Indelible

by Mark Carver

  Who are these people? Cameron cracked his knuckles and leaned forward. “So will you work with me?”

  Robyn sank back in her chair, regarding Cameron like he were a piece of art that she wasn’t yet sure if she liked. She took off her glasses to clean the lenses, and Cameron was surprised by how attractive she was, in a mysterious, seductive way.

  Pretty much the opposite of Mindy, who was all sunshine and Southern charm.

  Cameron frowned at himself. He really needed to get her out of his head…

  “I’ll tell you what, Mr. McConnell,” Robyn said, “bring me some pictures of your work, and get some professional portraits made of yourself. I know a guy who does great work and won’t charge you an arm and a leg. Just tell him Robyn sent you.”

  Cameron accepted the card she held out to him and put it in his pocket. “Okay.”

  “I’m booked solid this week but I’ll have my assistant clear some time for coffee say, next Tuesday at ten o’clock?”

  Cameron nodded, then asked cautiously, “That’s in the morning, right?”

  Robyn looked at him for a moment, then turned to Toby and the two shared a hearty laugh.

  Cameron scowled.

  “Sorry, Cameron,” Robyn said, waving her hands in front of her face as if to clear the mockery away. “Yes, ten o’clock in the morning at the Café del Monte. Toby knows where it is.”

  Cameron exhaled slowly, hoping he looked fierce as he held her gaze. “Well, next Tuesday then.”

  He rose to his feet, and Toby sprang out of his chair. Robyn looked at Cameron, unsure whether to be impressed or insulted, but she stood up slowly and offered her hand.

  “I look forward to helping you maximize your personal brand potential.”

  Cameron paused. Mindy was right – these people were really into themselves.

  He shook Robyn’s hand, his fingertips savoring the incredible softness of her skin. For some reason, he felt embarrassed that his hands were so rough and calloused.

  Toby shook Robyn’s hand as well, and he guided Cameron towards the glass doors at the entrance of the lobby. Once they stepped outside, they both shielded their eyes from the sun.

  “Well?”

  Cameron looked at Toby, then glanced up at the building soaring over their heads. “She seems pretty…intense.”

  Toby chuckled. “You have to be to get anywhere in LA. It’s not like New York, where everyone’s all about the power suits and game faces. LA is a little more like a fashion show: no matter how ridiculous you look, you have to prance around like your outfit was made by God himself.”

  A bird swooped gracefully through the air, catching Cameron’s eyes for a moment.

  “Toby,” he said, “am I making a mistake?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean all this. Turning myself into a ‘brand.’ I do all right as it is, and all I did was get a facial tattoo that doesn’t really mean anything.”

  Toby turned and faced him directly. “Cameron, listen to me. Do you want to spend your life ‘doing all right?’ Do you want to be just another blip on the radar, where people go, ‘Hey, Cameron McConnell, yeah, I heard of that guy. Didn’t he make a sword or something for that movie with What’s-his-name?’ I keep telling you, you’ve got the winning ticket. Your swords are awesome and you like a Viking warrior or something. Robyn’s right about the nerds and fanboys – they love stuff like this. Hell, I love it! You’ve got more balls than most, and that’s the truth. Robyn’s good, man; she can make you into a rock star in no time.”

  Cameron looked down at his shoes.

  “You do want to be a rock star, don’t you?” Toby asked.

  The question lingered in the air for a moment. Cameron looked up, squinting at the sun. “Yes, I do.”

  Toby slapped him on the back. “All right. This is the start of something big, Cameron. I can feel it.”

  The bird came fluttering back and it dove between two small trees before launching itself across the sky and disappearing from sight. Cameron felt a tightness in his stomach that he only felt when he was really excited.

  Or really frightened.

  ****

  Cameron was thankful that his mother wasn’t online, though he had little doubt that word would reach her soon. She hadn’t called in a few weeks, and he knew she would dial his number the second she found out about his tattoo.

  She would probably unleash a barrage of words that included phrases like “ill-advised,” “impulsive,” “alienating,” “desecration,” and so forth. She might even throw out a “What would your father think?” which she only did in extreme circumstances.

