by Magan Vernon
She set the cat carrier on the floor next to her and walked the few steps over to my couch. “These are more like over-sized chairs. I’ll have to fold myself up like some sort of gymnast Barbie to fit.”
“You know, you do an awful lot of complaining for someone that is getting a place handed to them.”
She turned toward me, glaring. “This isn’t a handout. I told you that I’m working for this. I may even start out by heading to the thrift store and picking you out a new couch.”
I laughed. “Yeah, I’m sure something nice, plaid, and flea invested will look great in this place.”
“You know, not all of us have had everything easy and can just go down to Niemen Marcus and pick out some million dollar new leather sectional.” She stomped like a little girl throwing a temper tantrum.
It took everything I had not to laugh again. “First off, I don’t think Niemen Marcus sells furniture and I don’t know any couch that costs a million dollars. Secondly, that isn’t my thing. I don’t know what preconceived notions you have of me, but whatever they are,” I lifted my hand and hitched my thumb toward the door, “you can leave them out there. If we’re going to live together then we can’t be at each other’s throats like some unhappy married couple. We’ll work together. Live in this apartment and hopefully won’t kill each other. Sound good?”
She sighed. “Do I have another choice?”
“Nope.” I took a step closer. “The only way you’re going to move forward here is if we do this together. So you’re either with me or you’re living in your car with your angry cat.”
As if on cue, Hashtag Cat growled from his carrier.
Sam let out a deep breath. “Okay, Tripp. Onward and upward.”
Chapter 5
The last time I had a roommate was in college. By that I mean freshman year of college. By the time I was a sophomore and moved into my fraternity house, I had my own room. Sure I had to share a bathroom with a bunch of other nasty dudes, but at least I had my own space.
Now, for the first time in years, I had someone else sharing it with me. My five-hundred square feet of space was split with a girl and a cat.
“Geez, how many fucking coffee mugs do you have?”
I watched as Sam stacked a few random mugs that she took out of a box with one of those fancy one cup coffee makers. The chick was basically homeless but had enough coffee to start her own shop.
She smirked, her green eyes briefly flashing to mine. “We all have our vices. The trick is to not let them kill you.”
I didn’t know how much this girl knew about my past. If she knew about my demons or everything I’d been through. But somehow. Somehow I knew that she had something that she was fighting as well.
“Yeah, I guess I’ve never heard of anyone dying of a coffee overdose.” I leaned against the counter and picked up one of the mugs. “I mustache you a question?” I stared at the white mug with its tiny black mustache.
Sam turned it over and the other side read ‘but I’ll shave it for later’.
“Really? These are the kinds of things you save?”
She swiped the mug out of my hand. “Yep. This is a genuine dollar store mug that has lasted since high school. It’s practically an antique.”
“Maybe we should go on one of those shows where they tell you the value of your items. I’m sure this was actually owned by a former brothel owner who used it to save spit in and it’s worth a fortune.” I laughed.
“You never know. It could be. We don’t know where the dollar store ordered it from.”
I shook my head. There was something about her spunk that I liked. I wasn’t used to having such an easy conversation with someone. Even with my fraternity brothers. I didn’t need to get personal with her and I was hoping it didn’t get that far that she would start digging into my past. For now, I’d take the banter.
“So what’s the plan, Mr. Chapman?” She asked, stacking the mugs on the counter. “I put my stuff wherever and then you make me a list of my daily chores?”
“You make this sound like you’re my kid or something. It’s not like that. Think of yourself as my personal assistant or something.”
She leaned over the counter, steepling her fingers together. “And what exactly do you need a personal assistant for?”
I ran my fingers through my hair. “To organize my shit. I don’t know. Track my appointments and all that.”
“Appointments with drug dealers?” She raised an eyebrow.
“I don’t do that anymore. Thirty days sober, sweetheart.” I pulled my thirty day chip out of my pocket. “And I intend to keep it that way.”
Or try. She didn’t need to know how bad I was craving something to escape. The medication worked to make me feel like a zombie when I needed to, but I didn’t want to be numb. I wanted to feel even if I was just feeling lost.
“Okay, well, I’ll try my best to keep you organized. Just tell me where to put my shit. Then I can get out my laptop and we can start doing whatever needs to be done.”
I nodded. “Sounds like a plan.”
***
The girl basically fit her entire life into a few boxes and a cat carrier. There was something sad about it and yet totally freeing.
Sam put the last of her clothes into a box beside my closet and then sat down on the couch closest to the kitchen, opening an ancient laptop that probably weighed twenty pounds. “All right, Tripp, let’s start a calendar and figure out what appointments you have.”
She propped her bare feet on the table as if she was at home at my place. I didn’t even do that. It never felt like my home. It was as if I was just a guest that tiptoed around.
I sat on the couch opposite her, my hands in my lap and my feet firmly on the floor. “Well, I have a few doctors' appointments coming up. You know, get my meds like all the other crazy people.”
She looked up from the laptop. Her eyes met mine with sincerity. “You’re definitely not crazy.”
I laughed, leaning back on the couch. “Yeah, tell that to the psychiatrist I pay a few hundred an hour to so he can give me a bunch of pills to stabilize me.”
