Chapter Seven
Seven
Lucy
I awake the next morning in a strange dark room to the sound of muffled vibrations. It takes me a few seconds to remember where I fell asleep. The thick blackout curtains leave the hotel room just as dark as it had been when we finally went to bed. The long vibrating buzz continues to echo off the wooden desk, until I regain full consciousness. I feel around the nightstand for a light, but by the time I find the switch the buzzing stops.
I roll over to face the other side of the bed. Jaylen is gone. The alarm clock on the nightstand reads 9:30 a.m., and I yawn in the face of a morning that came too soon. I have exactly thirty more minutes to pretend I can afford a room in a hotel as nice as this one.
I look around the room, but Jaylen’s bag is gone and so is the stolen sign. Some empties are lying on top of the dresser, and next to them Jaylen has left a couple of twenty-dollar bills for the hotel cleaning staff. I roll my eyes at him one last time even if he’s not around to see it. He might really be the only genuinely good guy I have ever met. I sit there completely naked underneath the white sheets with a thread count higher than my credit score and contemplate my next move. As soon as I snuggle my face against the plush down pillow, the loud vibration echoes against the nightstand again.
Conceding to its summoning, I reach for my phone to see what’s so urgent. I have three missed calls from Sam, and another incoming. I clear my throat and sit up straight. “Hey, Sam, I’m right around the corner.” I try to produce a highly professional tone, but it sounds like I’ve been up all night smoking Marlboro reds.
“I told you to keep your ringer on loud at all times. I need you here early today, so haul ass,” Sam shouts, and hangs up on me before I can reply.
I sink back into my pillow and pull the covers over my head. What the hell happened last night? Judging by the pain between my legs, the beginning of another UTI. I can’t believe I already let myself get so distracted that I’m about to be late for work this morning. Even if my night with Jaylen was worth being a bit late, it wasn’t worth jeopardizing the opportunity to apprentice for Sam.
I slip into last night’s clothes and head into the bathroom to touch up last night’s makeup. I fill my bag with all the tiny bottles of free hygiene products that I can fit. I saunter out of the bathroom and throw open the heavy curtains. The sky is Seattle’s signature shade of gray with a misty rainfall washing away the city’s sins of last night.
I briefly take in the beautiful view of the pier and the Seattle Great Wheel. I haven’t been on that thing since I was a kid, but I still remember feeling so high up in the sky that I was overcome by terror. I wanted to scream but couldn’t find the air to make a sound. When I was little, things that were supposed to be fun always felt dangerous.
Why can’t I just enjoy a nice view? I close the curtains.
As I’m bent down zipping up my boots to leave, I notice the end of a black tie peeking out from under the bed. Jaylen must have forgotten to pack it this morning in the dark. I pull it out and slip it around my neck; it’s soft and silky against my fingertips. Closing my eyes, I remember how it felt to rub them down Jaylen’s chest. It even smells of his warm musk. Like Jaylen, it feels expensive, so I slip it into my purse to keep as a memento or to sell on eBay. It feels like real silk. I bet I could get $20 for it.
I strut confidently out of that hotel like the high-class escort I feel. I am unapologetic, I am fierce, and I am a bit hungover.
* * *
I rush into Come As You Are Ink seconds before my designated ten-o’clock start. Without a minute to spare this morning, I’m still wearing yesterday’s outfit. No one around here pays much attention to me unless they’re barking demands, so I’m optimistic that it will go unnoticed.
Sam is already working on a client’s stencil, which means I’m late to open up shop. I toss my bag behind the front desk and waste no time setting up for the day.
“When you said you were right around the corner, I thought you meant the corner outside the shop.” Sam begins to shave her client’s arm. Hyperfocused on her task at hand, she avoids looking at me.
“Honest mistake.” I hold my breath as I await her orders for the day.
Whenever I’m late for open, Sam assigns me the dreadful task of cleaning and restocking the bathrooms. Before she opens her mouth, I’m already grabbing the disinfectant spray and rubber gloves from under the counter and making my way to the back of the shop.
“You can do the bathrooms tomorrow. I have something else for you today.”
Great. I drop the cleaning supplies and head over to her station to learn what diabolical thing could be worse than deep cleaning dirty toilets.
