“Will do, officer,” I lied. “Have a nice night.”
As Bradley and his unnamed partner disappeared into the shadows, Mel looked at me with saucer-sized eyes. “Jesus,” she whispered. “I thought the first one was going to shoot me.”
“What did you expect?” I looked at her in sheer disbelief. “You were drunk and covered in soot while dancing around a bonfire with a steak knife in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other.”
“Forgot I was holding it,” she responded. “Just caught up in the moment, I guess.”
“Yeah,” I glanced at the fire. “Me, too.”
“So, what now?” she asked.
I glanced at the bottle of wine that lay in the dirt, beside her. “Short-term, or long-term?”
She shrugged. “Both?”
“You spilled our last bottle of wine, so I guess I’ll go in and get another,” I responded. “That’ll fix things right now. Long-term? I’m going to make sure the next relationship I’m in doesn’t involve three bottles of wine, a bonfire, and a visit from the cops.”
218
Tito
Sitting in the passenger seat of Braxton’s Range Rover, I gazed across the street. The exterior wall of the tattoo parlor was covered in a mural that had faded from years of exposure to the California sun. The once vibrant reds, yellows, blues, and greens were now chalky and faint. Nevertheless, the images were recognizable.
A dagger pierced the blossom of a red rose. Beginning at the rose’s stem, a green serpent was intertwined around the dagger and the rose. With the mouth open and fangs dripping with venom, the snake’s head faced toward the person viewing the mural.
“What do you think that means?” Braxton asked, nodding toward the faded image.
I felt numb. My mind was incapable of processing much of anything. I shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“The rose symbolizes beauty, vitality and love,” he said. “The dagger? Betrayal, death, destruction. Together, the rose and dagger represent the everlasting fight between good and evil. Life and death. Love and betrayal. The serpent? It’s somewhere between the two, offering the temptation to choose. I find the fact we’re here—right now, looking at this—ironic.”
Considering the source of the pain I’d been plagued with for the past week, he was right. It was ironic.
Eerily so.
“Do you really think this is going to help?” I asked.
Gripping the steering wheel loosely with each hand, he studied the mural. “I do,” he replied. “Suicide is a difficult thing for a survivor to understand. That lack of understanding causes us to question our worth as a support system for the deceased while they were living. What did we do wrong? What could we have done differently? The answer is nothing and nothing.”
“You said, ‘the lack of understanding causes us to question our worth.’ Has someone you’ve known committed—”
“My younger brother.” He stared blankly at the mural. “While I was at basic training. Sounds like he had some of the same problems as the girl you spoke of. When he was alone, he struggled to find his place in this world. In the presence of others, he was just like you and me.”
My throat tightened. I had no idea. I felt awful for bringing up Shelley, which undoubtedly dragged Hap and Braxton through the memories of their loss.
“Hap’s never said anything—”
“We all deal with suicide differently,” he said. “The Old Man doesn’t like to admit it happened. It was an overdose. He still believes it was an accident.”
I swallowed heavily. “I’m sorry,” I murmured. I cleared my throat. “For your loss. For everything.”
“Thank you.”
“Did uhhm, Did you,” I stammered. “Did you get a tattoo?”
“I did.” He glanced in my direction. “A rose. Everyone sees is as nothing but a flower. To me, it’s much more than that.”
I nodded. “It’s got special meaning.”
“It’s a rose that’s beginning to blossom. Nine petals are visible in the tattoo. The stem has three leaves. He died on September third. I didn’t want to get a date tattooed on my chest. Seems when someone does that, it’s an invitation for people to ask questions.”
“Did it help?” I asked. “Getting it?”
“We’re only as sick as the secrets we keep,” he replied. “You may not be getting an inscription on your arm that reads, on August 8th, 2009 Shelley committed suicide, but in your mind, that’s the message the tattoo carries. Did it help me? Yes. Immensely, in fact. Getting it allowed me to release…” He drew a breath and let it out slowly.
“That’s what I need,” I said. “To let all of this go. Release these memories.”