“Medication isn’t always a bad thing. I mean, if you had diabetes no one would give you shit for taking insulin or pain killers for a broken leg. But if you’re mentally ill and you need something to get you through the day then everyone has to be all up in arms about it.”
I nodded. “That’s one way to look at it.”
She set the laptop down on the coffee table and put her feet on the ground. “I’m serious. After my mom’s car accident, I was a fucking wreck. Top it off with the fact that I found my longtime boyfriend in bed with another dude and I was certifiably insane. I spent a week in the hospital. They had to put my mom on ice just to wait for me to get out of the psych ward for her funeral, to which hardly anybody went to.”
Her eyes took a far off look to them and I couldn’t tell if she was talking to me anymore or to herself. “I guess I don’t have much but at least I have my cat.” The orange blob curled up next to her like that’s where it belonged.
I let out a deep breath. “Yeah. I hope I’m not allergic to it. I’ve never actually had a pet.”
She laughed. “Seriously? Your family didn’t have some kind of All-American dog like a Golden Retriever?”
I shook my head. “Naw. No pets. I guess three boys was enough for my mom to handle.”
She smiled slightly. “Well, if we need to get you an EpiPen, we can add it to your list of medications.”
“Right between my insomnia meds and mood stabilizers.”
She nodded.
“Yeah, so this is the fucked up mess you get to walk into. If you’d rather go live in your car than here after knowing my shit, I completely understand it.” I grimaced. I didn’t want her to leave. She felt like someone I could easily get addicted to and forget the world for awhile. I didn’t know if that was a good thing or a bad thing...yet.
She shook her head and picked the laptop back up. “I
can’t go back on this assistant thing now. I think you need someone to keep you in line and who else is going to drive you around?”
I smirked. “I’m sure I could catch a cab.”
“Then I guess the cabby can help you fill your prescriptions, too.”
“Hey, don’t make my relationship with Ahmed sound like something dirty.”
She laughed and her smile lit up her whole face. “Okay, okay. Let’s get serious here, Chapman. I’m opening up a calendar app and we’re going to get your shit straightened out. Whether you like it or not.”
I mock saluted her. “Yes, ma’am.”
Chapter 6
The girl was actually more organized than I gave her credit for. Within an hour she had all my doctors' appointments into a calendar app that synced with my email and phone. She put my resume and all my school documents into an electronic folder that we could both access for job applications and found all the prescriptions for my pills that had to be refilled. No one trusted the guy who overdosed to have more than a week’s worth at a time, I guess.
“Okay, now that you’re all set, it’s time for me to head into work.” Sam came out of the bathroom wearing that uniform dress. She was short but the girl had some curves under that dress that had me wondering how much more ink she was hiding and how the colors would swirl around her hips.
I had to shake my head to clear the thoughts of her naked. I didn’t want to fuck up whatever business or pseudo friendship we had. I couldn’t just fuck her and then kick her out like most of the other girls I had at my place.
“Mind if I come with you? I could use some food and maybe stop and see my tattoo guy up the street from the diner.” I stood up and rolled up my sleeves. I finally changed out of the suit and into a plaid shirt and jeans. I was usually more comfortable in the suit because I felt like I could hide everything that made people judge me. Be someone who they wanted to be around. But if she had to leave, there was no point in changing and I was sure my tattoo guy didn’t care what the hell I was wearing as long as I laid still and paid my dues.
“Okay. I’m working late, though. Closing.” She twisted her hair into some sort of messy bun-thing and showed off the Celtic heart on the back of her neck.
“Yeah. That’s cool. I can either catch a cab or hang out.”
Her eyes trailed over me, her lips going in a completely thin line. I wanted to know what she was thinking. What the hell was going on in that little red head of hers.
“Okay. Just don’t get into any trouble. I don’t need my new boss making any sort of headlines,” she said, grabbing her purse off the counter.
“You don’t have to call me 'your boss,' you know? That’s not what this is.”
She smiled. “Then what should I call you?”
I rubbed the back of my neck. “I don’t know...How about you just keep calling me Tripp?”
She let out a silent laugh through her nose. “Okay, Tripp. Let’s go.”
I looked behind me. “Will the cat be okay?”
The orange blob was curled up on the floor under the coffee table. I didn’t know that animals could snore until I’d met Hashtag Cat. And that cat snored really loud.
“Yeah, he’ll be good as long as no one tries to break in. Then you might have a lawsuit because he’ll go apeshit and probably claw them to death.”
I nodded. “Nothing wrong with having a guard cat. I’ll get a sign that says ‘Beware of evil fur ball’.”
“Probably best for legal reasons.” She pulled her keys out of her purse. She had so many of them dangling from a rabbit foot keychain that I thought maybe she also moonlighted as a janitor. “Ready to head out, TRIPP?” She made sure to over-enunciate my name.
“Ready when you are, SAMANTHA.”
***
Sam pulled her car down a tiny alley behind the restaurant and parked in a small, dingy lot next to a beat up pickup truck.
“Shit, this is nasty back here,” I said, opening my door just as a rat scurried past my foot.
