Day 1 - I moved to America.
It took years of saving, planning, organising, learning, growing and waiting, but I did it. I had my own shop, I had my own flat, my own car - my own life. A new life, one that was just for me. Or so I thought.
It was hot. It was so fucking God shitting damn hot. Moving from Glasgow, Scotland, to Atlanta, Georgia, was not so much a 'culture shock' more of a 'climate shock'. 20ºC wasn't ideal weather for pale freckly ginger to be moving very heavy boxes in. The first half of my stuff had arrived about a month before I did; it had been moved into the back room of the studio - my studio, my own freakin tattoo studio - what 26 year old had their own studio? Me, that's who! - the rest of the boxes had arrived an hour and a half after the taxi dropped me off.
As I moved the third box of clothes inside, I relished the idea of a completely unpacked home. I trudged through what was going to be the reception, through the wide empty room behind it, into the corridor and up the stairs. Clothes got put in the bedroom, then I went back for the next. Three rooms downstairs - reception, studio, bathroom; four rooms upstairs - living room, bedroom, bathroom, kitchen. One corridor linked the floors, one cupboard in the hall on either floor. The flat was bought outright. The studio was $185 a week, which I'd paid upfront for 3 months. This was a good start - a fucking unbelievable good start, just as long as it didn't come crashing down around my head.
Pausing at the front door, I wiped the sweat of my forehead again. Fuck, it was too warm. I checked the time; two hours until the maintenance guy turned up to fix the air-con. Well that sucked.
I tied my tank top up at the side, trying to cool off as much as I could. Short short, tanktop, flip flops, sooo much sun cream - I would have died back home if anyone ever saw me like that, but at that moment, in that fucking heat, I could not have given less of a shit. I didn't care that my milk bottle legs were out, that you could see all my stretch marks, and chub - it was too damn hot. Apparently it was hotter in Atlanta city though - how the fuck could it be hotter than this? Idly I wonder if I went another 35 miles away from Atlanta it would get another few degrees cooler again - though I'd probably get back round to Scotland before I found a comfortable climate, shame.
I took a moment to look down the street I now lived on. The studio was at the end, opposite a dive bar called 'The Doghouse" (which made me laugh) - it looked like it had been burned down 20 times in 10 year, and was still there just because nobody had noticed. Next door to me was a garage - 'Mike's Repairs', well, actually it said 'M ke' R pa s', but the indication of it's full title was there. Across the road next to the Doghouse was a sad looking 24hr convenience store called 'Bobby's' that advertised the selling of various alcohols. After that, the tarmac faded into a dirt road and went off into some trees - apparently there was a pond or something down there. If I looked in the other direction, it was also just road. Trees hid it from sight in a short distance, but beyond them there was a corner, and round it a petrol station. A little further from that was the town. If you went in the other direction there were farms. It made a change, being in the middle of nowhere.
Like my flat, there were other residencies above the other shops - bigger than mine though, each of the other buildings having at three floors and roof access. Apparently I had roof access too, I just hadn't worked that out yet. Maybe there was a hatch with a ladder, like the loft at home. I shook myself back into focus and got on with moving the boxes.
I took a break for lunch, and waited for the guy who was going to fix the aircon. He arrived a bit late but got the job done quick. I'd never felt such a relief as when I felt that cool air on my bare arms. I thanked and tipped him and he was on his way. Once he'd left, I flopped down on the sofa in the waiting room - thank fuck for aircon. I must have fallen asleep there, when i opened my eyes again the sun was setting. Shit. With a groan, I got back to my feet.
I stopped at the door and stretched. There were two cars in the street now, outside the Doghouse. A battered old Chevy pick up and a rusting beetle - even though they were in worse shape than my jeep, I admired then for a moment; before remembering there were still boxes I had to get inside.
There were 8 left. 3 had books in them, 1 had the last of my tattoo gear, 2 had an assortment of ornaments, pictures, decor and random collectables, and the last 2 had my vintage cash register, a lamp, some plant pots and my shop name plaque from Tattoo Con, packed with socks and scarves and gloves.
I had the 2 'ornaments and shit' boxes inside was coming back out to decide what to move next when I heard a voice call, "Hey, you need a hand there sugar?"
That's how I met Merle Dixon.