Motive ; One Last Day ; Going Viral

by Dustin Stevens

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Friday, March 23rd, 2012

  3:43 pm

  “James Buchanan has a tattoo.”

  The way Quasi says it makes me believe for almost a second that this is truly his motivation. Somewhere deep inside, he isn’t dying for me to do something permanently altering for the sake of advancing this endeavor.

  Or more importantly, his attachment to it.

  “So?” I snap, waving my hands as he turns sideways and perches himself on the front counter.

  “And get your ass off there,” I say, shoving his bulk away and wiping the spot he’d been sitting with a damp towel. “This isn’t your basement. People eat off this counter.”

  The customer standing in front of the register turns and stares at both of us a moment, her eyes cast downward as she tries to pretend she’s not listening. I glare at Quasi and shake my head, signaling for him to remain silent while she waits.

  It takes him a moment to understand the signal before he falls quiet, both of us casting glances until her food arrives and she scurries away.

  “Don’t you think Chaz should get a tattoo?” Quasi asks, his attention aimed at Pamela behind the counter.

  Ten years our junior, Pamela is just finishing her last few months at Franklin High. She is painfully skinny with thin hair and a high forehead, though she seems blissfully unaware of it. Her garish Bob’s shirt is outfitted with dozens of bedazzled implements. Matching necklaces and bracelets cover most of her exposed skin.

  “Who’s Chaz?” she asks, scrunching her face up a bit.

  Palpitations pass through me as my eyes grow large, shifting to Quasi. Creating an online persona was one thing. Doing a few stupid things for the sake of building a following wasn’t exactly my idea of fun, but it went along with that persona. I could see the connection and even if it meant I got beat up a little, it was a worthy cause.

  Bringing this enterprise into my place of business, trying to get me to do something like get a tattoo, is quite another.

  “Chaz?” Quasi asks, his face contorted a bit. “I said Charles. Where did Chaz come from?”

  The save is poor at best, though Pamela doesn’t seem to notice. She accepts the explanation with a shrug and turns to me. “You’re thinking about getting a tattoo?”

  “No,” I respond, shaking my head emphatically, “I am not.”

  “Like I said-,” Quasi begins, cut off by a withering gaze.

  Across from us, Pamela holds out her thumb and forefinger on either hand, using the digits to form a rectangle. She positions it over me and closes one eye as if focusing on the sight.

  “Yeah, I don’t know,” she says, “I can’t really see it. You don’t strike me as the tattoo type.”

  For just a moment I let the glare pull back from Quasi, turning my attention to Pamela.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  For the third time, she shrugs, her head tilting to the side.

  “The guys at school that have tattoos, they’re all athletes or bikers or whatever. None of the normal guys have them.”

  “And I’m a normal guy?” I ask, indignation rising a bit.

  “Well, you’re definitely not crazy or mysterious,” she says, delivering the information in such a matter-of-fact way that it only adds to my frustration.

  “See,” Quasi says, jumping back into the fray. “And what better way to celebrate your twenty-ninth birthday than by proving you can be crazy or mysterious too?”

  The angry scowl I put in place flexes the right side of my face, pain searing through my still-tender forehead. For a moment I ignore it, looking at both of them in turn.

  “Pamela, don’t you have some mopping to do?” I ask, my tone just a notch below hostile, but still very pointed.

  “Probably,” she says, either not noticing or not caring about what I’m trying to relay to her.

  With a final shrug and a twirl of a weak ponytail, she disappears into the back, the sound of the deep fryer and the smell of burnt food escalating as she passes through the door.

  I wait until she is gone before turning back to face forward. In the middle of the afternoon, the place is almost deserted, just the lone woman and a pair of teenagers on the floor. Even still, I lean in close to the counter, motioning Quasi closer.

  “What the heck are you doing bringing this in here? What if Marcus stopped by? I’d be toast.”

  A dismissive expression passes over his face, his hand waving just inches in front of his nose.

  “Oh, please. Marcus hasn’t been here in months. You’ve said so yourself a hundred times.”

  It is true that I have often candidly expressed my displeasure with my boss, though I still don’t appreciate having it thrown back at me.

  “Don’t you have work? Or have you completely abandoned that too?”

  “My latest project is done,” he replies. “Until they have something else for me, I’m free.”

  The scowl on my face deepens.

  “To show up at work and bother me?”

  “No, to bring you the newest update,” he says.

  A smile crosses his face as he slides his phone from his pocket, pressing just two buttons before thrusting it my way.

  I already know what will be on the screen before seeing it, not bothering to glance over. My gaze remains locked on him, unwavering.

  Since Wednesday night, I have checked it at least every few hours. I despise that I am so curious to see how many people are watching me make a fool of myself, but can’t deny the allure of seeing fourteen thousand people and counting tuning in.

  It’s empowering in a way that so many other people will never understand.

  “So?” I ask, pretending I don’t know what’s going on and that I don’t care.

  “So?!” he gasps, his eyes spreading wide. “Have you seen what’s going on in the comments section?”