“Yeah, we all can’t have fancy parking garages.” She slammed her door and hiked her purse up on her shoulder.
“Hey.” I grabbed her wrist before she could walk away. “I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just saying that I would be worried, walking alone back here.”
She smirked. “As you can see, I’ve taken care of myself pretty well since I started working here and came out alive. But thanks for your concern.”
I didn’t know what I did to her, but if she wanted to play that way, then I’d give her some space.
“Okay. I get it.” I let go of her wrist and put my hands up. “I’ll meet you at the back door here at closing or if I catch a cab, I’ll text you?”
She shook her head. “Naw, you’re actually kind of right about this being a shady area. If you stay around, just come to the front and I’ll let you in while I finish cleaning up. You can have some leftover bacon or something.”
“You know the way to a man’s heart.”
She laughed. “Yup, it explains why I’ve been single for so long.” She looked at the ground, ever so slightly biting her lip. “I’ll see you later. Don’t get in too much trouble.”
“See ya.”
She turned without even glancing back at me and headed inside the rusted steel door that said ‘employees only’.
I headed around to the front of the building. It was around dinner time but I wasn’t in any mood to eat. Maybe I’d get hungry after I fed the need to get another tattoo.
November in Chicago was already dipping into the frigid temperatures and I’d kind of wished I’d worn a coat, but the only one I had cost a few thousand dollars and would have looked out of place with rest of the alternative atmosphere of half-lit neon signs, sex shops, and mowhawked kids smoking in front of various shops.
My tattoo shop, The Phoenix, was lit up in all its usual glory. The windows were completely painted with bright colors that made various bird designs and hid some of the chairs and other parts of the shop from view.
I opened the door and was welcomed by the humming of tattoo guns and loud metal music blaring from the ceiling. It was a relatively small space, with brick walls, an exposed ceiling and four different tattoo stations that were sectioned off by old book shelves full of art books.
I walked up to the front desk, which looked more like an old dresser that was painted black with various birds and other drawings painted on the front. Tawny was behind the counter, as usual, and her eyes lit up as soon as she saw me.
Well, as much as they could light up since she was wearing white out contacts that made her pale face and stark blonde pigtails even lighter. “Tripp Chapman. The devil himself is back!”
She raised her arms in the air, a million bracelets jangling on her wrists.
“Hey, Tawny,” I said, trying to muster up some enthusiasm. “Does Frankie have any openings?”
I'd been with her a few times. She had a place not far from the shop and was into some pretty heavy narcotics that she liked to take while fucking. She was definitely not the type of girl that I needed to get involved with...again.
She pressed her lips together and clicked her tongue behind them. “Yeah. He’s just finishing up with the old man back there and then he’s got about an hour.” She motioned behind her to the older gentleman with a chest full of gray hair except for the spot that was shaved. My dreadlocked tattoo artist was bent over, filling in the colors of the American flag that was being held by a bald eagle.
“Okay. Sounds good.” I nodded.
“My break is coming up if you want to get some coffee or something then come back.” She winked.
I shook my head. “Naw, I’m good for now. Imma grab a bite after I get my new piece.”
She pouted. “What? No love for your favorite piercer after you get out of rehab?”
“You know I love ya, but I’m beat. I need some food and just to pass out.”
Her lips pursed into a small but tight small. “Yeah. Yeah. I get it. Rain
check?”
I forced a smile. “Yeah. Rain check.”
I took a seat on one of the black, antique, high back chairs and grabbed a magazine off the glass coffee table. I wasn’t exactly sure what I wanted yet, but I sort of had an idea.
“Ey, Tripp, long time no see.” Frankie’s voice boomed.
I set the magazine down and looked up to see the Italian boy standing in front of me. He had a dark olive complexion and sounded like was straight off the fucking boat even though he’d lived in the states for twenty years.
“Hey, Frankie.” I stood up and shook his outstretched hand but he pulled me in for a hug as he always did. The guy didn’t have any space issues.
He let go of me as his eyes slowly trailed over my shirt then back up to my face. “You look good, cuz.”
“I’m thinking you’re just saying that so you’ll get a good tip.”
He laughed, throwing his head back so the top of his Statue of Liberty tattoo could be seen. He told me the giant Ellis Island with the eagles on each side of his neck was his first tattoo. It was one hell of a piece, and with all those colors it had to hurt like a bitch. But the guy loved art and America. I think it’s why he liked having me as a client. To him I was the epitome of everything American. If he could have met my dad, or even Trey, he would have probably shit himself.
I followed him to his corner where the chair was already tilted back, his ink all arranged on a metal cart. While everyone else had pictures of some metal bands or different art they’d designed, Frankie’s was all Americana. He had a watercolor replica of American Gothic and some Andy Warhol that hung on his back wall, framing a wrought iron mirror.
“Okay, Trippy, what are we in for today?” Frankie asked as I sat down on the chair.
“I don’t know. I want something to symbolize freedom. You know or maybe starting over. I don’t know really.” I leaned back in the chair staring at the pipes in the ceiling.
“So we thinking something like a bald eagle right across your back?”
