Proper Ink

by Zeia Jameson

  “It’s ten o’clock in the morning. Why are you still sleeping?” He sits in the chair to the left of the sofa and leans to rest his arms on his lap. “You have got to figure something out, man. It’s been almost three months since you and—”

  I shake my head. “Don’t say her name. I don’t want to hear it.”

  “Oh my God, you are so dramatic.”

  I stand and stretch out the stiffness that sleeping on this couch produces every night. I give myself a scratch and make my way toward the bathroom.

  “Leave me alone, man. If you don’t want me here, just say so and I’ll go.”

  “I want my brother back, is all. That bitch is not worth all of this moping. You’re being an idiot. You skipped the trip you’d been wanting to take your entire life because she dumped you. You have that fancy, expensive degree and no job. You have all that talent, and you spend your days doing what? Charcoal drawings on River Street for five dollars a pop? Things need to change, man. Mom is so worried about you—”

  I stand in the doorway of the bathroom and turn to him for a moment. He looks at me as I scrub my hand down my face. I know he’s right. I stalled my entire life because Mallory ripped my heart out in front of our favorite restaurant. It hurts less than it did that day, that week, last month. I need to move on and figure out how I’m going to make a living. The Europe trip was supposed to solidify an internship at an art gallery in Chicago, but I blew that to shit. All because of a stupid girl. A girl I loved so much.

  I sigh, and instead of discussing these thoughts with my brother, Milo, who’s been letting me sleep on his couch for almost three months after staying at my parents’ house proved to be unbearable because of my sweet, smothering mother, I say, “Like I said, if you want me out, say the word.”

  I enter the bathroom and close the door before he has a chance to respond.

  I’d like to think I’m a realist. I don’t sit out here on the edge of River Street with the delusion that I’m going to make a lucrative living doing charcoal cityscapes. But my work is fairly popular with tourists and locals alike. One of the waterfront shop owners asked me to do a collection for him to sell in his store. I did and he paid me well. And unlike some of the other artistic vendors around here, I don’t have to solicit customers. They come to me. I sit out here eight, sometimes ten, hours a day and do what I love to do: express myself through art. I put a spin on all of my drawings. Apparently, it’s an appealing spin, because I have a constant group of people at my booth looking at my collection. My smallest pieces, which are four inches by six inches in size, are the biggest hit, likely because they’re the least expensive. I frequently sell my ten-by-twelve-inch size too. I have a couple of twelve-by-sixteen-inch pieces as well. I sell one occasionally, but I have them out mostly for display to attract onlookers from a distance.

  I’m doing what makes me happy. I’m not going to be a millionaire from it, but I make enough money to keep myself fed and to appease Milo with some cash each month so he doesn’t feel as compelled to kick me off of his sofa. He thinks the opposite of how I feel. That I sit down here all day and try to work out some sort of depression. Is my heart shattered to pieces? Absolutely. Did I throw away my future because of it? Yep. But I’m far from depressed. Only broken, at best. Maybe I’ll stay broken. Maybe I won’t. I’m not worried about that right now. For now, I want to spend my days down by the water. Listen to the current. Feel the breeze. Work on my charcoals. I’m not doing anyone any harm. I don’t understand why my mom and Milo are on my ass so much.

  Yes, you do, Luca.

  “Aye,” I hear a voice say from behind me. “That is an excellent drawing of the cathedral. So much detail.”

  I turn to meet the face that goes with the medium Irish accent. Tall. Five o’clock shadow. Hands shoved in his pockets nonchalantly.

  “Thanks.” I point my chalk-smudged finger to my display table. “I have a few more over there. Different angles. If you want to take a look.”

  He walks over to the table and takes a moment to peruse my collection. I go back to my easel. After a few minutes, he turns back toward me. “These are impressive. The way you perceived the direction of the lighting here.” He points to a painting I did of the Kehoe House. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’ve had some lessons in photography.”

  I nod. “I have. I took three photog classes in college.”

  “SCAD?” he asks.

  I nod again. “Yeah. I graduated a few months ago.”

