Holidays are always weird

Since Halloween night, the murder, the insane amount of clients, the only thing Ace was looking forward to during Thanksgiving was a break.  His business slowed around Thanksgiving. As he turned off the lights in this cold late night, he looked out the large front window and saw the first light covering of snow.  He had at some point in the evening, noticed the wet door mat and the damp air, but had been too busy to look out.

Now that the shop was empty, he usually like to sit for a while in the darkness. He took a sip of beer and his mind wandered back to strange night of Halloween.  Halloweens were always strange nights, but the strange scene that unfolded seemed to continue to haunt him.  Senseless murders were not common, but were also not so uncommon in this neighborhood.  It had been quiet for almost six months, and Ace had noticed businesses seemed busy and the streets more friendly.

Ace had closed the shop early on Halloween because people were too drunk and crazed to be in his shop.  He was siting like he was sitting now, on the worn couch, in the dark and looking at the night around him.  There were several crowds of unruly kids.  Some stopped to look in, or jingle the door and then moved on.  Others passed by laughing or dressed in hideous outfits and trying to be a different person. Masks can do all sorts of things.

Then Ace saw him again.  Because the shop window was so large and pointed east, he had a good view of the graveyard.  People were wandering in and out of the place all night.  Some weird candle show happened earlier, but the party had moved on, probably to the bar or someone's apartment.  Then a solitary figure stood just inside the broken down gate.  Ace had to sit very still to tell that he was actually there and not just another slab of marble.  He had seen him briefly one rainy evening.  To Ace, this guy was more unsettling than all the ghosts and ghouls out that night. The kind of person his mother had cautioned her son about.  "Ace, your gift can be a curse, too." She had said that so many times that he had stopped listening. But in his adult life he now understood.  The tattoos spoke and moved for him.  That night, the tiger seemed to stir and bristle.

The man moved when Mr. Ling-Ling started screaming. Moved isn't the right word. Ace had never seen someone vanish like that before. He was gone. Simply gone. Then Ace saw the glare of the flames on the pavement and two men running through the side alley.  He moved closer to the window and realized the glow was a fire in the warehouse.  He unlocked the door and crossed the street. Again he saw the two men --one obviously chasing the other--standing on the roof.  Only their silhouettes showing their actions.  Ace knew, though, that it was the man from the graveyard.  He moved quickly and evaded the other one's attack.  He look controlled in contrast to  the erratic and awkward movements of the other man.

The flames rose-up and caught Ace's attention, and when he looked back, only the man was left.  He was looking down and his gaze stopped on Ace. Then again, before Ace could move, he was gone.  Ace ran to the shop, whirled around and locked the door. Had he killed the other man? Was it self defense? Why was he chasing him?Ace was panting.

He stood-up and told himself that there was a no need to worry about that night.  He had not seen the man since then and nothing seemed unusual about the weeks that had followed. He picked-up the phone, "Mom, it's me.  Call me back and let me know what to bring for Thanksgiving dinner." He slipped the phone in his pock, sat on the couch, drinking beer and  watching to snow cover the curbs, buildings and gravestones.  He drifted into sleep.

The season for a reason

Ace wasn't sure he wanted to do this particular tattoo. Someone had come into the shop with a picture from Dore's Dante Inferno pictures. Dante always made his skin itch.  After doing a series of tats on the back of a rather large man with lots of piercings, he had decided that Dante was off the choice list.  He had lost a few clients.  He didn't mind skulls or other items associated with the dead, but Dante seemed to come alive on the walls of his apartment all too often.

But his guy made him an offer he just couldn't refuse. Triple the normal price and he'd come whenever Ace was in the mood.  This was the guy's fifth trip.

Just as Ace paused to change the tip of his needle to a different color, SPLAT!!splat, splat on the pavement on the side of the shop that faced maplewood.

"Jesus!" Luther, the client, almost broke the chair.  "What the hell was that?"

Ace walked over to the plate glass window but still couldn't figure out what it was.  He opened the front door, bell tinkling, and realized it was pumpkin. Pumpkin? He heard something that sounded like a metal slingshot, then a small pumpkin flying and then a burst, and then a "YEAH! FINALLY!"

Ace stepped back under the awing, looked up on the roof of the apartment building only to see Eliot with a gun and some guy laughing.

