Chapter 14
Zoey
Unsurprisingly, the genie delivered. Literally, because that was the whole point of having a truck. Well, that, and the bench seat that made it easy to squeeze into each other, with the blessing of a cute cattle dog whose core rule was that her head had to be on someone’s lap at all times.
InkWell, Portland’s third-most popular tattoo festival, leaned heavily into both parts of its name: ink and wellness.
In a city first, this year’s event was being held at the Lloyd Center, primarily because a famous tattooed ice-skating couple from New Zealand were putting in an appearance, and the shopping centre’s built-in skating rink made this more doable in the middle of summer.
It was, after all, the ice-skating rink where Tonya Harding had trained, so it had some street cred.
(A friend of a friend of Tonya, who lived in a small mountain town not far from Nick’s farm, had apparently brought said ice-skating couple to the notice of the InkWell powers that be.
And for obvious reasons no one said no to Tonya, even if she was two degrees removed from the whole situation.)
Zoey and Nick had hauled over most of The Smoothie Maven’s set-up the night before, which had given them an excuse for a quick stroll around the leafy streets of Irvington, followed by a movie at The Hollywood Theater.
Yes, the Regal was closer, but who could pass up cheap tickets to a B-movie in an Art Deco wonderland?
Plus, Nick had bought them matching Movie Madness T-shirts, which Zoey had relented to only if Nick promised that they would never wear them at the same time.
He’d promised, but with a twinkle in his eye, and she was certain that she was going to be ambushed with a matching- couple outfit at some point in the near future.
‘Ainsley’s done a great job with the signage,’ Nick said approvingly, as they pulled up to the loading area at the back of the mall.
This was a strangely laid out section of ramps and parking that Zoey had always half expected to involve a Minotaur, and in which she’d managed to get lost a few times.
Today, though, things were a bit more self-evident, for crowds of brightly (and sometimes darkly) tattooed individuals were milling about, sharing early morning coffees and tales of body modification gone wrong.
Interspersed with these airy-fairy types carrying healing crystals and jars of emotional-support kombucha, as well as MAX riders who’d hopped off at the Holladay Park stop to see what the exterior vendor tents had to offer.
Zoey jumped as there came an almighty rattling, the type that suggested the Big One was about to take them all out, and the locals began looking about for earthquake-safe havens.
But as it turned out, the rattling was from a brightly painted Kombi van that had not been acquainted with a mechanic for at least a couple of decades.
The rattling was accompanied by a thudding, and the thudding by a jangling that Zoey took a minute to realise was the music of The Grateful Dead and not the arrival of a biblically accurate angel.
The van parked on a jaunty angle, its door opening with a screech.
An older woman in head-to-toe tie-dye hopped out, preceded by a cloud of weed smoke and followed by an impossibly tall and beautiful blonde woman who was definitely some type of model, but who didn’t seem tattooed enough for this particular event.
Perhaps the goods were hidden beneath her sensible jeans and T-shirt.
Or perhaps she was one of the human canvases who’d volunteered for one of the several competitions that had been planned for the day.
That possibly explained the camera around her neck.
‘Reba! Holy shit, it’s Reba!’ came a collective cry.
‘I can’t believe she has a booth here, with us normies,’ whispered a mohawked punk, reverently.
The crowds parted for the tie-dyed woman, who was apparently some kind of hippie royalty. Hugs and fist bumps abounded.
‘That’s Reba from Dyer on the Mountain,’ explained Nick. ‘If you’re the smoothie maven, she’s the tie-dye maven. Her designs are huge in … well, everything and everywhere. Especially Dead circles. And Phish circles. And anything else that has a circle. And the younger woman next to her is—’
‘Gracie Nivola, right?’ said Zoey. Gracie and Honour Nivola were icons: the children of a celebrity architect and an oil magnate, they’d been in the newspapers and gossip rags for as long as Zoey could remember.
Honour was an actress who’d quickly moved up from a daytime soap called Time After Time to supporting roles in at least half of the year’s A24 films, and Gracie was a well-respected photographer who exhibited widely.
There’d been a thoughtful write-up about her in Vanity Fair recently, which Zoey had read with interest at the Hawthorne Powell’s while she was waiting for the rain to clear up.
‘That’s her. I saw her exhibition at the Foster/White Gallery in Seattle. Really impressive stuff, actually – she had this set of candids from some socialite’s wedding that fell apart. Really haunting. Great juxtaposition of shameless materialism and earthiness.’
‘Also she’s really pretty,’ added Zoey. ‘Too pretty. Like an alien.’