  “Any of those classes with Dr. Charles?”

  This question piques my interest and curiosity. “I took two of my classes with him. Composites and Perspective. Do you know him?”

  “Aye. Had a few classes with him myself. He was also my mentor for my senior portfolio.”

  I lean back in my chair. “Huh. How about that? Photography major, I presume?”

  “That I was. Graduated in two-thousand-eleven.”

  “It’s nice to meet a fellow graduate. Not many stick around Savannah once they graduate.”

  “That is true,” he agrees.

  I shift in my seat slightly and turn more in his direction.

  “I’m Luca. I’d shake your hand, but mine are kind of indisposed currently.” I hold up my dusty, charcoal-covered hands to him.

  “No problem. Nice to meet you. I’m Padraig.”

  “Nice to meet you too. So how does that expensive photography degree keep you busy around here these days?”

  “I do freelance work for Zephyr.”

  “No shit! Wow. But wait. He’s not really into general photography.”

  “No. But he uses what I shoot as inspiration for his projects. I don’t quite understand his process, but he pays me well and allows me to use my creative eye, so I don’t complain.”

  “Sounds like a sweet deal.”

  “It’s not too shabby.” He points his thumb over his shoulder toward the display table. “How long have you been doing the street vendor gig? Was this your plan for your expensive degree?”

  “It’s a really long story that I’m not too fond of telling,” I say with a little more bite than I intend.

  “I get it.” Padraig throws his hands in the air. “I’m certainly not trying to pry. I was only curious.”

  “Sorry. I wasn’t trying to be a dick. It’s just a sore subject, is all. Still fresh.”

  “Okay,” he says, completely unaffected by my attitude. “How much are your drawings going for?”

  “The four-by-sixes are twenty-five dollars, the ten-by-twelves are forty, and the twelve-by-sixteens are sixty-five.”

  He takes another scan of what I have for sale. “I’ll take this one. And this one.” He points to two of my twelve-by-sixteens. One is of the city hall on Bay Street, and the other is of the Talmadge Bridge that spans the river from Savannah to Hutchinson Island, across the bay.

  I have to admit I’m a little surprised. No one has ever bought two of my large drawings at once. I clear my throat.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Oh, yes. I have a perfect place for them to go.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep. Me father’s office.”

  Of all the places I could have ever imagined he’d say he’d display my drawings, his father’s office would not have been one of them. “Um, okay. Great. Let me get my hands cleaned up, and I’ll pack them up for you.”

  “He works for the city.” I pause wiping down my hands to listen. “Me dad,” he clarifies. “He’ll appreciate them a lot.”

  Well, that is interesting, I guess. I don’t question sales. I finish cleaning my hands and pull out the packaging material from the bin underneath the table.

  “You know, I think I’ll take this four-by-six as well.” He points to the one I did of the front circular window of the Cathedral of St. John the Baptist. I’m a little obsessed with that building. The architecture fascinates me.

  “Sure thing. That’s the window of the cathedral.”

  “I thought so
. Great lines and shading. It almost looks 3-D.”

  “Thanks. I was going for that. I’m glad it translates like I’d hoped.”

  I package up the two large pieces and then the small one. “So that’ll be one hundred fifty-five. I have a card reader, if you need one.”

  Padraig doesn’t respond. Instead, he pulls out his wallet, opens it up, and pulls out two crisp one-hundred-dollar bills. He hands them over to me. I take them and pull out my cash box to get change. Padraig carefully picks up his purchase and gently places them under his arm.

  “Thank you much, brother. It was really nice to meet you, Luca.” He extends his hand to me. “Now that your hands are clean?” he says.

  I breathe out a laugh and shake his hand. “Absolutely my pleasure Thank you for your business.”

  In my other hand is his change, which I offer to him. “And here’s your change.”

  “Aye. Keep it. You’re undercharging.”

  I shake my head. “No. I can’t. You could get a couple more four-by-sixes if you want.”

  “Yes. You can,” he says, dismissing my offer. “Are you down here often?”

