Tyler & Stella (Tattoo Thief)

by Tretheway, Heidi Joy

  “You’re gonna make me walk? In these?” I point at the same Mary Jane heels that got me in trouble the first time I went to Tyler’s place. I’m breaking them in, but they still pinch a bit.

  “Lucky for you, I came prepared,” Violet says. She dips into her gear bag and hands me a silver pouch that’s a little fatter than a wallet. I unzip it and pull out foldable flats. This girl is a genius.

  I swap shoes and follow Violet out of the diner, decidedly more sober with coffee and pancakes to soak up the booze. We wind through East Village streets without speaking, turning off Avenue A to walk east on East Fifth Street.

  Violet slows our pace, her eyes scanning the buildings. We traverse one side of the street and then the other, and her lip trembles as if she might cry.

  “It’s not here,” she says, frowning. “It was supposed to be here, but it’s not.”

  I look around, taking in a no-frills bar, a long flower stall outside a bodega, a used bookstore, and a restaurant called Goat Town. I’m not sure what we’re supposed to be looking for, but I scan the buildings anyway.

  Violet retraces her steps, following the side of a building to an alley where a Dumpster is shoved against a wall, slightly askew. Violet seizes on this, craning her neck to see into the dark crevice behind it.

  “Help me, Stella. Help me move this.”

  I try not to think of the sludge that probably coats the Dumpster as I lay my hands beside hers and tug on the corner of it, careful not to let it roll over my feet.

  When it comes away from the wall, I hear Violet gasp and I move to see what she’s staring at.

  It. Is. Stunning.

  On the wall, a faux sidewalk is painted as if it’s part of this alley. A small girl crouches to inspect a flower growing from a crack in the sidewalk, which is actually a real crack running up the building’s wall. It’s just spray paint and stencil, but it feels like more. It feels like art.

  The painting is black and white with only the flower petals touched in yellow. The girl’s eyes are sharp and bright, a testament to the exquisite stencil and its careful application here.

  Next to the girl is a phrase: Find your moment.

  I try to understand this riddle. Why would anyone paint this perfect little image on this wall? What makes this dingy alley special, and why would the artist cover up their work with the Dumpster?

  Or did the artist cover it at all? Somehow Violet knew to look for it here. My head swirls with questions and remnants of alcohol, but I don’t want to interrupt Violet as she frantically unpacks her gear.

  She shoves the Dumpster aside further until light fully reaches the painting, then she takes dozens of shots from slightly different angles, squinting at her digital display between each handful of frames. I imagine she’s looking for the best angle.

  Violet’s focus is singular and completely unselfconscious. Her long, slender body moves like a dancer’s as she stoops and bends. After fifteen long minutes, she’s satisfied.

  “Help me push this back. I don’t know how long until it’s discovered, but I want to protect it as long as possible.”

  I grunt and strain with her and it takes considerably more effort to get the Dumpster back into place. Violet hustles me back down the alley to the main street and looks both ways as we emerge, as if we’re in a spy movie.

  I grin. “That was cool.”

  “Cool’s not even the word for it. That rocked my world,” Violet says. “You feeling better?”

  My head throbs but the fog has lifted and I’m clear-headed enough to know that I am in serious shit. But I’m not ready to go back to the real world yet, so I beg Violet for details.

  She’s cagey at first, revealing only that she’s been stalking the street artist responsible for this painting for several months. She doesn’t know why he does it or where his next work will pop up, but she stumbled on a cryptic Twitter feed that’s led her to the last three.

  “It’s like a treasure hunt,” Violet says, her eyes brighter and more full of life than I’ve seen before. “And the works are so fleeting—either destroyed or removed and sold to galleries—that I have to capture them before they disappear.”

  We walk several long blocks and Violet’s shell cracks open wider. She tells me more about her photography project, how she’s documenting this graffiti, but she can’t figure out who the artist is or how to reach him.

  Violet wants to publish a photo profile, but no magazine will take her seriously or assign a feature writer until she finds the painter.