  Now he found himself staring blankly at a row of fruit in the grocery store. He blinked twice, wondering what he was doing there ogling a row of overripe bananas.

  He glanced to his left and saw a little Indian boy holding a Sponge Bob balloon. The child was staring at him as if he were a gorilla at the zoo. Cameron could only stare back, but the boy’s face was made of steel. He didn’t even blink.

  Smothering a groan, Cameron scooped up his basket and scowled off in search of snacks. The little boy’s mother swooped in like a hawk and pulled the child towards her, chastising him in their native language. As Cameron rounded the corner of the aisle, he caught the woman glancing towards him. Her eyes were large and very pretty, but they burned with disdain. Cameron turned away and hurried towards the chips.

  Hardly anyone who looked at him could hide their surprise. Some people were pretty good at muffling their shock, but several jaws fell open as if Cameron’s head was in his shopping basket. One elderly woman lost her grip on a can of soup and it fell to the floor, missing her foot by less than an inch.

  Cameron was growing tired of their reactions. After all, he wasn’t an alien or anything.

  And like he kept saying, this was California. If you weren’t quirky, there was something wrong with you.

  There was obviously something wrong with everyone at the supermarket, and Cameron felt like he was running a gauntlet of stares every time he turned down an aisle. Every disapproving glance, every hard eye aimed towards him felt like a needle prick, and by the time he arrived at the cashier’s counter, he was scowling like a cornered dog.

  The cashier looked up from her register with a smile. “Good aftern...”

  Her smile wilted, but she quickly composed herself. “Good afternoon, sir,” she said with a nervous cough. She hastily dumped the contents of Cameron’s shopping basket onto the lane and scanned each item with surprising quickness.

  Cameron stood there, glaring at her. She didn’t look at him once.

  “$26.18,” she chirped, looking at his chin. That was as high as her eyes could go.

  Cameron held out his bank card, wishing that she would look up and see the scowl darkening his face. But she didn’t. She scanned his card, handed him the receipt for him to sign, and bagged his groceries without looking at his face. Even when she said, “Thanks, come again,” in an unnaturally high voice, she was already turning her attention towards the next customer.

  Cameron snatched his shopping bag from the small aluminum bay at the end of the checkout lane and skulked out of the store. He found his car in the parking lot and threw the groceries into the backseat, then slumped in the driver’s seat.

  He glanced up into the rearview mirror. He could only see his eyes, but he was struck right away by what he saw.

  Menace.

  He didn’t mean for it to be there, but he saw it. His heavy brow, and the dark crescent arcing around his right eye... He looked fierce.

  Barbaric.

  As he sat there gazing at the reflection, he thought, This is what you are. This is what you’ve always been. It’s just now coming to the surface.

  A car horn startled him. He looked over his shoulder and saw an SUV waiting for him to vacate his parking spot. A middle-aged man with a mustache gestured impatiently. When he saw Cameron’s face, his expression dropped and he drove away.

  “
That’s right, sucker,” Cameron sneered. What a bunch of pussies, scared out of their senses by a little ink. He cringed at the realization that he had wanted to be like them once: another face in the crowd with a tidy suburban house, leisurely workdays, evenings spent sipping cheap beer and watching sports.

  If he was really honest with himself, he had never felt completely at home here. He was friendly with his neighbors and polite with everyone he came in contact with, but he never felt like one of them.

  Now he knew why: because he wasn’t. And now they knew it too.

  He looked in the rearview mirror again. This was just the beginning.

  He pulled out the small white card that Robyn had given him and dialed the number inscribed on it in Gothic lettering.

  After a few rings, a British-accented voice answered, “Dmitri’s.”

  “Uh, hi," Cameron said. "I’d like to make an appointment with Dmitri Carmichael. Robyn Chu recommended him to me.”

  “One moment please, sir.”

  ****

  When Cameron pushed open the door to the Café del Monte, he immediately set his face into a scowl, prepared for condescending glances and sidelong stares. But no one seemed to pay any special attention to him. He felt a little bit disappointed, though he didn’t know why.

