Stepping out of the office, I am spot my closest co-workers posted up by my station. Once I'm in their view, they start clapping. Tears emerge, waiting for the most inappropriate time to make an appearance. Inkblot is my home away from home and these people are my family, cliché as it sounds.
I hear a couple of cat-calls and woof whistles and I walk over, dragging a silent Phil with, "Stop it, you guys! I'm blushing…" laughter erupts from the tiny group.
"Ooh child! You really put that lil' girl in her place! Woo…come here an' gimme a hug, suga'" sings Joanne. She's like the mother of the group since she's a millennium of years ahead of us twenty-somethings. Her comical ways as well as her maternal instincts makes us all love our beautiful black woman.
"What? Why does she get a hug first? I thought I was your favorite," that's our Boston blonde, Bree. Your typical bubbly blonde - only a bit more intelligent – that we keep around for eye candy and to keep the place light as well as multicultural – she's the only white girl.
"Come over if you want some of this, white girl," I beckon with a sway of my hips. They bring the best out of you.
She practically flies into me, "Aren't you a cocky bitch?"
"One that has bruises…" I grumble.
The Boston blonde gasps, "I'm so sorry. I'll give you a kiss to make it better!" she does just that.
Pay no mind, anybody who works here or is a frequent knows that girl-on-girl action means nothing, but boy, I can see that Phil's jaw just hit the floor and mossy eyes popped out their sockets.
"Who's tall, toned, and smexy over there?" whispers Bree eyeing Phil like a piece of marinated meat; I can't help but feel a tinge of jealousy, a tinge.
"Name's Phil. He's Mackenzie's, you know her, brother. Off-limits, you hear?" I reply as quietly as can be.
She whines, "Why? He got the syph or something?" I shake my head. She pulls away from me to observe my eyes. Her eyelids half-close and she gets this knowing-smile, "He's with you, isn't he? You fucking whore, you always get the sexiest ones!" any louder, Bubbles? The line earns me a couple more giggles, Phil's hushed chuckle in the mix.
Detaching myself from the girl, "Not even like that…" still they giggle, "Fuck me."
"Aw, don't get mad, Curlyfries," Carlos walks over and scoops me up. He's the newest member of our crew. Straight out of L.A. Funny how when he was a real newbie, everybody put up a front against him – he had an affiliation to the Surenos. Here we don't take to gang members as they are what are wrong with society. We warmed up to him after hearing of his road to redemption, "Damn, chica, where did those damn bumps come from?" he questions.
"Doesn't matter…"
He glares at me, "That petty ass boyfriend, wasn't it?" I don't respond, "There ain't gonna be a next time, eh," he squeezes me and walks back to the group.
"Welcome back!" Last but not least is Jee. He's a little Asian fella, real laidback as opposed to the stereotype. He deals pot which comes in handy when you fiend, "I got you on a free blunt, girl, just give me a shout!" he says retreating to his own station where a female awaits him.
Rest of the crew is absent from the welcoming committee: working on somebody, having themselves a merry little break, or enjoying their day of leisure. Time is ticking though so I wrap up the mini-party, "Thanks, guys. It was only a twenty-four hour vacation but thanks," I laugh to myself, "Let's get this show on the road and get back to work 'cus I got this guy to work on," I take hold of Phil's hand and an assortment of whistles resume. So lucky I love you guys!
The crew disassembles and take off to their respective stations and Bree to the "receptionist" desk to file away at her manicured nails as I clean off my area which we nicknamed "King's Throne…or in my case, "Queen's Throne". It's the station designated for employee of the month…I've been it for quite a while. I'm on display for the world to see – display window – which is pretty neat if I weren't so preoccupied about that.
Ready with pen and paper, I swirl around to see Phil observing the station, mostly the cheesy, plush, maroon tattooing chair, "Hey, you gonna stand there and look pretty or what?" you wouldn't mind, Marleene. Inwardly kick myself and pull up a chair for Punk. You need rebound sex!
"Patience is a virtue, sweetheart," he replies, taking his sweet ass time to plop himself down, "They, your co-workers, are a lively bunch."