“I doubt the tattoo will rid you of the memory,” he responded, looking at me as he spoke. “That’s not what I meant. You need to find a way to forgive yourself. Let go of the guilt. You did nothing wrong, but deep down inside your gut, I’m sure you feel guilt. The what ifs are eating you up. My guess is that you’ve repressed your loss for ten years, clinging to that hat as a means of salvation. Now that the hat’s gone, you’re left to discover the truth.”
“What’s the truth?” I asked.
“The truth?” He nodded toward my door, and then opened his. “You’re getting a tattoo. That’s the truth.”
As if I had no choice, I followed him across the street and into the tattoo parlor. Maybe I wanted his idea to work. Maybe I wanted to get on with my life. Maybe I simply wanted the pain to cease. Whatever the reason, I was willing to give anything a try.
Just inside the door, a lean man with a 1930’s style haircut and a waxed mustache stood behind a high counter. His hands, arms, and neck were so heavily tattooed there wasn’t room for one more drop of ink to be placed on his skin.
Mounted to the surface of the island, a weathered metal sign gave warning to all who dared to enter.
IF YOU’RE
DRUNK, RUDE, STUPID, BROKE,
SICK, ANNOYING, ON YOUR PHONE,
OBNOXIOUS, SUNBURNED, BAREFOOT,
STINKY, LOUD, HOPING FOR ROMAN NUMERALS,
PREGNANT, OR SEARCHING FOR A BARGAIN
PLEASE
COME BACK WHEN YOU’RE NOT.
The man twisted the ends of his mustache between his thumbs and forefingers. “Evening, fellas. Welcome to Forever Inked.”
“My friend needs a tattoo,” Braxton said.
The man’s eyes shifted to me. “How’s it going?”
“Not bad, thank you.” I held out my left forearm, which had a few small tattoos on it, leaving plenty of room for more. “I’d like a cherry tree branch with three sets of blossoms. The left portion of the branch has eight blossoms, the center has eight more, and then, on the far right, there’s a cluster of nine.”
“One tree branch, twenty-five blossoms,” the man said, nodding his head. “Color, or black and grey?”
“Black and grey on the branch,” I replied. “Pink blossoms.”
The man hoisted a large bound ledger onto the countertop. It hit the surface with a dull thud. “When were you thinking?” He flipped through the pages. “Stanley’s got an opening—”
“Tonight,” Braxton said. “He needs it tonight.”
The man looked up, made eye contact with Braxton, and then looked at me. “Which one of you two is getting this piece?”
“I am,” I replied.
“When were you thinking?” he asked. “He’s got an opening three weeks from next Monday, at four o’clock. I’d guess that’ll take two hours.”
Braxton nodded toward the rear of the shop. “Looks like Stanley’s cleaning up. I’ll pay him to stay late.”
The man chuckled in a manner that left little to the imagination. “Stanley,” he shouted over his shoulder while eyeing Braxton. “Got time for a tattoo? Tonight?”
“Fresh out of time,” Stanley replied from the rear of the shop. “Explain what you want. Make an appointment. Leave a deposit.”
“I’ll make it worth his while,”
Braxton said.
“He’ll make it worth your while,” the man with the mustache shouted into the shop’s abyss.
“Life ain’t about money, man,” Stanley replied. “Explain what you want. Make an appointment. Leave a deposit.”
“Are you a basketball fan?” Braxton shouted.
“Sports fan in general,” Stanley replied. “I like ‘em all.”
“How about courtside tickets to the Lakers game next Sunday?”
Stanley came to the counter. His dark hair was combed with a definitive sharp part, held in place by styling gel. A long—but well-trimmed—beard hung nearly to his chest. Every exposed inch of his skin—short of his face—was covered in colorful ink.
“Lakers-Celtics?” he asked. “Courtside? As in, courtside?”
Braxton reached inside his sport coat, fished around for a moment, and produced four tickets. He fanned them with his thumb. “Take three of your friends.”
Stanley reached for the tickets, and then hesitated. “Do you mind?”
