was my home more than anywhere else ever I had lived. I knew every inch of motor and brick in the 1500 square foot space I’d bought with cold cash at the tender age of twenty-four. I’d known since I was five when I saw a man in the park with beauty inked into every inch of his skin from neck down to fingertips, that I wanted to be responsible for that kinda tangible, breathable art. Didn’t hurt that when I picked up a pen, a crayon, or even a fuckin’ stick to draw in the dirt, that I had some serious talent.
Parents were anxious about my artistic streak ’cause who the fuck made a livin’ outta their passion, especially if it was creative? But then a teacher of mine in grade school who’d gone to some fancy institute in Paris called École des Beaux-Arts told my parents I had some serious, genius-level talent for a ten-year-old, and they’d changed their tune.
A genius in the Booth family?
We were hardy stock, fishermen from my father off the brutal shores of the Canadian west coast to our ancestors on the Algarve peninsula. We were men with large hands thick with muscle over big bones, clumsy with somethin’ so delicate as a pen, but fuckin’ mighty with twine, rope, and wet, dangerously edged hooks.
I say we, but I meant them.
Sure, my hands were as wide and strong as theirs, but after Mr. Larson told my parents about the potential of my art, I was saved from goin’ out on the boat with the rest of my three brothers.
When they woke up before dawn to accompany Dad out on the boat, swaddled in thick layers of wool and waterproof overalls, I was sitting down at the kitchen table with a dozen blank pages and my collection of pens.
They hoped I’d be a 21st century Picasso or Bertolucci.
But I didn’t like the mess of paint in oil or water.
I preferred the sharp precision of ink, the exactin’ nature of its pigmentation. I loved detail, craved the tiny twists and turns of pen over paper that made a leaf seem like an entire world of topography.
It was my obsession, and soon, paper wasn’t enough.
I drew on the warm wood grain of the kitchen table, down the carved legs, and up the pale oak dinin’ room chairs. I painted the cabinets in elaborate Moorish patterns ’cause my father’s mother had been Moorish, and I painted my mother’s little parlour in an Alice in Wonderland motif ’cause she’d always been obsessed with Through The Looking Glass. My brothers demanded their own rooms be done, and I delivered, though, I didn’t follow their directions.
For Hudson, I’d done up his ceilin’ and his wooden floors in stark black, white, and red geometric shapes ’cause he was already a popular kid, a golden boy, but he had an asceticism to his personality that called to ordered and exactitude.
Miles and Oliver, only eleven months apart in age and totally inseparable, got a room cut down the middle. The same designs done on either side of the thick black line running along the center of the floor but in complimentary colours, blue and green against orange and red.
When I finished the house, I took to the streets, searchin’ for anythin’ ugly I could turn into art with a bottle of spray paint and my imagination.
Pretty soon, I had a reputation with the cops, even though they didn’t know the identity of the boy in the purple hoodie with the hand painted, black bandana coverin’ most of his face.
Unlike most graffiti artists, I didn’t tag my name on my shit ’cause I wasn’t stupid. I didn’t need to anyway; my art was my own, and it looked it too.
When I discovered the club at seventeen, I found Axe-Man, only a handful of years older than me but already experienced, with a young daughter and ten years of tattooin’ under his belt. He hooked me up with his buddy in Vancouver where I apprenticed for six years before I decided to bite the bullet and open my own place.
One could say I didn’t take direction well, so it was better for everyone that I became my own boss.
My family, they’d believe in me.
Both my biological members and my club brothers.
But no one save Lila had expected my art to reach the heights it soared at now.
Millions of followers on social media.
A schedule booked a year in advantage, at least, with some spots saved permanently for