Chapter 35
Declan
The sound of tattoo machines has always relaxed me.
The steady buzz while I work acts like a white noise that helps turn off the chaos in my brain for a while, something I was especially grateful for the first few years I got into tattooing.
Today is no exception, though for once, I walked in here with the noise in my mind already dialed down to low.
The Elsie Effect.
“You’re in a good mood today,” Sean says without looking up from the chest piece he’s working on.
“Am I?”
“You’re singing,” Maya points out from my other side.
“I’m not singing,” I argue. “You can’t hear me all the way over there, anyway.”
“I can see your lips moving. You just sang every word of the last song.”
“Dude, you’re definitely singing,” DJ, one of my least favorite people in this town, pipes up. “And that was totally a chick song.”
I roll my eyes, resisting the strong urge to smack him upside the head. “‘Pink Pony Club’ isn’t a chick song. It’s for everybody.”
“Whatever, man.”
DJ taps away on his phone with one hand while I work on his other forearm.
He came in a week ago wanting me to tattoo a cheeseburger on him right then and there.
His on-again, off-again girlfriend, Mandy, had been with him at the time, and she was apparently going to get french fries on her arm in the same spot.
I couldn’t help noticing she looked a bit less sure about the whole thing.
DJ wasn’t thrilled that he’d had to make an appointment and wait until today, when Mandy couldn’t be here. She promised him she’d come back a different day to get her tattoo.
“I still think we should have gotten Shrek and Donkey,” DJ sighs.
I glance up at him, wondering if I’d heard him correctly. I lift my machine from his arm and take my foot off the pedal to lessen the buzzing in here. “I’m sorry, what?”
“The tattoo,” he says, nodding toward his arm. “I wanted Shrek, and I wanted Mandy to get Donkey. You know, because we’re best friends and shit.”
My lips twitch as I fight a smirk. “You wanted your girlfriend to get an ass tattooed on her?”
DJ rears back, jerking his arm out of my grip, and it’s a good thing I didn’t have a needle pressed to his skin. “The fuck you talking about, man?”
I sigh, wishing I’d ignored him like I do most of my other customers. I’m here to work, not chit chat.
“The technical term for a donkey is an ass,” I tell him. “That’s the scientific word, or whatever. So if you wanted Mandy to get a donkey tattooed on her, then technically, you wanted her to get an ass tattooed on her.”
DJ looks stricken. “Shit,” he mutters. “Do you think that’s why she’s mad at me? She hasn’t answered my texts in, like, twenty minutes.”
It’s a hard battle, but I manage to resist rolling my eyes. “Could be,” I tell him seriously. “Now will you let me finish this tattoo?”
I’m just finishing up the last few sesame seeds on the bun when my phone rings on the counter behind DJ. I ignore it, not bothering to check and see who’s calling. Elsie knows where to find me, and Pops and Gran will call again if it’s important. Sasha, too, I suppose.
A few minutes later, I’m finished. I clean the area and dry it, then sit back while DJ inspects my work.
“Fucking sick, dude. I love it.”
The guy might be the village idiot, but it’s always nice to hear that a client is pleased with my work. “Glad to hear it.”
I cover the fresh tattoo in a thin layer of ointment, then plastic wrap, and try to tune DJ out while he complains about something or other. By the time he finally leaves the shop, my mood isn’t flying quite as high as it was before he sat down in my chair.
“Brutal,” Sean says while I sanitize my station.
“That guy drives me fucking crazy,” his client adds. “I kept my eyes closed so he would think I was sleeping and leave me alone.”
“Wish I could have done that,” I tell him.
“Want me to put on some more Taylor Swift to boost your mood again?” Sean jokes.
“That song wasn’t even – you know what, never mind,” I mutter, shaking my head.
“Maybe some Sabrina?” Maya suggests. “Or Ariana? We don’t discriminate against pop goddesses here. I’ve got a whole playlist I can put on.”
“Both of you can fuck off,” I tell them, though I kind of want to hear Maya’s playlist.
I’m distracted as I grab my phone and start scrolling through my notifications.
I have a handful of texts and a missed call.
I’m surprised to see the call is from Mikey, an old buddy of mine from a shop in New York where I worked years ago.
We kept in touch after I left, sending pics of tattoos back and forth, that kind of thing. He’s certainly never called me before.
I check my texts and find one from him.
Mikey: Hit me up when you get a chance. Got a proposition for ya.
Intrigued, I call him back. It rings twice before he picks up.
“Declan, buddy, how you doing? Great to hear from you.” Mikey always sounds excited to talk to you, no matter what the topic of conversation. I haven’t seen him in person in a few years, not since the last time I visited New York, but I’m happy to hear that hasn’t changed at all.
“I’m good,” I tell him. “How have you been?”
“Fuckin’ peachy,” he tells me, and he sounds like he means it. “I’m at this new shop in Brooklyn and it’s a fuckin’ dream. And get this, the boss is looking for another artist.”
My stomach drops as realization dawns on me. My next appointment hasn’t arrived yet, so I head to the back of the shop and slip through the door to the backyard. I ease myself down onto the bench between our door and Elsie’s before answering. “Oh yeah?”
Without any further ado, Mikey launches into his pitch.
The couple who owned the shop we worked at together ended up getting divorced, and the guy paid her out for her half of the business.
She used the money to open up her own shop in Brooklyn and hired Mikey and another artist she knows.
They’re looking for a fourth to fill their other chair.
“I’m pretty settled here in Maine,” I tell him once his spiel is over. It’s not an outright no, not yet.
“Buddy, trust me, I get it,” Mikey says. “I know you’re doing your friend a solid by working there, and you haven’t been there for very long. But I know you – you love city life, not whatever small-town bullshit they’ve got you doing up there. I mean, it’s New York.”
I do love the city that never sleeps. But by a strange twist of fate, I think I might kind of love this town, too.
I should shut down the idea right here, right now. I know I should. I could just tell him thanks, but no thanks. Let him know I’ve got a good thing going here.
And yet – something about having another option appeals to me.
It’s not that I want to actually consider his offer, not really.
But knowing I have an out if I needed it – if the pressure and confinements of small-town life got to be too much…
it’s kind of nice. It eases some of that weight that sits on my chest at times.
“I’ll think about it,” I tell him.
“That’s all I ask, man.” Something crashes on his end of the line and he curses. “I gotta go. I’ll text you with the details.”
“Sounds good.”
“Later, Deck.”
Before I have the chance to think about his offer, my biggest reason to stay comes waltzing out of her shop. My heart stutter-steps, the way it always does when I first lay eyes on Elsie. It’s a jolt to my system every single time.
Her hair is thrown up in a high ponytail tonight and she’s wearing a green and white striped apron over her dress. She looks cute. She looks happy, and her grin only widens when she spots me.
“Declan. Hi.” She begins walking my way and my heart kicks into a higher gear.
New York has a lot of things that could tempt me into returning: the nightlife, the diversity, the pizza slices larger than my head and the hot dogs on every corner. A guy could get used to living in a place like that and still never be bored.
There’s still one thing it’s missing, though.
New York doesn’t have Elsie Carmichael.