  “Almost every day. As long as the weather is good,” I answer.

  “I’ll be seeing ya around then, Luca. Keep up that artistic spirit.”

  I’m at a loss for words. He gives me a quick wink and walks away with my art in tow. I watch him for a moment. He says hello to the saxophonist a little way down and then to the lady who’s sitting on the park bench and trying to sell her handmade palm-leaf roses. Then he veers off into an alleyway, disappearing from my sight. I could have chased after him and demanded he take his change, but the whole interaction kind of has me perplexed. I give myself a pinch to see if I’m dreaming.

  Nope. That hurt like hell.

  Padraig was a little strange. I can’t quite put my finger on how, though. I shake my head out of the fog it’s in, put his change back into the money box, and lock it up. I put everything away underneath the table, sit down on my stool in front of the easel, and get back to work on my current drawing.

  Present Day

  It’s been two weeks. I guess I screwed up more than I thought. I was sure she’d come into the shop by now. I’ve made a few extra trips to Clay & Soul, hoping she’d be there, but no luck. I told Laura I needed supplies, but she didn’t believe me. I never go there for supplies.

  I know where Kerry works. I could go there—wait for her to come in or go out—but that seems pathetic. Especially since I told her I just wanted to hang out. I wish I’d gotten her number. I could send a casual text. And I know I could ask Padraig to get Kerry’s number from Stella, but I don’t want either of them in this right now. Padraig is relentless when it comes to poking at an exposed weakness, and I feel like Stella would ask a lot of questions. She’s persistent like that.

  I check the books. No more appointments for me today.

  “Darma, I’m headed out for a bit. Call me if you need anything. I won’t be far.”

  “Sure thing, Luca,” she says, not looking up from her phone. She’s not as airy as she may appear on the surface. She’s a good artist and has had a few return customers.

  I decide to take a stroll down to the industrial end of the street. There’s a secluded alcove there that edges the water. Maybe I can go sit and clear my head. Get Kerry out of my brain.

  Do I really want to get Kerry out of my brain?

  Of course I do.

  But thinking about her makes me smile. Fills my chest with good feelings.

  That’s a good thing, right?

  I want it to be, but there is a lingering hesitation deep down that is triggering my anxiety. A little whisper echoing that it’s not a good idea to focus so much attention on Kerry.

  I haven’t dated anyone since Mallory. I had a run of one-night stands after she left. But I was also drinking a lot, and my actions back then sort of happened in a vacuum. I hardly remember any of it. And it was all empty and completely meaningless.

  After I opened the Jaded Lily and cleaned myself up, I didn’t become a monk, but my social interaction with people outside the parlor became scarce. I had regained my focus on my work, and that was the most important thing to me. I wanted to prove to myself, and to anyone who doubted me, that this was a good path to follow. Occasionally, a customer would flirt and I’d act on it. But on an emotional level, none of that meant anything to me.

  Until Kerry walked in.

  That night, she was drunk. But she had a boldness about her that I feel she came by honestly. She’s a little more demure when sober, but I like that too.

  I feel like she sees me. Not just the tattoos and the biceps. Just me. She doesn’t want to sit at a bar with me and toss back a few shots, pretending to be interested in anything I say for an opportunity to have sex with the hot tattoo guy—not a name I gave myself, but I’ve heard it around. Kerry just wants to hang out. That’s how she put it, right?

  Although I wouldn’t mind rolling around with her in between my high-thread-count sheets, I’d also like to just hang out. Talk. Smile. Laugh.

  At least, I think that’s what I want.

  Then why do I want her out of my head?

  Because she didn’t come back.

  I blew it.

  Oh, yeah.

  I take my phone out of my pocket and type a reminder into it that I need to schedule an appointment with Dr. Kohl, my therapist. I need to talk this out with her.

