Chapter 15
Nick
It had been quite the morning, between the ‘Thriller’ flash mob, the ice skaters, and the free-tattoo raffle that was being announced with every quarter-of-the-hour cuckoo from the mime that Nick and Zoey had terrorised at First Thursdays.
Although it was a mimed cuckoo, so a solid half of the raffle announcements were skipped over.
‘Fucking mimes,’ whispered Zoey. ‘Add those to the list of things I hate.’
Apparently Zoey had a running list of such things: she’d waggled a Moleskine at him to demonstrate her commitment to the cause. But she’d also been quick to explain that she wasn’t a hater the way Nate was. She was a curmudgeon, not a hater. Hers was an observational hatred, not an existential one.
Nick had been about to ask her what exactly the difference was when Gracie Nivola showed up with a paper bag stamped with paw prints.
‘I see Reba’s already been by.’ She nodded at Nick’s tie-dyed tie and Alice’s bandana. ‘But I thought Alice might like a treat. It’s from that organic pet-food tent over there.’
‘Thanks,’ said Nick, as Alice sat and patiently waited for her treat.
Gracie’s camera clicked as she snapped a photo of Alice in her new tie-dyed bandana. Alice gave a dramatic shake, which Gracie caught with a chuckle.
‘Very photogenic. How are sales?’ She split the question between both Nick and Zoey. This was a pleasant change.
‘They’re going surprisingly well,’ said Zoey. ‘Ever since we introduced the Brain Freeze blend that uses Nick’s mushrooms, we’ve been fighting people off.’
Gracie waved her camera thoughtfully. ‘I’m probably only going to make things worse. This is going into a public-interest piece for The Guardian. And my website.’
Which actually had a bigger readership than The Guardian, Nick suspected. But to her credit, Gracie didn’t make this particular brag.
‘I see Reba’s doing well,’ said Nick, with a nod over to the Dyer on the Mountain booth.
Reba was cheerfully chatting away with Kenard from Punk Broc and his group of leather-clad friends, who were laughing heartily at her shenanigans.
One of the punks looked to be seriously considering a black-and-white tie-dyed jacket, while another was marvelling at a shirt featuring a tie-dyed skull design.
‘She’s the queen of the festival scene,’ said Gracie easily.
‘We met at an event outside this coffee shop in Brooklyn a few years ago, and we’ve been friends ever since.
I photograph all of her events – well, although I’m pretty selective about what I commit to film at Tie-Dyepalooza. That can be quite the experience.’
Nick chuckled. ‘My sister Cleo has been to a couple of those. The one in Seattle last year, and the one in Santa Fe the year before that. She says that what happens at Tie-Dyepalooza stays at Tie-Dyepalooza.’
‘That’s a pretty good mantra for anything involving Reba, honestly,’ said Gracie. She glanced around, considering. ‘I’m also here to get some shots of the local … flavour. For reportage purposes.’
‘Smoothie?’ offered Zoey, waving a fluorescent-green Brain Freeze number. ‘They’re great for energy. On the house.’
Gracie shook her head. ‘I’m allergic to mushrooms. But I’ll take one of those pink ones.’
‘Good choice,’ said Zoey. ‘It’s dragon fruit, mangosteen, berries, and pea protein. Plus some herbs for oomph.’
‘Thanks. I’m going to need that if I’m going to be on my feet all day. I’ve still got the bands to cover, and Reba’s insisting we head down to the Crystal Ballroom tonight.’
‘Are you guys staying downtown?’
Gracie nodded. ‘The Sentinel. We were going to try a little B&B a few streets over on Broadway, but they’re booked solid for a few months.’
‘Oh, the Rose and Thorn?’ said Nick. ‘My sisters are staying there when they come to visit in a couple of weeks.’
‘I’ll make sure Cleo and Reba get a chance to catch up, then.
’ Gracie sipped languidly at her smoothie, making an approving noise.
‘We’ll probably be around for the next month or so.
Reba’s got a few events in the works, and I’ll take any excuse to hang around Portland in the summer.
I have rolls of film ready to go. Speaking of, is that the band? Duty calls.’
Waving her camera, she disappeared into the crowd, as much as someone who looked like a catwalk model could disappear in a crowd full of the pierced, the tattooed, and the furry-costumed.
Next to appear in front of them was Ainsley. In addition to the bag of sign-painting materials she was always toting about, today she was sporting a stack of flyers in support of Romero’s mayoral candidacy. Nick had never before seen anyone so devoted to local cat politics.
‘I came with Joaquin,’ she said, pointing to Joaquin’s booth, which Joaquin was just now opening up. They were making quick work of the padlocks on the space, unlocking the cabinets and setting out the displays. ‘There was a … situation with Winslow.’
