, I listened to the tail end of his story. “It’s my favorite quote from that song, and anything by Willie Nelson was basically Pop’s gospel. I’ve been wanting to commemorate him in some way since he passed, and well, this just seems like the perfect way to do that.”

  I nodded and smiled. I couldn’t agree more, even if you couldn’t pay me to sit down and listen to a single Willie Nelson tune without tying me to a chair. But Jasper wasn’t paying me for my two cents; he was paying me for my art, and I was more than happy to draw up the tattoo he asked me to create for him. “So, placement . . .” I scanned his thick bicep with my eyes and then reached out to inspect it with my hands.

  Jasper’s lips curled into a grin and he flexed his muscle when my tiny fingertips touched him there.

  “Sorry,” I said, arching a brow. “I have this thing where I need to feel my canvas before I work.”

  “Touch away,” he drawled, rolling his sleeve up even higher.

  I laughed at his mild dose of flirting. “The needle won’t feel as warm and fuzzy. You okay with that? You seemed a little tense when you first walked in.”

  Jasper bowed his head and then snapped it back up to greet me with an embarrassed smile. “Not exactly a huge fan of needles, but I’ve always wanted one and Pop’s anniversary is coming up, so . . .” He trailed off and I felt a hint of his sadness in my own chest.

  “I’m sorry.” I offered a tight smile and rubbed my hand up and down the strong arm that was my blank canvas. “When did he pass?”

  Jasper swallowed hard. “Five years ago. It was sudden and it kind of rocked my world. My mom and sisters, too. But Mama’s moved on and found herself a guy who makes her happy again. Pop would want that for her. He’d want this for me, too.”

  I then remembered what he said earlier about a fresh start and being new here, and I decided I really wanted to know more. It was an added bonus to the job I already loved—having people tell me their life stories without reservation. My hands left Jasper’s arm and I stood from my stool. “Let me get this drawn up for you
—half hour tops—and then I want to hear all about what brought you here. The tattoo shouldn’t take more than, say . . . two hours, so at least we’ll have something to chat about to keep your mind off . . . the needle.”

  Jasper gave me a thumbs up, the somber moment behind us for now. “Sounds good to me. Should I wait here?”

  “Here, or back at reception. Wherever you’re comfortable.”

  He eyed my work station—pictures of me and my brother, some drawings—and then caught a glimpse of Darren huddled over the tramp-stamp he was working on. Apparently, that piqued his interests because he said, “As long as it’s all right with you, I’ll park myself right here until you’re ready for me.”

  Who was I to deny a man a free show? I winked at him before walking away, and smiled to myself knowing I’d soon have another satisfied customer.

  BY THE TIME I came back with the drawing, I was kind of digging it and really proud of my work. Other than the quote from a song called “Wonderful Future,” Jasper asked that I incorporate a Stetson and a pair of cowboy boots. I found it endearing, albeit so far from my own taste, and hoped Jasper would like what I’d come up with. A badass replica of vintage boots, a large brimmed hat, and the quote let me trade one tomorrow for one yesterday in an upturned arch of freehand script.

  “Hey, cowboy, what do you think?”

  I swung my hips as I walked back to my work station, eager for Jasper’s approval. Extending the sketch to him, I anticipated his initial reaction with the impatience of a four-year-old awaiting a visit from Santa. Luckily, it took mere seconds to read the excitement on Jasper’s face.

  “Holy smokes, Marley. This is exactly how I pictured it. Better, even. Girl, you ’bout made my year. I only wish Pop was here to see it.”

  I leaned over him and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “I’m sure he is, Jasper. It’s moments like these I like to think the ghosts we once knew are right alongside us, enjoying the ride.”

  Jasper nodded his head, not tearing his eyes from the sketch. I’d done good. Another happy camper. Although I was speaking too soon; we had to get this bad boy on his arm before I could blow my own horn.

  “Ready to make it permanent?” I asked, clapping my hands and rubbing them together.

  “I reckon I am. Just tell me what to do and I’m all yours for the next few hours.”

  That sounded so much more appealing than it should, but I smiled in spite of myself and gave Jasper the rundown of what to expect next. Jasper was a trooper. The first prick of the needle almost made him jump out of his boots, but once the steady, numbing vibration of the tattoo kicked in, he relaxed and our conversation flowed just as comfortably.

  “I really commend you for picking up and coming here, sight unseen, all on your own. New York is a big place. I’d be totally overwhelmed if I hadn’t grown up here.”

  “Who said I wasn’t totally overwhelmed?” he joked.

  “Yeah, it’s a lot to take in, but there really is no place I’d rather be.” I used a towel to wipe the excess ink and droplets of blood from his arm and continued talking to keep him distracted. “Why Brooklyn and not Manhattan, if I’m not being too nosy?”

  “Please. Be nosy. Ask me whatever you want, so long as you keep me occupied.” He winced when I moved the needle to the fleshier inside of his arm.

  “I’m sorry, but this part’s going to sting a bit.”

  “Never mind that.” He closed his eyes, but continued in a monotone voice. “You were asking why here and not the big city?”

  I nodded, snickering at his adorable guise.

  “I’ve always wanted to live in New York at some point in my life, but the idea of all those tall skyscrapers and crowded streets didn’t feel so welcoming.”

  “Not all of Manhattan is tall buildings, country boy.”

  “I’m sure you’re right, but something about Williamsburg just feels quaint . . . like back home.”