  He glanced at his watch. 9:55 am. Not late, not early, just punctual enough to let Robyn know that he wasn’t desperate.

  A quick scan of the coffee shop showed him that Robyn hadn’t arrived yet. Cameron expected that she would probably be late, and he had brought along his sketchbook to work out an engraving while he waited.

  He stepped up to the counter and noticed a curious smirk tug at the corners of the barista’s mouth, but the young man didn’t gawk or stare.

  “What’ll it be today, sir?”

  Cameron ordered a large mocha with extra cream and cinnamon, and when his order was ready, he selected an empty booth near the window.

  Just as he took his first sip, his phone vibrated in his pocket. He almost spilled the coffee but managed to set it on the table without incident, and he dug into his pants for the phone, cursing his jeans for being too tight.

  “Hello?” he said.

  “Cameron, Robyn. Sorry to reach you so late. My day’s imploded already, and I’m afraid I’m going to have to reschedule our appointment.”

  Figures. “I understand,” Cameron answered, struggling to keep the irritation out of his voice. “When do you – "

  “Tonight, Bennington Hotel. Eight o’clock. Sound good?”

  It wasn’t really a question. Cameron stared straight ahead, the gears churning in his mind. He was probably going to be getting home tonight after midnight. He heaved a silent sigh, but he knew that opportunities like this didn’t come along too often.

  “Yeah, sounds great. I’ll – "

  “Thanks sweetheart. See you then.”

  There was a click, and Cameron looked at his phone as if Robyn had reached through it and slapped him. He didn’t like it that she had called him “sweetheart.” Only his mother could call him that. He set the phone down on the table and lifted the coffee cup slowly to his lips. He supposed he should be grateful that she hadn’t canceled outright, but it was hard to feel any benevolence now that he had to waste nearly half a day in LA, half a day where he would be away from his workshop and tools.

  With a huff that was a bit too loud, he exited the booth after grabbing his cup of coffee. He wasn’t going to sit around moping, not when the sunshine was so gorgeous.

  He just hoped that the citizens of LA had seen enough facial tattoos to let him enjoy his day in peace.

  ****

  At 8:07 pm, Cameron pulled up to the entrance of the Bennington Hotel. He got out and handed his keys to the startled valet, who looked at the car as if it were filled with snakes. Cameron brushed past him and headed towards the revolving doors. The doorman gulped when Cameron gave him a cold glare, almost daring him to stop him and ask him what his business was.

  But the doorman said nothing, and Cameron stepped into the opulent lobby. He looked towards the sofa and chair in the waiting area, but again, no Robyn. Shaking his head, he chose a sofa and sat down heavily.

  The day had been eventful, though not exactly productive. He had tried to seek solace in a park so he could work on his sketches, but there were too many sun worshipers around, and he quickly abandoned the idea. Inspired by a flash of vanity, he decided to head towards a little shopping center that consisted mostly of hobby shops and collectibles. He was curious to see if anyone would recognize him.

  As soon as he stepped into Dragon Storm Collectibles and Replicas, the shop clerk looked at him with wide eyes, making no attempt to hide his awe.

  “Dude, sweet tattoo!”

  Cameron smiled in spite of the cold facade he tried to maintain. “Thanks, bro. Got any new swords?”

  The shop clerk waved Cameron to the counter. “What are you looking for? Something based on a movie or book or...?”

  Cameron motioned towards a delicate yet fierce blade hanging high on the wall. “Let me take a look at that one.”

  The clerk flashed a knowing smile and brought the weapon down.

  “That steel’s tempered twenty times,” he said proudly as Cameron gently hefted the weapon.

  “Twenty-five.”

  The clerk looked puzzled. “Excuse me?”

  “It’s tempered twenty-five times.”

  The clerk’s eyes fell and he shifted his feet. “Oh.”

  He was silent for a moment, then asked, “How do you know?”

  “Because I made it,” Cameron answered, keeping his eyes on the weapon.

  The clerk’s mouth fell open. “Nuh-uh.”