"They keep me sane…" I reply with a smile
He nods, "What's with the embellishments in this area?"
"Reserved for showing off the employee of the month…"
He gives off the vibe that he's thoroughly surprised, "Never would've guessed, much less believed it," he bluntly states. The man doesn't even second guess himself just says it.
In all honesty, I don't know whether I should feel offended or proud of the fact, "Why's that? You thought I was rookie-ing it out while mooching off my..Noah?"
The Jesus-haired man leans back into his chair, "Why lie, yes. Pretty faces such as yours don't take up jobs like this unless their playing secretary or something." Pretty faces like me?, "Pretty face don't really take up jobs…they just look pretty and do pretty things and get a wad of cash for it."
Wide-eyed with incredibility, I stare Phil down as if he's just murdered my father. Did he just suggest that you should be a hussy?, "Are you trying to get a reaction out of me like yesterday?"
"Nope," he pops the 'p'.
Blown away that's what I am, "Look, Phi-"
"Call me Punk. I save 'Phil' for individuals I don't like."
He likes you yet insults you? Clearing my throat, "Punk you don't know anything about me other than my name and not even my last name. 'Pretty faces' take up those 'jobs' because they know they are and they can get away with it. I, on the other hand, am the opposite. This is what I do and this is what I excel in so kick back, relax, and witness why it is that I am employee of the month."
Intrigued, "Why's that? Why are you the shining star?"
"Because whether it's a string of stars near some chick's vagina or a detailed geisha on some guy's biceps, I put my heart and soul into it. Make it as though every single tattoo is thrown at me is going to be the last God ever lets me create. I am not a genius and sure as hell ain't good for much else but this…art it's all I have to show for myself. That's why."
Dunno if I've stunned the lad but the intensity of his eyes unnerve me. It's like he's seen a paranormal being, "Kudos to you, beautiful, kudos," he smiles a real smile, "I'll take you up on an offer. Test out that passion you got to see if you aren't all talk," another signature smirk, I'll be damned if they aren't trademarked.
"Fuck it. What you got for me, pretty boy?" Pretty boy scoots his chair halfway around to me, and leans in super close, popping my personal-space bubble, near my ear. Sensitive area, I repeat, sensitive area!, "Fuck are you doing, my co-workers are staring!" I whisper loudly.
Sultry, breathy laughter erupts from the man's thin lips, which are still next to my ear. This is raising the hairs on the back of my neck, rolling shivers down my spine,and turning my lower abdomen to mush, "They enjoying the view?" I pinch him, "Ow, okay, okay relax. All jokes aside, what I'm about to ask of you is serious so don't make a joke of it."
"Everything that has come out of your mouth paints you out to be someone who doesn't give a fuck…guess I was wrong," I tease.
He wags a finger, "You weren't. Something about you makes me want to keep up my manly front…"
Laughing nervously, "Uh…me?"
"Yeah, you."
Scratching my suddenly itchy hand, "Why?
"You're an attractive woman, Marleene, hence my new nickname for you. I find you attractive, in a non-creepy way. Plus, you're gonna choke on you spit once I tell you what I want done…" he chuckles as a way block the awkwardness of his confession.
"Oh…" I find a way to not be weird but fail to. I am not an expert on how to deal with upfront compliments…attractive men make it harder on the brain, "um…I am so very sorry, I don't handle compliments very well especially in the state I'm in. All be-"
"Take it and let's move on, sweetheart, we got a ways to go," he interrupts and I am quite thankful.
"Okay…well, thank you, Phi…er, Punk," I shoot him a cheeky smile to which he shoots back a lemon face. We burst in short-lived giggles.
"Back to business, I want a filled-in outline of Minnie Mouse's head with her pink bow unraveling into a name. I want it done on my back, preferably near the right shoulder," he says in a hushed tone with his focused on anything but my struggling face.
"One question, free of judgment, why? Is it a dare or…?" for the life of me, the goofy grin on my face I can't seem to get rid of!