  Walking while typing on my phone has become more of a habit than I’d like to admit. I finish my reminder as I’m rounding the clearing of the alcove. I see her sitting on a large piece of broken-down concrete—the remains of an old industrial building—which butts up against the water’s shoreline. She’s wearing a long, flowy blue dress with black-and-white Chuck Taylor sneakers. She has one leg hugged up to her chest while the other dangles over the side of the concrete. She’s looking out over the water, completely focused on something other than her surroundings. Pieces of her hair float up and back from her face with each mild gust of the wind.

  I could watch her for days.

  God, that sounds creepy as fuck.

  Should I back away? Leave her to own devices? She didn’t come by the shop. She obviously doesn’t want anything to do with me. She came here. To think about something, just like I often do.

  I decide to leave.

  Until my phone rings. The blaring lyrics of a Korn song, my ringtone, fill the air and replace the peaceful silence. I look at my phone, which is still in my hand. The display says it’s my mom.

  Of course it is.

  I dismiss the call, put my phone on vibrate, and shove it into my pocket.

  I look up from the ground toward Kerry. She’s staring at me, just as I figured she would be. The look on her face is similar to the one she gave me at Clay & Soul, except slightly softer. It’s a combination of What the fuck are you doing here? and Please don’t go.

  The softness of her expression puts me at ease. I’m not going to bolt. Not this time. Instead, I walk toward her and place my hands in the air to signal my innocence.

  “I swear I’m not doing this on purpose. I’m not following you.”

  She smiles—she fucking smiles—and pushes hair behind her right ear. “I’m not quite sure what to think about it, though,” she answers. “Let me guess. You come here a lot?”

  “I wouldn’t say ‘a lot.’ From time to time. It’s serene.”

  Kerry looks back out to the water. “It really is. It helps me remember the beauty of the world. It flushes negativity from my heart, even if just temporarily.”

  “Another bad day?” I ask.

  “Of epic proportions. I think I got fired today.”

  “What? Why?” I close the distance between us. I have an urge to comfort her. I hop onto the top of the concrete and sit beside her, her back facing me, as she’s angled toward the water. I sweep her hair from her neck and place my hand on her shoulder. She tilts her head and places it on top of my hand.
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  “I don’t know for sure. Something happened between Rachel and Stella. Padraig and his stepmother were involved. We may get kicked off the mayor’s St. Patrick’s Day event.”

  “Padraig won’t let that happen,” I quickly respond. If it involves his father, Padraig will fix it. They don’t have the best of relationships, and I don’t agree with a lot of the choices his father has made, but Mr. MacNamara isn’t a horrible man. He’s reasonable to an extent.

  “Maybe,” Kerry says, shifting herself on the concrete so that we’re sitting side by side, facing the same direction. Her legs dangle over the edge just as mine do. She looks down at her feet.

  “This job shouldn’t be this stressful. This dramatic.” She runs her fingers through her hair. “I mean, yes, event planning is stressful. There are a lot of moving pieces. But Rachel is so unpredictable and uncoordinated lately. I hate to say it, but I’ll almost be relieved if she fires me. At least she’ll have forced me out, rather than me walking away. Less guilt.”

  She’s speaking with a hint of that boldness I saw the first night I met her. It’s masked slightly, however, with uncertainty.

  “But you’re still worried about Stella?” I interject, hoping what I’m reading on her face is correct.

  She nods. “Of course. If I’m fired, then Stella has to deal with it all on her own. And that isn’t fair.”

  Instinctively, I wrap my arm around her back and pull her into me. She leans her head on my shoulder. “I didn’t move to this city for headaches like this. I moved here to get away from that.”

  “Where did you move from?”

  “Downtown Atlanta. I moved there after college because I thought I wanted to be part of the hustle and bustle of a big city. I grew up in Isle of Hope, which, to the eyes of a teenager, is boring as hell. I thought metropolis was where I was supposed to be. I was a low-level marketing executive at a firm. Worked in a high-rise. Lived twenty minutes outside the city to be able to afford rent. Took me almost an hour-and-a-half to get to and from work every morning because of traffic. Because I was so junior, I was expected to work ten-to-twelve-hour days. Weekends. I worked all of the time. I didn’t have a life. I was burnt out in a year.”