Ace shouted, "Nice one, bartender! Bad guys beware!" Eliot, surprised, looked over the edge and then smiled, gave Ace a thumbs-up.

"Next beer's on me!" Ace shouted and laughed and returned to the shop.  Dante wasn't so bad now. He finished the last flame and called it a day.

As he was leaving, he had to sidestep around orange chunks and seeds.  "Well, I'll be busy in the next few weeks."  He mused. Halloween was one of the busiest times of the year for him. "Gotta get some pumpkins early. Jack-o-lanturns will rock my shop."

Apartment 802

Ace had grow-up with a single mom who read palms, burned incense and had a steady stream of clients in and out of her tiny, one door spiritual shop.  They lived in the long, rather narrow space above the shop.  All day she'd burn incense in the shop and somehow the scent would rise up through the rafters and into their kitchen, living room and Ace's small bedroom. It was always the same kind of incense, pachouli. Always pachouli. Now that he had his own shop, sure enough the other tattoo artist was a woman and every time she had a client, she would burn a stick.  She said that it helped her to focus.

He didn't mind it so much.  Clara, his mom, always told him that small spaces allow for the mind to go to big places.  As he sat having breakfest he noticed, maybe for the first time, that he chose this place because it was small, not so much because was dirt cheap.  Ace thought that the place may have been a former janitor's storage room but realized that windows were too big to be a closet. Windows don't keep supplies safe. Windows, for Ace, were the most important part of a place to live. This place was the corner unit and the windows lined both sides of the living room and kitchen.  The sun made it all a little less shabby looking.  Ace enjoyed the morning sun after sometimes working well into the night.  When he got home sometimes the moonlight would fill the rooms.  That's when his tattoos returned to shift across the shadows outlining the night. His own pair would move among the countless ones he'd done.

He never really thought that they were any different than other tattoos from other artists.  As most young teenagers, he ignored his mother's advice.  "Be careful about those drawings of yours. Your future holds mystery, son. Be careful."

The little bell, which had hung in his mother's shop, tinkled signaling a customer, Ace came back from his thoughts.  He looked-up to see a young man who seemed to have his foot in two worlds.  In this one and perhaps another one.  Ace couldn't figure out exactly which other world.
     "Hello." He said to Ace, eyes a bit off to the side.  Ace thought he felt a deep tiredness in this man.
     "What can I do for you, sir?" Ace replied.
     "I want a tattoo." He pointed to his forearm. " Matthew 6:9-13.  Right here."
     "Do you want the whole prayer? Or just the verse title?" Ace asked.
     "Just the title."
     "Any particular font?"
     "Nope.  You choose."
Ace sat him in the chair, asked him if he wanted a beer.
      "Just water, ice water, please."
      As Ace handed him the glass, "What's your name?"
      "Jason."
      "Sit back, relax, Jason.  This may take a while."
      "No problem. I've got time."
Ace went over to the turntable and picked out a Pearl Jam album, and as "Daughter" started, he started.

Roses, Grandma and The Mystery

As Ace sat in the in the waiting area of his shop, he thought he could still smell a hint of burnt clothes on his t-shirt.  The smell had covered the apartment building like a blanket. He came to the shop early to escape the smell.  Some dumb-ass left his/her linen something too close to a burner.  Judd walked in with a pizza and a six-pack.
"I'd love some pizza, but gotta wait on the beer 'till after work." Judd smiled and nodded.  He is a man of few words, most of the time.  Today, he seemed wanting to shoot the breeze.  Just as he starts in on a story about his bike ride into the Dakotas and guy walks in off the street.
"Hey, can I get one today?" he asks.
"Sure, it's still early for most, and my first isn't until 7 tonight, so do you have something in mind?"
"Yep, the name of my grandma that just passed.  She was my touchstone."
"Okay. What's here name and where would you like it?"
"Just below my palm"
Ace always wondered if grandmothers were really more important than moms everytime he wrote a name.  He did think it was a wiser choice than a girlfriend or wife.  Grandmothers are forever.
"What's your name?"
"Jose. Jose Guapo."
"Ah," thought Ace. "Thus the name Maria."
Aloud he said, "Do you want something plain and simple, or something with a little flare to it? Tell me about your grandma."
As Jose began talking about his grandma, Ace started drawing out her name.  He used a simple font but curved the M so that it's tip curled around the rest of the letters and finished as a small rose. He showed Jose the drawing.
"Cool.  I like it."
So Ace began as he always did, cleaning the area and prepping his pen.  He started thinking about this fellow and his grandma.  He seemed out of place here.  A bit too clean cut to fit on this side of town.  Maybe he didn't live around here. So he asked.
"You from around here."
"Yep. Live at Maplewood."
"Oh, me too." And the small talk began.  Jose rambled on about how his grandma came from Puerto Rico and loved to cook for him.  "She made the best Roti of anyone."
Ace wanted Roti now instead of pizza and beer.
Once he finished the last curve of the rose, Ace noticed the slight movement in the curved line that lead to the rose.  He glanced at Jose who was just staring out the window. Looking again, Ace saw the rose quiver like a breeze from a fan moved across it. Ace looked up.  Jose seemed to be in a trance.
"Okay, Jose. You're all set." Jose jerked like he had just been startled.
"Thanks, man." And Jose drop a nice tip on him.
He'll be back, Ace thought. Sweet dreams, my latino friend...