Braxton handed him the tickets. “Not at all.”
Stanley inspected the tickets over thoroughly. He looked at Braxton. “This has got to be eight grand in tickets. Hell, playing the Celtics, maybe it’s ten or twelve. This is Jack Nicholson shit right here. How did you…”
“I know people,” Braxton replied.
“If I do this piece tonight, I get these tickets?”
“If you do that piece tonight, you’ll be paid for the tattoo,” Braxton replied. “Look at the tickets as a tip. A thank you for helping us out of a sticky situation.”
Stanley looked at each of the tickets. “Nobody’s gonna arrest me or any dumb shit like that, are they? When I show up and take these seats?”
Braxton took a step back and tugged at the front of his sport coat, which I guessed cost just north of a grand. On his left wrist he wore a Breitling Chronograph that cost more than a new Toyota.
“Do I look like a thief?” Braxton asked.
“You didn’t answer my question,” Stanley said.
“You won’t be arrested,” Braxton replied, smirking. “In fact, if you stick around after the game, The King might say something when he walks by. Suppose that’ll depend on whether they win or lose.”
Stanley’s eyes widened. “Lebron James?”
Braxton nodded toward Stanley’s hand, which still held the tickets. “He’s the one who gave those to me.”
“Damn,” Stanley said. “You do know people.”
“So, we’ve got a deal?” Braxton asked.
“Abso-fucking-lutely,” Stanley replied. “Let me get my station ready. Sign the form and come on back.”
Stanley disappeared to the rear of the shop. The man with the mustache placed a sheet of paper on a clipboard and handed it to me. “You know the drill. Can’t be pregnant, drunk, or under the influence of stupidity. Sign this.” He extended his hand. “I’m Kit, by the way.”
I shook his hand. After filling out the form, Braxton and I meandered to the rear of the small shop. A station fitted with a leather chair and old-school operating table flanked Stanley’s work area, but the lack of supplies, ink, or tool chest left me to believe it had been abandoned.
I glanced at the various Japanese-style portraits on the walls. Watercolor paintings of snakes, koi fish, dragons, and colorful flowers were situated between the small displays of tattoo flash.
“Did you paint those?” I asked.
Preparing his tattoo machine, Stanley gave a nod. “That’s how I spend my spare time.”
I glanced at the empty work station. “Are you the only artist?”
“I’ve had a few people work here,” he replied. “I’m a perfectionist, and I expect other artists to be the same. So far, I haven’t found one.”
I took a seat in the chair beside Stanley and Braxton pulled up a chair at my side. After cleaning and shaving my arm, Stanley sketched his version of my idea on my forearm with a pen.
“What do you think about that?” he asked. “Check it in the mirror.”
I looked it over. Far more detailed that I expected, the design was intricate and beautiful. “It’s perfect.”
Stanley stretched rubber gloves over his hands. “Let’s do this.”
The three of us sat silently during the application of the tattoo’s outline. When finished, Stanley wiped the area with a paper towel, and then peeled off his gloves. “Doing Japanese work beats the hell out of birds flying across some eighteen-year-old chick’s back with a Latin inscription across her shoulders.”
While he filled plastic cups with ink, I glanced at the outline. “Why do you like Japanese-themed work?”
“It’s got so much meaning,” he replied. “People get the tattoo, and they probably don’t even realize it. The water, for instance. Japanese work often has water incorporated into it. Japan is an island, and the people rely on the ocean to bring them food. The water represents life, and the wave brings death. Life changes like the sea, and death can come at any moment. That’s the reality of life in Japan. Without words or a written description, the water in a Japanese tattoo represents that belief. Then, I’ll have some college kid come in here and get life tattooed on one forearm, and death tattooed on the other. The water and waves of a colorful sleeve has so much more depth.”
“I didn’t realize the meaning behind it,” I admitted.