  Cameron pointed to the little monogram on the blade, right where the gleaming steel disappeared into the hilt.

  “That’s me. CMC. Cameron McConnell.”

  With a flourish, he produced a business card and handed it to the awestruck clerk. It read: Cameron McConnell, Fantasy Weapons Designer and Metal Worker.

  The clerk clutched the card like it was a winning lottery ticket. “Dude, you’re Cameron McConnell!”

  He stared directly at Cameron, and his eyes narrowed a bit.

  “I saw a picture of you online a while ago. You didn’t have...that.”

  He motioned towards his own face, indicating the area where Cameron had his tattoo.

  Cameron nodded. “It’s a new addition.”

  The clerk looked around in a panic. “Dude, can I get a picture with you? I left my phone around here somewhere...”

  He found it under a stack of magazines, clutching it to his chest.

  “Is that all right?” he asked.

  Cameron leveled a cold glare at him for a moment, then broke into a smile. “Of course. Anything for a fan.”

  The clerk practically vaulted over the counter and squeezed next to Cameron.

  “Could you hold up the sword?” he asked. “Like a warrior pose or something.”

  Cameron felt a bit silly, but he obliged, twisting his face into a mask of barbarian fury. The gangly clerk struck a muscular pose, which only looked ridiculous. He held the phone at arm’s length and snapped three pictures.

  “Thanks, man!” he chirped, barely able to conceal his excitement. “My friends are not going to believe this. All of us are huge fans. Your creations are epic!”

  Cameron grinned. He was used to praise and compliments, but they were usually on internet forums and collector’s blogs. Face-to-face flattery felt quite different, and he liked it.

  “I appreciate that. It took me almost a month to crank out that little number there.” He indicated to the sword resting on the countertop.

  The clerk reached out and stroked it with reverent fingers. “It’s beautiful,” he whispered.

  Cameron smiled again. He had never spent much time talking with fans, and it was nice to see that his work was appreciated.

  “So what’s your name?” he asked.

  “Luca
s.”

  “All right Lucas, what else have you got here that’s good?”

  Cameron spent nearly two hours in the shop, talking swords, books, movies, even Mexican food with Lucas and several customers who stopped in. As soon as the bell above the door would tinkle, Lucas would rush forward and inform the startled customer that the Cameron McConnell was in the store at that very moment!

  Some customers were ecstatic, some were baffled, and some tried to maintain their geek-cred by pretending to know who Cameron was, but their ignorance would quickly become apparent. Cameron wouldn’t take offense though, and he happily awed the teenage fantasy fans with his extensive knowledge of weapons and replicas. Lucas even unearthed a cluster of wrinkled promo posters for Cameron’s movie sword, which he happily autographed for free.

  Quite a crowd had started to gather, since every star-struck customer immediately tweeted Cameron’s appearance to all of their friends, and those in the vicinity would rush down to the shop as quickly as they could. A bidding war erupted when Cameron signed his sword and Lucas announced an impromptu auction. Cameron was stunned when the sword sold for three thousand dollars, nearly double its original price.

  Despite all of the fawning and adoration, especially from the young female fans, Cameron found himself craving his own space. He had posed for nearly fifty photos and signed at least as many autographs that afternoon, and he was starting to get a bit claustrophobic. He glanced over at Lucas, who was in geek heaven.

  “Hey man,” he said loudly over the din, “I’ve got to run.”

  Lucas looked crestfallen, but he nodded his understanding. “You’re the best, man,” he said as he shook Cameron’s hand. “I can’t believe this is real.”

  “I’m not a rock star,” Cameron said, feeling a little hypocritical.

  Lucas looked at him incredulously. “Yeah, you are!”

  After Cameron escaped the mob and drove away in search of something to eat, he found Lucas’ words echoing in his head.

  Yeah, you are!

  A rock star.

  And now here he was, waiting in the lobby of a fancy hotel, hoping that a tardy publicist would get his name put up in lights.

  A small thought crept into his mind like a worm: But you saw what happened at the hobby shop...that was just word-of-mouth fan buzz. No media hype, no PR blitzes, no press kits. Why do you need -