Eyes without a face.

As Ace etched the series of roses on a rather hairy forearm of a biker, he kept thinking about the movement of the dragon on his left wrist.  His pen hesitated above the arm a bit too long.  Judd, the biker, coughed and brought Ace back to the moment. Constant as a headache, the rain drummed on the roof of the shop.  Ace finally finished the last stem that was a bit tricky because it ended at the elbow.  Judd was a regular customer. He said the roses are for his wife.  Ace hoped that they didn't break-up because covering one tattoo with another is particularly irritating for him.

Ace loved his work and hated trying to make one thing into another.  He went over to the stereo and carefully pulled out The Doors LA Woman.  The albums edges were a bit tattered and the red was fading in places.  Even with the plastic cover, time was taking its toll.  Carefully laying the needle on the record, Ace played "Riders on the Storm" while Judd was sitting around waiting with him on the leather couches in the waiting room.  They waited, drinking a beer and looking at the rain.

As he was standing at the window, the rain revealed a man walking past the shop.  He was trying to get out of the sudden resurgence of the storm by ducking under the awning of the shop. He stood looking out to the street as if he was searching for something.  With one quick turn, he looked straight at Ace. Ace unconsciously took a step back. He surprised himself and looked around, but by then the man had moved on.

Maybe it was the album, maybe the rain, or maybe it was the several skull tattoos he had done lately, but something about that moment and that man's eyes made Ace uncomfortable.

Shaking his head, and absently rubbing his tattoo on his left wrist, as if he was stroking the head and tail of the dragon, he stood looking at the wake of the stranger.

"Judd, I think it's going to be a long evening."

Tatted

Ace didn’t start the day, his dreams ended and he woke-up. Most of his dreams were a swirl of color and ink. Ace spent most of his evenings inking people’s arms, butts, backs, ankles and necks. Some people are very clear and bring in their designs. Most come in the shop with some vague idea of a need for something that will make them feel better about themselves. Make them feel cool. Make them feel something different than the mundane, mediocre and general boring feeling that follows them around like a stain on a white t-shirt.

Ace sat in his corner apartment and realized that at the other end of town, he would be paying a lot more for the “loft” space he now occupies. He actually like his place. The 14th floor allows him not to have curtains because no one can see in and he rarely needed to turn on lights because of the large windows allowed him to use mother nature to light his day.

At night he occupied the small, dense space of the tattoo shop. Freedom tattoo. Yep. That’s his place. Ridiculous really, just how much money he makes. Tattoos for the rich who come here for the “experience.” Tattoos for the poor who come here after winning $100 dollars on a lottery scratch-off ticket. Tattoos for the stripper who comes here to cover something that usually isn’t covered. As for himself, he only has two tattoos. One on the inside spot of each wrist, just below his hand.

 It’s his day-off. Mondays the shop is closed. Crossing the large room to the kitchen space Ace glances at the canvas that sits near the window. A reproduction of Van Gogh’s Starry Night in the shadows of early evening makes the twilight view that much more alive than it really is outside the window.

 He opens the frig and searches for the last beer only to find it’s not there but already on the counter, empty. It’s his evening off.

 O’Leary’s then, he nods to himself. Dolly, his cat, lifts her head as he closes the door behind him, then tucks her head back into her shoulder.