He stretched a new set of gloves over his hands. “The Koi, for instance. In the winter, it attempts to swim the Yellow River, upstream. Japanese myth believes if it can overcome the challenge, it transforms into a dragon, as a reward. It makes the Koi a perfect tattoo for anyone attempting to overcome a struggle.” He tilted his head toward my forearm. “I’m sure there’s a story behind this piece. At least you didn’t come in here and have me tattoo a date on your forearm in Roman numerals.”
“How’d you know it was a date?” I asked.
He traced his gloved finger over the tattoo. “This isn’t my first tattoo. You wanted a specific number of blossoms. August eighth, 2009.” He looked up. “How’d I do?”
“You’re right.”
He picked up the tattoo machine. “Date’s got some meaning, huh?”
I saw no harm in being honest. Telling Hap and Braxton about Shelley helped matters slightly. Telling Stanley couldn’t hurt.
“A girl I knew committed suicide on that day,” I said.
He lowered the tattoo machine and shook his head. “Dude. I’m sorry.”
“Thanks,” I murmured.
“Suicide’s a beast,” he said. “Kit’s cousin was a Marine. He came home from Iraq and spent all his time in his bedroom, drunk. Wouldn’t talk to anyone about it. Then, one day, he hung himself. They found him at dinnertime.”
“Damn.”
“Damn is right. Suicide sucks.” He nodded toward the tattoo. “You ready?”
“Whenever you are.”
The needle dug into my flesh, which was sensitive from the earlier session. I closed my eyes and took my mind to a place where pain didn’t exist.
I couldn’t say with any degree of certainty that I loved Shelley. I barely knew her. Nevertheless, the impact she made in the short time we were together was so deep that I considered a future with her.
Before her, women had been nothing more than a night or weekend of sex. My choice of work didn’t lend itself to having a woman in my life on a permanent basis. Yet. I had no more than met Shelley and I began to look at my future and how I could fit her in it.
I didn’t know if the current level of affection I felt toward her developed entirely during the time we spent together or if it blossomed after her death.
The year after her suicide was difficult for me to remember. I spent most of it in seclusion, attempting to process the loss. With each year that followed, her loss seemed to become more significant. I questioned everything from what we did and where we went, to why I didn’t offer her to come to my home the morning that followed our walk along the beach.
I o
pened my eyes. “I didn’t invite her to come to my house.”
Braxton looked up. “What’s that?”
“Shelley,” I said. “The sun was coming up. We laughed that we’d walked around talking until morning. She said, what now? I said, I suppose I should go home and get some sleep. I didn’t invite her to come over. If I had—”
“If you had, she might have lived another day. Maybe another few hours. What she did is out of your control,” he replied. “The sooner you understand that, the quicker you’ll recover from her loss.”
I wanted him to be right, but I didn’t feel that way. He was correct in his earlier assumption that I felt guilty. In fact, the guilt was crushing me.
“I suppose,” I muttered.
“When it comes to controlling the actions of others, we have limitations,” he said.
It wasn’t the response I’d hoped for. I was wallowing in guilt. For whatever reason, it seemed that was where I was most comfortable. I stared at a painting of a tiger on the opposite wall and brewed.
“Do you believe in God?” Braxton asked.
“Yes,” I said. “I do.”
“God loved her more than anyone,” he said. “Despite the extent of his power and the depth of his love, he was powerless over preventing her death. For you to think there was anything you could do to change the outcome is saying you’re more powerful than The Almighty. You’re an intelligent man, but you’re not God.”
As I chewed on Braxton’s statement, Stanley patted me on the shoulder. “Have a look at it.”
It seemed that he’d just started. I looked at my arm. A limb from a cherry tree forked into three much smaller branches. Gathered on each branch were delicate clusters of pink blossoms. The color against the otherwise black tattoo caused the flowers to be a definitive focal point.
“It looks awesome,” I said. “Better than I expected.”
“If you’re happy, I’m happy,” Stanley said.
After Stanley applied a dressing to protect the wound from the elements, we talked about women, basketball, tacos, the best place to surf in SoCal, motorcycles, and of the difficulties the living have in dealing with the death of a loved one, especially after suicide.
Devil's Disciples MC Series- The Complete Boxed Set Page 115