  Admittedly, I haven’t paid near as much attention to the lower part of the page. Seeing fifty people make banal comments, most of them some form of laughter, just isn’t as thrilling as watching the raw numbers climb.

  “No, Quasi,” I say, rolling my eyes, giving him my best bored voice. “What’s going on in the comments section?”

  “NoddyGrl26’s suggestion is causing quite a stir!”

  The single woman looks over at us, a sandwich poised a few inches from her mouth. She watches a moment before turning back, her head cocked a few inches in our direction.

  “Would you keep your voice down, dammit?” I hiss. “This is a place of business.”

  An amused expression crosses his face, but he says nothing as he enlarges the portion he wants me to see and again thrusts it in my direction.

  Until this moment, I had no idea it was possible for others to comment on somebody else’s post. I certainly had no clue that they could like it.

  In just two days, three hundred people have liked the suggestion that the next exploit of Chaz D be a trip to the tattoo parlor. Over one hundred have even commented on it.

  Snatching the phone away, I turn and place my backside against the counter, scrolling through the list of comments. The first few merely suggest support for the notion, but a quarter of the way down things change dramatically.

  People begin making suggestions. A few even start naming off tattoo parlors near the Duck River Shooting Range they would recommend.

  “Is this for real?” I ask, my face tightening as I stare down at the screen.

  “Go to the very bottom,” Quasi says, sticking a beefy digit towards the lower corner of the screen.

  Using my finger, I roll through to the last entry in the queue, feeling my pulse rise as I read what is posted from somebody named PauleyZ55.

  Yo Chaz D, if you agree to show my shop in your next video, I’ll do the work for free. 615-555-9354.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Saturday, March 31st, 2012

  1:13 pm

  “I do not want to do this.”

  It is the same thing I
’ve been saying for two days solid, ever since the reality of what I was agreeing to set in.

  When we first got the offer, any trepidation I had was pushed aside in the name of abject curiosity. Later that afternoon, we had called the number and found the place to be legit, the guy on the other end of the line a transplanted Californian named Pauley.

  He had just relocated to Nashville with his girl and was looking for a way to get his name out there. Somehow, he found us and figured we could be that way.

  The plan was for us to come by the shop and have a meeting with him the following Saturday. Waiting a full week wasn’t my idea, but Quasi insisted we needed to keep with the same time schedule. His reasoning was we could spend the time in between hyping the next video. Even if we decided not to go through with it, there would still be footage to post online.

  Pauley said he was cool with it, so long as he got some face time out of the arrangement.

  Never in my life have I wanted to get a tattoo. My father died with the same unmarred skin he was born with, as will my mother. I have every intention of going the same way.

  “You don’t have to do anything,” Quasi says, falling in beside me as I walk to the front door.

  His camera is out and capturing every aspect of the place as we approach, our gait slow and easy to take it all in.

  I don’t actually believe what he is saying, thinking that he wants me to go through with it for the sake of better entertainment value. The look of pure awe on his face seems to confirm this, though I say nothing. The sight before me has rendered me almost speechless.

  Set on the end of a strip mall, the shop has a glass front stretching fifteen feet across. A sign in gothic letters above the door announces it to be Pauley’s Parlor, white set against a black background.

  The entire exterior of the place is plastered with posters of heavily tattooed individuals, a series of vertical bars striping the store front. It is the first building I have ever seen requiring bars, making me wonder what is housed inside that needs protecting.

  “This is great,” Quasi says, smiling in delight as he fades back, getting some shots of me approaching the shop.

  I can only imagine what my black attire looks like against the backdrop, though I don’t dare turn around to face him or ask to see any playback.

  Stepping up onto the sidewalk running the length of the strip, I turn over my shoulder and ask, “Are you coming?”

  Behind me, I can hear feet slapping against pavement as Quasi rushes forward beside me. Camera by his side, he looks at the front façade and lets out a loud sigh.

  “This is great, isn’t it?”

  “I still don’t want to do this,” I say, narrowing my eyes without glancing to him.

  “So don’t,” he says, slapping his palms against his thighs before going for the door.

  In two steps, he pulls it open, motioning me inside.

  A tangle of something sharp and roiling erupts in my stomach as I step through the front door of the shop, the smell of incense hitting me full in the face. It burns my nose and bring an instant lightheadedness as Quasi steps in behind me, my eyes dilating to adjust.

  The place resembles some sort of macabre dentist office, with three large chairs set out in order along the left half of the room. In front of the chairs are floor-to-ceiling mirrors enabling people to watch as their ink is applied. Opposite it is chart after chart of designs and artwork, all ready to be put to skin at a moment’s notice. Along the back are two full tables, both parallel to the space, sitting side by side.

  Just being in here causes a shiver to pass through my body.

  “Hello!” a voice calls from the back, a black curtain parting between the tables.

  Through it steps a guy that looks to be in his mid-thirties, though it is almost impossible to tell. Every visible inch of his skin from the neck down is covered in brightly colored ink.

  Very little of it can I actually decipher, most of it appearing to be a swirl of color and shapes.

  “Hey, you guys made it!” he exclaims, picking up his pace halfway across the shop.