  I’m amazed that the artist would spend so much time making something that’s not permanent—something any idiot can deface in seconds.

  Permanence is so rarely part of my life. At The Indie Voice, each day was another story, and each issue had a half-life of a few hours or days before it went in a recycling bin or got buried in our online archives.

  Now I’m jobless and still technically homeless and I might never work again in journalism. But I know this: I can figure it out. I changed my life once before and I can do it again. I can pick a new kind of permanent.

  We pass a tattoo studio and my steps slow as I glance at designs plastered on the windows. There’s a daisy that’s similar to the one we just saw in the graffiti, and I beckon Violet to look.

  Her eyes widen and she pulls out her camera, toggling the display screen to zoom in on the picture. It’s almost exactly the same, despite the precision of a tattoo drawing compared to a stencil. The flower has the same leaf structure, the same style of petals, even the same bend in its stalk.

  “We have to go in.” Violet begs me to follow her to the back of the store, where the air is sharp with antiseptic. None of the three reclining chairs are occupied.

  A heavily tattooed man looks us up and down, probably guessing we’re either here for a tramp stamp or a pretty little rose on an ankle.

  “There’s a design in your window. Can you tell me who the artist is?” Violet describes the daisy.

  The man frowns and crosses his arms. “That’s one of our freelance artists. Not a regular. You have to make an appointment. You got one?”

  “No,” Violet says and bites her lip. Disappointment drags down her features. “But I’d like to make one if I could meet with him.”

  The man’s lip curls. “Yeah, good luck with that. I’ll take your number and let you know.”

  Violet pulls out a card with her contact information. She tries asking more questions about the artist, but the man avoids them.

  “Look. Are you here for a tattoo, or not? Because either I’m working or this conversation is over.”

  Violet looks stricken and she takes a step back. I think we’re interrupting his morning … grouchiness? It’s not like he’s busy.

  “I’m here for a tattoo,” I volunteer, and Violet pinches my elbow with alarm. Hell, I’m freaking myself out with this spur-of-the-moment idea. “But if I get one, will you talk to her?”

  The man grunts and hands me a clipboard with a form. “I need ID.” I pull out my driver’s license and start filling out paperwork.

  Violet clings to my side, whispering urgently in my ear. “Stella. You don’t have to do this. This is crazy, I mean, have you thought about what you’re doing? It’s permanent.”

  I nod, thinking that a little more permanence in my life is exactly what I want right now. Even if the tattoo artist won’t talk to Violet, I want this.

  I flip through a catalog of tattoo drawings, looking for the right image to go with the words in my head. I find an angel whose wings are ragged but beautiful. They’re delicately shaded, using empty space between the shading to suggest ribs and lines.

  I turn the image to face the man and press my finger against the angel. “These wings, and three words.”

  I’ve known these words since childhood, when I learned that the Oregon state animal is the beaver, the state tree is the Douglas-fir, and the state flower is the Oregon grape.

  The state motto is alis volat propriis. Latin. She flies wi
th her own wings. I think it’s time to make that my own.

  I scrawl the Latin words on paper and the tattoo artist integrates the wings and a script font. Violet is still trying to talk me out of the tattoo, but calm settles on me. The man and I go back and forth on placement and size, and when I finally nod my approval, he prints the design on thermal transfer paper.

  The man washes my hand and arm all the way to my elbow, then applies the transfer to my inner wrist. Violet ventures a question, which the man answers with few words while he prepares the needles and equipment. I’m scared and Violet’s holding my other hand as my wrist dries, but I’m not backing down.

  When the needle bites into my skin I clench my jaw and hold my breath. “Breathe,” the man commands. “You’ve got to keep breathing or you’ll pass out.”

  I force a breath through gritted teeth and Violet asks another question. More pain, but the fear subsides. I can handle this. The tattoo needle hums, vibrating an itchy pain up my arm.

  I close my eyes to tune them out, vaguely aware that the tattoo artist is answering Violet’s questions and she’s let go of my hand.