Olive orbs open to reflect my smile, "My mom had the same tattoo on her right breast, awkward I know, but I just wanted to…ah, I dunno…I guess I wanted to honor the woman, you know? Wherever I travel, I'll have a part of her. She died the same way she lived: downing drinks and mixing drugs. Because of her, I am the man I am today – Straight Edge: free of drugs, free of alcohol," he runs a hand through his unkempt hair, "I…I miss the woman more than I really should…" his eyes wander off out the window and up into the cloudy sky. I manage to catch an un-obscured tear. Hit a soft spot, damn…
Not knowing what to say because there isn't much to say to soothe the pain of a lost parent, I rub his knee, "I think I can make that happen, pretty boy. Don't gotta be embarrassed."
Wiping his face and facing me, "Smart, using my own words against me…" a soft laugh.
Grinning, " I know! You want me to sketch it or freehand it?"
"Freehand? Damn, that's mad talent. Not many artists can boast about having that but I'd rather you sketch it."
Gasping dramatically, "My…I am quite offended that you don't trust in my mad skills!"
He rolls his eyes, "You're a dork."
"Fuck you. Feel free to chill, just don't kill anybody while I'm busy sketching."
"Damnit!"
ΔΔΔΔ
Blowing away the rest of the eraser markings, I regard my sketch as a finished work of art; simplistic but on spot. Now, to locate Punk which is going to be easy-peasy lemon squeezy because he's within eye-view looking at the parlor's Wall of Shame. He's looking at what? Rocketing out of my seat, I scramble in a normal manner to his side. The wall contains pictures of everybody doing something worth taking a shot of. Many are shots that family members have personally donated to Wes – mine are quite unfond snapshots of me as a toddler. All photocopied from albums my old man let Wes get his hands on. Joanne and Bree have gone out of their way to show Punk around the wall, specifically my shots.
As calmly as my nerves will allow, I open my trap, "Hey-ey guys, watcha' doin'?"
"Nun'we just giving our honored guest a tour of the Wall and showing him your adorable baby pictures," replies Joanne, all smiley about it.
Half-shrieking, "Why?" they give me a look and I adjust my tone, "I mean, I don't think he cares. Do you, Punk?"
"Oh come on, Mar-" starts Bree.
I motion for her to zip it, "I'm done with your sketch, Punk. Let's go look it over."
"But you were such an adorable baby. With that afro you sported and all. Am I a pervert for having seen you naked?" all three of us women gasp and he troll smirks, "In that picture of you rub-a-dub dubbing? Gosh, you women know how to give sentences new meaning." Pinche chistosito, hijo de la gran…
Frowning and crossing my arms, I death glare all of these individuals – especially Joanne and Bree. They seem to get the hint that I'm pretty pissed up the ass, "Uh, honey, you wanna join us for lunch? We 'bout to hit up the ca-"
"No."
"How about you, Philly?" Philly? Inquires the ravenous blonde fluttering her falsies all flirty about it. I'm not jealous, annoyed to an extent but never jealous, "It'll be fun! The food's great, we can get to know each other," she continues, uttering the last bit seductively. So much for 'off-limits'…
Phil grins cheekily, "As much as I'd love to, I am afraid I can't. You see, Bree, last time I didn't take up your offer because I simply wasn't in the mood…this time, I've got myself a lovely girl waiting on me."
Scoffing, the Boston native flips her extension-filled hair, "Whatever! I'll see you later Mar," and she stomps out the door.
"Isn't she the dramatic one…" he turns to shake Joanne's hand, "It was a pleasure seeing you, might I say, you don't age at all."
Joanne laughs, "Always the charmer. Well, Phillip, don't let three years pass you by before we hear of you again," and she's out the door too.
Slugging Phil on the arm, "The fuck? What's with you and physical violence?"
"That one was for being an ass to my girl and this…" another slug, "for wandering off and seeing my stupid baby pictures."
"Someone's feisty…"
"A tad. C'mon, I ain't got all day for your tat."
"All right, let's see what you're all about," says Phil walking over to my station.
I hand him the paper where I've drawn his, with some luck, future tattoo, "Am I good or am I good?"
Since the moment I met this character named Phil who goes by the alias, Punk, he'd never put on a full smile for me; always his collection of smirks and grins. Slowly creeping onto his face and then making an appearance is a full fletch smile, complete with teeth and all. It takes years off his face and shows off his Crow's feet. His eyes glisten and shine, they just need the 'ding'.