“What’s up?” I ask, leaning over Sam’s shoulder to get a closer look as she places the stencil on her client’s arm with precision. It’s a beautiful design, but I can’t help noticing areas where I would have changed the layout to better fit the composition of his bicep. I bite my tongue.
“You smell like the deli counter at Safeway.” Sam grimaces, taking a step back.
I pull the collar of my shirt up to my nose, but I can’t smell it. “I had some street meat last night after the bar.” And then seconds and then thirds.
“Well, pull yourself together. You’re filling in for me on a mural commission. You double-booked me today by accepting this arm sleeve tattoo when I had the day blocked off. I don’t bail on my clients, so you’re stuck with the mural.” Sam fills a row of tiny cups with black ink while the client goes to check out the stencil’s positioning in the mirror.
Despite Sam’s extreme unprofessionalism in front of the client, I, the meager shopgirl, must remain calm, cool, and collected. Luckily, these extreme work conditions are nothing new to me and I’ve come to expect the worst—which is usually mopping up a faint client’s vomit, not a mural assignment.
I’d take the vomit any day.
“Oh, I can’t,” I say, searching for an excuse that would violate the Washington State Department of Labor’s workers’ rights, but I can’t think of one good enough for Sam to feel sympathetic. Eyeing the front door, I wonder how hard I would have to slam it shut on my hands to break them. Or perhaps more effectively I could hack them off with the scissors on Sam’s workbench.
“Oh, yes, you can. I know you paint,” Sam says. The client resettles themselves into the chair and Sam’s gun buzzes with the flick of a switch. The sound breaks my thousand-yard stare at the nearest exit.
“I used to paint.” I haven’t picked up a brush since my senior year of college and vowed to never touch one again. It’s the whole reason I’m here, rushing to work for my unruly boss, cleaning bathrooms at a tattoo shop.
There was a time in my life when I thought I could make it as a painter. When I was naive enough to believe I could trust my dad to be there for me just once in my life. I’m not sure which dream was more idiotic.
On the night of my senior art showcase, I was supposed to meet with an influential art handler and a museum director. Unfortunately, I never got an opportunity to speak with them because I missed the whole thing dealing with my drunk dad. He was supposed to be my ride to the venue, but never showed up to pick me up from campus. The city bus made me very late to the event. When I finally got there, he was inside being asked to leave by security for causing a scene. The whole thing was so embarrassing that I decided to leave the showcase without saying hi to anyone, let alone formally meet the art handler and museum director. I haven’t seen my dad since.
After that, I realized I missed my opportunity to be a painter, and with bills and student loans to pay off, I couldn’t waste any time trying to make a living off it. I tried a few jobs in the service industry, but after spending so many hours in a tattoo chair as a client, it seemed like the perfect job for me. My dad hates tattoos, so I know he’ll never find me here.
Giving up painting was like throwing out all the color in my life. It was a dark time for me. Thanks to tattooing, I’ve finally started to find those colors again. I want to continue moving forward. I want to tattoo. Painting would be taking a step back into the darkness.
“Then it looks like today is the day you start painting again,” Sam says dryly.
“Are you sure you don’t want the bathrooms cleaned? Can’t one of the other artists do the mural?” I practically beg, but I know if I drop to my knees Sam will relish the sight, and I’ll have no chance of getting out of this assignment.
Sam sets her gun down on the metal tray to her left. “I thought you were interested in tattooing. You have to pay your dues before you get offered an apprenticeship. I need to know you’re serious about this. I want to see you show up to work on time, and not in yesterday’s outfit. Prove to me that you can see a project through, from start to finish. These are the dues, Picasso.”
I have to remind myself of my goals. If I want to build a career for myself, then I need to be willing to make sacrifices. I thought the only sacrifice would be letting go of the cute distractions, but it looks like I am also going to have to face old wounds. What’s left of my soured enthusiasm drains as I accept that the only way out of this assignment is through.
“What’s the address?” I ask, and without having to say the words, I agree to paint.
“It’s written down on the piece of paper next to the computer. There’s money on the counter for supplies—I want to see receipts for every purchase. Anna is expecting you soon for the consultation today, so get going. There’s a city scooter parked out front. Hopefully the breeze will air you out a bit,” Sam says, pointing her tattoo gun aggressively in my direction.
Before I head out, I dab some stolen hotel essential oils all over my body and leave smelling like a tub of Vicks VapoRub.