  “Yeah, well, 125,000 people crammed into two square miles of space isn’t exactly quaint.”

  I could tell Jasper wanted to laugh but he was too afraid to move. “Not to mention the price of real estate. I could own a whole farm back home for the cost of one year’s rent out here.”

  “And your apartment is the size of a shoe box, isn’t it?”

  “A toddler’s shoe box.”

  We shared an appreciative chuckle as I dabbed his skin with the towel again. “That’s New York for you. Big city, big dreams, teeny tiny living space at astronomical prices.”

  “That might be true, but the good definitely outweighs the bad.”

  “Yeah? What are your pros?” I was curious.

  “I’ve met lots of different people that I wouldn’t have if I’d stayed in Alabama.”

  “I am pretty cool, aren’t I?”

  “That you are, Miss Marley.”

  “What else?” I urged him.

  “Men in cowboy hats seem to get a lot more attention here.” He waggled his blond brows.

  “That doesn’t surprise me,” I admitted. “Fedoras and manbuns are a dime a dozen here, but Stetsons and Tony Lama’s . . . not so much.”

  Jasper hooted. “Damn, girl, you know your southern boy accessories.”

  I leaned in closer, whispering in his ear. “Can I tell you a secret?”

  “Please do.”

  “I’ve always wanted a pair of blue and brown Tony Lama’s. I think they’re so . . . kickass.”

  “Oh, they are! I can just picture you in those dream boots of yours, with your colorful ink, and that wholesome smile. You’d be this Alabama boy’s perfect combo of back home and new beginnings.” There was a frisky spark to his blue irises, a handsome smile curling his lips at the corners.

  “Jasper, if I didn’t know any better I’d think the ink is going to your brain.” I ceased tattooing and scanned his face to make sure the pain hadn’t caused him delirium. There was no way on God’s green earth someone like me appealed to someone like him. We were night and day, black and white, and while most people tended to believe that opposites attract, I thought our worlds were too different to collide.

  “What? Why’re you surprised? You’re a fine looking woman, Miss Marley. I could write at least ten songs off the top of my head about those adorable freckles sprinkled across your nose and that charming giggle of yours.”

  “You write music?” I asked, returning to my work.

  “Write, play, and sing. Triple threat, darlin’.”

  “Ah, now it makes sense.”

  “What?”

  “Why you’re here.”

  “For my tattoo, you mean?”

  “No. In New York.” I shook my head. “Because you’re trying to ‘make it big’ with your music. That’s cool. I totally get it, but if there’s one genre of music I will never ever listen to, it’s country.”

  “Is that so?” His forehead wrinkled.

  “Very so.”

  “Can I ask why?”

  I had shared in this conversation many a time before. My taste in music was pretty eclectic; I liked it all. Hell, my brother was a musician, so I was basically forced to like anything he was playing while we both lived under the same roof growing up. I had Milo to thank for introducing me to so many of the indie bands no one knew about—Lord Huron, the Strumbellas, The Head and the Heart. He even took me to my first concert when I was only twelve years old. And even though country pop was going mainstream these days—Eric Church had just sold out Barclays Center, for Christ’s sake—it was still the one genre of music I couldn’t seem to get into. “No disrespect to your roots, but it’s not my cup of tea. It all sounds the same. Beer, trucks, girls, repeat. Wasn’t it your man Willie Nelson who said every country song was made up of the same three chords?”

  “No, Willie said, ‘country music is three chords and the truth’.”

  “Same thing.”

  He laughed but I could tell by his reddening complexion that he was minding his manners. “It’s definitely not, but . . . I won�
�t argue with a lady with a tattoo gun in her hand.”

  It was my turn to laugh and change the subject. “What do you do when you’re not writing hillbilly tunes?”

  “Construction. I’m good with my hands. Hey, you know what? I bet I could change your mind, if you let me try.”

  “Jasper, you’re super sweet and very convincing, but we can still be friends and not like the same music. Darren over there,” I pointed to the workstation next to mine, “is into opera, believe it or not, and we still shoot the shit over a beer at Flask & Folly every other Friday night.”

  “Flask & Folly, huh? The open mic night place?”

  “That’s the one. You’ve been there?”

  “Only a few times.”

  “Guess it wasn’t my usual Friday night or we would have run into each other.” Jasper might not have been my type, but I would have remembered seeing him. He stuck out like a sore thumb, in the sexiest way possible. A diamond in the rough. “Hey, maybe you’ve heard my brother play. Milo Crawford. He’s part owner of Just Strummin’ It, a few blocks down.”

  Jasper searched my face as if trying to make the connection. “Oh, snap! Milo’s your brother? Now that you mention it, I can see the resemblance. He’s a great dude.”

  “The best.” I smiled. “How do you know him?”

  “I met him at his shop when I first moved here. He was actually the one to give me the info about open mic night. I’m playing this Friday.”

  “This here your strummin’ arm?” I asked, lifting the needle from his bicep.

  “No.” He chuckled. “But I’ll be fine by then, right?”

  “Nothing some ibuprofen and a shot of whiskey before show time won’t cure.”

  We sat in silence for the first time since he graced my chair with his southern charm. I kept to working and he started humming. The catchy melody was nothing I’d ever heard before so I imagined it was one of his redneck ballads. I was about to ask just to be nice when he broke my train of thought. “So? You gonna come watch me play?”