  I hear the sound of a digital shutter click and Violet takes pictures of me. Tears leak from the corners of my eyes but I keep them shut, willing the pain to pass. The hum of the needle blends with the pounding in my head and my thoughts drift to Tyler.

  He needs me.

  I feel like I’ve failed him. While I had my pity party at a bar, I left him alone to face the media fallout, the anger from his band mates, and whatever move is next from Kim and her lawyers.

  Minutes tick by and the burn in my wrist creeps to my shoulder and heats my chest and face. It’s hot in here, with little help from a fan blowing from the corner of the room. My feet sweat in the foldable flats and I want to wipe the perspiration off my brow but I’m too afraid that if I move I’ll mess up the tattoo.

  The buzzing stops and I hear a gentle click and bump. I hear Violet thanking the tattoo artist, telling him again that she’d like to meet the other artist. He promises to forward her message, but he says he can’t promise she’ll get a call.

  I look down at my new tattoo and it is delicate and beautiful: carefully shaded gray feathery wings and deep black words with pinkish edges where my skin is flushed, in stark contrast to the rest of my white wrist.

  Alis volat propriis. She flies with her own wings. I told Tyler I’d never get a tattoo about my past, only my future, but this one seems to straddle both—the ragged wings and the optimistic message.

  I wipe the tears from my cheeks and Violet takes a few more pictures before the man smears ointment on my tattoo and wraps it in a bandage.

  “Don’t take this off for a couple of hours at least,” he lectures me, and hands me after-care instructions.

  Violet and I walk out into oppressive afternoon heat and I feel more grounded than I have in weeks. Making this one tiny, cosmetic change won’t change my life, but it might change my perspective enough to give me a fresh start.

  “What are you going to do now?” I ask her. We walk south toward the nearest subway entrance and pass a magazine stand where Kim Archer leers at me from a cover. I look away.

  “Upload my pictures. Edit them.” Violet smiles at me. “I’m glad you called me today, Stella. This was … fun.”

  She says the word fun as if it’s something she rarely experiences. I pull her into a wobbly hug, dwarfed by her height, wanting to express how grateful I am that she came when I called. “Let’s be real. I was a fucking mess when I called. But thank you for coming, and for the pancakes and the walk and everything.”

  “You’re welcome. Thanks again for hiring me for that freelance assignment with Tattoo Thief. How are they doing?”

  I shake my head, not wanting to explain the shitstorm. “Don’t ask. It’s not pretty right now, but they’ll get through it.”

  “Well, if you have another reason to do a story, maybe you’ll need me again?” Her voice is hopeful.

  I snort. “I can promise you that I’m not doing any more stories on Tattoo Thief. Or probably any more stories, ever. But I’ll mention it to Dave. Rock bands always need more pictures.”

  Violet squeezes my hand in thanks and I’m surprised we’re getting all touchy-feely. Is she becoming a friend? After what she did for me today, I think she must be.

  “You’ll write more stories, Stella,” she says with confidence. “Maybe I’ll get a freelance assignment that you can write?”

  We descend the subway steps and run our Metro passes through the turnstile. She has to go north toward Midtown and I’m headed crosstown toward Tyler’s Chelsea loft, so it’s time to part ways.

  “If you call me, I’ll do it,” I promise her. “Like I said, I’ve got a very long vacation ahead of me.” I give her a weak smile and a wave, then turn down the corridor that will take me to the closest thing I have to a home.

  ***

  Home. I exit the subway and walk several blocks west, but when Tyler’s warehouse comes into view, there are too many people on the street. Most are on mobile phones, several have cameras, and one woman is sitting on the curb typing on her laptop.

  Oh, shit.

  I want to turn around and run, but they’ve already spotted me, two of them pointing and whispering. Should I pretend I don’t see them? Should I pretend I’m going somewhere else? I consider walking past the pack of reporters but a heavyset man blocks my path.

  “Are you Stella Ramsey?” he asks. Two more reporters take his flank.