  He jogs a few steps and extends a hand, shaking mine and then Quasi’s in turn.

  Up close, he has three stars tattooed around his left eye, a nose ring through his right nostril. His hair has been shaved into a wide Mohawk, the top six inches long and hanging down, naturally blonde and curly.

  “Thanks for having us,” I manage, my breathing slow and labored.

  “And for your offer,” Quasi says, his original glee already getting over the initial shock of entering.

  “Absolutely,” Pauley says, extending his arms out wide. “And I meant it.”

  He rotates at the waist, waving to his display.

  “Place has been open all afternoon, but you guys are the first ones to step inside.”

  The thought of telling him he might want to change his storefront or his own appearance both pass through my head. While both might have been the norm in Venice Beach, things in Tennessee work a little bit differently.

  “Listen...” I begin, glancing to him before pretending to look at the displays on the wall.

  “First timer,” Pauley says, cutting me off.

  He smiles as he does so, lines forming around his mouth and the bottom of his eyes, belying a real age a little older than my original assessment.

  “I understand, I was the same way once upon a time.”

  I look again at his arms etched in vibrant graffiti and find the statement a little tough to believe.

  “Yeah?” I ask, aware that Quasi has turned on the camera and is capturing our exchange. “So what brought you around?”

  The smile from a moment before reappears, this time much deeper. It stretches across his features like a Cheshire cat, dimples forming on his cheeks.

  “Hey, Rae!” he calls out without turning around.

  He simply stands and stares at me as the curtain behind him parts. A sharp stab of electricity hits me in the chest as a woman steps through.

  Check that - a goddess dressed in black.

  Standing several inches taller than me already, her height is accentuated by a pair of three-inch heels. They are the last clothing of any kind for nearly three feet, nothing but tan leg visible. Her torso is covered by a satin mini-dress that hugs her form, her blonde hair swept back over a shoulder.

  That same shoulder is etched with an intricate tattoo, the design stretching past her elbow before tailing away mid-forearm. I am only vaguely aware of Quasi shifting his position to get all three of us into the scene, unable to so much as move.

  Seeing my reaction, the smile grows a touch deeper for Pauley, his head nodding up and down.

  “Gentlemen, this is Rae,” he says as way of introduction. “And Rae, over working the video is Abe, and the man before you is Chaz D.”

  At the mention of my online alter ego, Rae’s lips puff out a bit.

  “Chaz D, it is a pleasure. Loved your video at the rifle range.”

  Sweat oozes from my pores as I stare at her, unsure how to reply.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah,” she says, stepping forward and running a fingertip over my scar, still fresh from the stitches being removed a week earlier.

  The touch of her finger grazing my skin almost sends me into convulsions on the spot.

  “I just love a man with scars. Don’t I, Pauley?”

  “Yes, you do, sweetheart,” Pauley replies, his California accent coming out in full effect.

  Fully aware that she has my undivided attention, Rae makes a slow revolution around me, her fingertips lingering as she evaluates what she sees. Every touch of her against my skin, every sound of her heels against the tile floor, sets my nerves on end, sensory overload setting in.

  “You know what else I love?” she asks, leaning in close to whisper in my ear.

  The feel of her breath on my lobe sends a ripple down my skin, my entire body visibly quivering.

  “What’s that?” I manage, my own voice sound
ing detached and hollow.

  “A man with a little ink,” she replies as she finishes her revolution around me.

  She leaves her fingers on my shoulder as she returns to Pauley’s side, her arm extending until the distance becomes too great and it falls away.

  The moment it is gone, I find myself longing for it to return, my entire being pleading for her to resume her walk.

  “That’s how I ended up with Pauley,” she says, walking back to his side and sliding her hand up his arm, “ain’t that right, baby?”

  Her voice is so saccharine sweet, she is almost cooing in his ear.

  I cannot help but feel pangs of jealousy rising in me just seeing her touching his arm instead of mine.

  “It sure is,” Pauley replies, a devilish smile flitting across his features.

  They hold the pose a moment before he returns his attention to me.

  “The first time I ever met Rae was at a bar in San Bernardino. At the time, I never would have imagined getting inked up.”

  He shifts to the side and points to a figure on his shoulder, a she-devil done in red with a tail curling down towards his bicep.

  “By the end of the night, I had this little number.”

  “By the next morning, he had me,” Rae inserts.

  “And the rest,” Pauley finishes, motioning to his arms and neck, “is history.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Friday, January 21st, 2015

  4:28 pm

  “You’re kidding me, right?” Pearson asks, the first time she has broken professional decorum all day.

  Shock, and even a hint of disgust, hangs from the question, her hand shooting out and shoving the computer to the side.

  “For two solid weeks, you’d been dragging your feet, claiming you never had any intention of getting a tattoo in your life, and suddenly one bimbo gives you the eye and you’re all in?”

  A blaze of hostility flashes at her words and the insinuation, dying out just as fast. We still have a lot of ground to cover, and getting quarrelsome with my interviewer will only serve as an effective way to get this entire thing called off.