‘The brains in the fridge?’ asked Nick, slightly suspiciously. Although let’s face it, the brains were a tad suspicious given everything going on.
‘No, those are mostly gone, thank God. They must have been for some sort of art piece or something.’
‘Winslow does the occasional piece of performance art at that gallery next to the rage room on Burnside,’ explained Zoey, sanguinely – although Nick caught the flicker of alarm in her eye.
Nick wasn’t sure that this was a better use of bulk brains, but he could work with that, until Ainsley started going on about the time that someone in Winslow’s art collective had used regurgitated red wine as an artistic medium for some sort of protest purpose that Nick’s apparently small mind couldn’t quite comprehend.
He’d always considered himself an appreciator of art, but apparently there were limits.
And bulk brains and regurgitated red wine were those limits.
Thankfully his phone dinged, saving him from the visual. He frowned. It was Bozo, letting him know that something had got through the property’s fence again.
‘Does that happen often?’ asked Zoey.
‘Just recently,’ said Nick, frowning. ‘For maybe a month or two, I suppose. I can’t figure it out – it has to be something big.
Bigger than a coyote, and smart as well.
Larissa keeps telling me to get a camera, but I don’t like the idea of living under surveillance all the time.
I just need to find time to get the fence fixed up. ’
Zoey nodded, looking thoughtful. Then—
‘Hey, it’s Celeste!’ she blurted, pointing at the curvy redhead who’d come strutting in dressed in an outfit that resembled an antique synthesiser: all knobs, cabling and black-and-white stripes.
Even her hair had been twisted into cable-like lengths and secured with electrical tape and zip ties.
(The local electrician’s union would be very pleased at the cable management.)
Ainsley’s eyes narrowed. Her hand made a fist around the Ro-mayor-O posters, irrevocably rumpling the top ones.
‘Ugh, and she looks good,’ snapped Ainsley.
‘So do you,’ pointed out Zoey. ‘Why don’t you leave your flyers with us before you mangle them into pulp and the whole paper-making cycle starts all over?’
‘No way. I’m not even making eye contact,’ said Ainsley. ‘See? Eyes on smoothies. Eyes on attractive tattooed women. Eyes on the sprinkler system. Eyes everywhere but there.’
Nick and Zoey exchanged a look. Nick remembered how Celeste had lit up at the mention of Ainsley at the art walk, and how the two of them had reacted to each other when they’d started competitively hammering cat signs into the sodden turf down Laurelhurst’s residential back streets.
Celeste passed by, tapping away at her phone as she headed to the stage set up in front of the ice-skating rink, where the Kiwi skaters were spinning about to the dulcet tones of Cannibal Corpse. Nick blinked as one of the skaters did the splits while waggling a forked, snake-like tongue.
‘Ten points for style,’ said Zoey, an eyebrow raised.
Ainsley sighed. Her shoulders slumped as she watched Celeste strike up a conversation with the sound guy.
‘I’m going to hand the rest of these out,’ she said, pretending she wasn’t interested in what Celeste was up to. ‘And my business cards. Who knows – maybe I’ll get some work out of it.’
‘You should talk to Reba,’ said Zoey, steering Ainsley in the direction of the tie-dye tent.
‘Oh, I love Reba,’ said Ainsley. ‘She kept me company while I was setting up the signage last night. Talk about stories! She makes Celeste look boring. Ugh, Celeste! I said her name again! Twice! Zo, make sure I put money in the mustn’t-say-Celeste swear jar.
’ She scrabbled in her pocket, coming up with a two-dollar bill.
‘Here. That should cover it. I’m off to think about jumping into the Willamette now. ’
She slouched off, heading towards Reba’s tent, the hostess of which was presently demonstrating tie-dyed hacky sacks to a bald guy with a tattooed scalp and earlobes that touched his shoulders.
‘Why didn’t you push her to talk to Celeste?’ asked Nick. ‘She obviously wants to.’
Zoey painstakingly adjusted the smoothie display on their cart, which was absolutely not in need of adjusting. ‘Because Celeste hurt her. It’s like I say … you get to know someone long enough, and eventually they disappoint you.’
Nick swallowed. It hurt his heart to think that Zoey was counting down the days until he inevitably let her down.
That she was expecting it. And yes, arguments happened.
Miscommunications happened. People hurt each other, whether or not they meant to.
But not all hurt had to linger. It didn’t have to mean drawing a clean line and cutting someone out of your life.
Forgiveness was a thing. Compromise was a thing. Not always, but it could be.
He touched his fingertips to her back. ‘You know that letting you down goes against every part of my nature, right?’
Zoey nodded, although she was still intent on her bottle- organisation task.