  “She is.” A woman elbows her way around him. “Stella, what does Kim Archer’s baby mean for your relationship with Tyler Walsh?” She shoves a compact recorder beneath my chin and I take a step back.

  I need Tyler here, right now. I need to lean on him the way I did at the premiere, but a camera is clicking fast in my face and my tears from the tattoo parlor probably left ugly streaks down my cheeks that are easily misinterpreted.

  “Excuse me.” I push past the woman, digging in my purse for keys with my unbandaged hand.

  The flock of reporters closes around me as I approach the warehouse door. “Do you live here, Stella? Are you Tyler’s girlfriend?”

  I punch keys into the door locks frantically, trying to throw each bolt to escape this assault.

  “Are you pregnant too? Did Tyler pressure you to have sex?”

  I drop my keys and bite back a curse, snatching them from the ground before someone grabs them.

  “Why is your wrist bandaged? Did Tyler hurt you? Did you hurt yourself?”

  The questions grow louder and uglier but I hide my face, trying desperately to come up with something to make them go away.

  Feeling the last lock click open, I turn and smile sweetly, summoning a lie with all the composure I can muster. “Tyler’s practicing with his band in Brooklyn today. Their new album is going to be amazing.”

  I crack open the door and edge through it as cameras follow my movements and try to capture a look inside. I nearly crush some guy’s hand wrapped around his camera as I yank the door closed and throw the locks back into place.

  My heart and head are pounding and I collapse in a puddle on the bottom step. This is too much. My gut seethes with hatred for the woman who exposed Tyler to the tabloids.

  Being chased, harassed, and taunted with questions. Is this the way Tyler will have to live his life? And for how long?

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  The loft smells musty when I get inside and it’s quiet. I pour a glass of water in the kitchen and lean against the counter while I drink it down. Other than some dirty dishes in the sink and a pile of newspapers and magazines near the couches, I don’t see signs of life.

  I check my phone. No texts. No voicemail. My e-mail shows nothing from so-called friends from work, and I’m not yet ready to post anything on Facebook. I need time to lick my wounds in peace.

  Yoga. That’s what I should do to quell the angry buzz in my chest that can’t let go of the sting from today. You’re fired. As I
change into a yoga outfit in my makeshift bedroom I hear something clatter above me.

  “Tyler?” I take the stairs to Tyler’s bed loft two at a time and he’s sprawled on the bed in his boxers.

  “Heh—hey,” Tyler says, “whatchu doin’ home?”

  Home. There’s that word again. It speaks of promise and permanence and it makes me ache with want.

  Tyler’s grin is watered down, his arms are floppy and his speech is slurred. Great. He’s drunk. I imagine his day has been far worse than mine, and after this morning, I can’t judge.

  “There are a bunch of reporters downstairs. And fucking Kim Archer is everywhere, all over the news.”

  “Fuckin’ Kim Arsha,” Tyler repeats, slurring her name. “Everywhere.”

  “Did you—is that baby is really yours, Tyler? I mean, if it is, if she is, why don’t you take responsibility for her?”

  “I gave her ten thousan’ dollas,” he says, his eyes rolling up to the ceiling. “I jus’ wan’ her to have a good life.”

  The admission punches me in the gut. Ten thousand dollars. More money than any normal person has lying around, and he gives it to a woman who dragged his name through the mud and made his life hell in the last twenty-four hours. Shit.

  “Why are you hiding from this, then? If the baby is yours, why don’t you just say so and let the media have its day? They’ll move on to another story if you just tell them the truth.” Tears sting my eyes, angry that Tyler hid the truth from me.

  He didn’t trust me enough to tell me. That hurts. Ire stirs in my gut and I clench my teeth against words I’ll regret.

  “I can’t tell ’em the truth. I don’ even know what it is.” Tyler looks like he might cry, but his body is leaden and he makes no move to reach for me.

  And that’s what I want so desperately right now, someone to hold and comfort me after my hellacious day. I’m so distraught I can hardly look at him.