"It's simple, I know, but flashy shit would comp-"
"It's perfect," he traces the pen lines of the sketched Minnie, "How'd you know my mom's nickname was 'Twiggy'?"
Scratching my temple, "Long story…"
"I got nothing but time and space…"
Getting comfortable, "Okay, well here it goes – I'm not much of a storyteller, you were warned."
ΔΔΔΔ
Eight years ago…
"Oh my god, I can't…I cannot believe John just kissed you!" screeched Micks.
"Shut up, Wonderbread, we're almost near your crib but…" I let out a shrilly yell, "He, the object of my desire, kissed me!" my excitement couldn't be withheld if I tried.
"How was it? Was he any good?" Micks interrogates.
Giving her a look, "How the hell am I suppose to know? He's my first, ever!" I chuckle.
"Oh yeah…I'm slow sometimes."
Laying a hand on her shoulder, "Most of the time, sweetie," she gasps, "But I wouldn't have it any other way, babes."
"I hope not, bitch."
Laughing, "Shut it before I kick your flat ass."
She snaps her fingers, "Oh. Hell. No!" we star play fighting as we round the corner to her house.
"Girl, God damnit, girls! Stop talking…so damn loud! I have a fucking…hangover," slurs a woman. We look and see a barely covered-up Mrs. Brooks, Micks's mom.
"Mom…" mutters my best friend, abashed at the state of her mother, "Uh…Mar, you think you can help drag my mom home?"
Sure as hell, I go over and put an arm around my shoulder and lift up the woman. It's frightening how not heavy she is. Almost feather like. We stumble another block to the Brooks's residence.
"Baby, I…I don' wanna…go in…" whines the sobering woman, "Don't wan'…Punkers…an' Mike to see me…see me like…this."
"Mom, you're embarrassing me; you need to get your butt inside!"
"Look girl, I am Twiggy! Most importantly, your mother…ain't nobody…tellin' me wha' to fuckin' do! 'Specially you!"
The girl facepalms, "Sorry for this, Mar."
"It's cool," we carefully set Twiggy down on one of the lawn chairs on the porch, "So, Mrs. Brooks, can I call you 'Twiggy'?" I ask, hoping to lighten the air between mother and daughter.
"Yee, go 'head!" she takes a good look at us, "My, how you girls done grown…so beautiful…so beautiful," touches our cheeks lazily and lays down, "How's life treatin' ya'? Boy talk?"
Smiling like an idiot, "Well, there's this boy…"
Twiggy smiles almost dreamily, "Always is…always. How 'bout you, honeybunches? Don't be…scurred now. Consider me one of the girls!" she sits up, a little too fast for her liking, "Mother of Jesus!" she holds her head, "Girlies, if there's…ever somethin'…you pick up from Twiggy it's…don't ever mix unknown drinks…leads to bad decisions."
Mick and I chortles at the fact that a grow woman has just advised two eighth grade twerps not to mix their drinks.
ΔΔΔΔ
"By far one of dear old Twiggy's best days – she didn't seem to ever have enough with us as one of the girls. We'd talked 'till she passed out," the corners of my lips upturn at the fond memory, "She was a funny woman…"
My sight travels to Punk who currently sits with his elbows on his knees and hands tucked under his chin on the floor. He looks worn out almost like he's on the verge of shedding tears. It yanks at my heart's stings that my story has affected him so.
"She was a nice woman…she really cared about you guys. The story says so." And you better hope you aren't saying just to say!
He blinks, "Yeah, I guess she did…" he gets up off the floor and walks over to my pimp-a-fied tattooing chair, "Mention any of this and you'll be hanging on a post…by the underwear," he warns sending an evil smirk my way. Bye, sentimental Punk!
"Oh yeah, so scared. Trembling in fear of your wrath…" I yawn, "Ready for some ink, big boy?"
"Born ready, sugar."
A/N- I feel like I am going slow with this story, ugh. Sorry, guys. I'm trying to take this places - unknown places- so please stick with me. Follow, PM, review...whatever! Much love.