Nick chuckled. ‘It’s weird, huh? I wonder why she’s here. As Reba’s personal photographer, I guess.’
Reba swanned through the crowd, pausing for air kisses and sweary greetings, all of which Gracie captured on her camera.
‘Oh, this is going to be pandemonium,’ called Reba, delighted.
‘We’re going to sell out – I know it. Look at these folks.
I’m pretty sure I’ve met and forgotten half you from that one night at The Gorge in the Seventies.
And the other half from Red Rocks in the Eighties.
Are we going in, love? Where do the exhibitors go in?
Gracie, make sure you get a photo of those signs!
Hand-painted like in the good ol’ days, none of this computer-assisted tosh.
Wait, before all that: where can a girl get a grilled cheese? ’
‘Toastface Grillah,’ said Zoey, as Reba and Gracie brushed past in a cloud of weed smoke and ethereal beauty. ‘They’ve got a food truck over there.’
She pointed at the truck, with its deliciously cheesy take on Wu-Tang. The owner, sporting a gold chain with a toast medallion, waved heartily.
‘This girl knows her way around a grilled cheese,’ promised Nick.
Reba wrapped Zoey in a colourful hug of fabric and jangly jewellery. ‘You, love, just saved an old gal’s life. I’m Reba, but I also answer to Reebs on occasion. And you’re …’
‘Zoey. I run The Smoothie Maven.’
Reba waved her hands effusively. ‘Maeve’s shop!
Dear old Maeve, we went way back. Probably before you were born.
What a way to go out, eh? A killer smoothie.
Seems a shame, when she could’ve been doing something fun.
Anyway, I’m glad to see the shop’s in good hands.
Although if you want some advice, a bit of Baileys makes any smoothie better.
’ She tapped her tie-dyed pocket, which from the looks of it held a flask full of said Baileys.
‘Rum’s not so bad, either,’ said Nick, shooting Zoey a grin.
‘Well, you can always come to us if you overdo it on the Baileys,’ Zoey told Reba. ‘Many do.’
‘Bah, I never overdo it. I know my limits: none. And who’s this?’ asked Reba, flirtatiously touching Nick’s arm. Her bangles clacked musically.
‘This is Nick,’ said Zoey, amused.
‘You don’t look like a smoothie maven.’ Reba’s cat’s-eye glasses flashed as she gave Nick an up-and-down. ‘You are a looker, though. Where’d you find him?’
‘In a bed of mushrooms,’ said Nick, grinning. ‘Or close enough to it.’
‘Ha! Best I’ve found in a bed of mushrooms is enlightenment. And some ideas for wallpapering my home. I’d take you any day, handsome.’
‘Um,’ said Nick.
‘You get used to Reba, promise.’ There was mirth in Gracie’s grey eyes. ‘I’ve travelled half the country with her at this point. Endless photographic inspiration.’
‘And he comes with a dog.’ Reba was effusively patting Alice. Fur wafted all about in a miniature tornado. ‘I do love a dog. I wear mine around my neck.’
‘Um,’ said Zoey.
Reba waggled a couple of pendants. ‘Got my doggie here, and my man as well. No wonder my neck’s giving me grief.’
A skinny girl with a bullring and a shirt that read The Best Kind of Bra is a Vertebra hurried up. ‘I’m a chiropractor, if you want to get that sorted out.’
Reba scowled. ‘Absolutely not. No one but my ancient mattress cracks this old back. I’m kooky, not a quack.’
‘This is going to be a fun day,’ whispered Nick.
Zoey sucked on her top lip, trying to hide her smile. Because she agreed entirely.
Leaving Reba to bellow about the proper ratio of cheese to bread to the proprietor of Toastface Grillah (apparently Reba had been a grilled-cheese vendor at Shakedown Street for at least a decade before her late husband had invented some sort of sound system that was still in use today and was prominently featured in the Moogseum), Nick and Zoey beat the rush into the Lloyd Center.
In spite of the near-constant rain, Portland leaned heavily on the neighbourhood-centric, high-street style of retail, and residents were used to running from awning to awning every time the skies opened.
The Lloyd Center was one of the few departures from this, and yet it was still distinctly Portland.
Instead of the standard chain shops you might expect, it was filled with quirky boutiques and maker spaces: bead vendors, a D&D store, a magic shop, a pickleball court, and a backyard chicken spot that was presently sounding quite feisty.
There was a tiny pinball museum, and even a roller-skating school with ramps set up on the second floor.
(Fair, Zoey supposed: not everyone wanted to slide around on the mall’s famous ice rink.)