extra supplies to take back rather than having to run out to the hardware store in the middle of the day.
I hated that.
Not that I was together enough to manage to avoid them completely. I wasn’t infallible, but at least I prevented some of the extra visits.
“Hey, Charlie,” one of the electricians called. “We’re going for a beer. Want to come?”
“Next time,” I called back. “Had an emergency call last night and need to hit it early.”
He gave me a knowing look then agreed, “Next time.”
A few minutes later, I was packed up and heading to my car.
It was a piece of shit Honda that had seen better days close to two decades before. The side mirror was duct-taped on, there were more dents and primer than actual paint left, and I still had a cassette player.
And a collection of tapes.
Rock on.
But my brand spanking new truck dream fell below my brand-new apartment dream in order of dream hierarchy.
I’d gone for function when buying this vehicle. I wanted something that would run forever, not break down, and I had nothing against using a little duct tape when the need arose.
Plus, I had my Alanis Morrisette cassette and there was nothing like driving through the streets, windows down—since my AC definitely didn’t work—listening to Alanis speak to my childhood angsty heart.
Ironic?
My life certainly had been that.
Starting with the fact that my two-hundred-thousand-mile car was the most long-term relationship I’d had in my life, aside from Dave.
And ending with the fact that I’d once had everything a kid could wish for.
Left turns, swerves, sudden drops, and dips. Life could be absolutely unpredictable, and that unpredictability could be equally cruel and equally wonderful, and . . . there was absolutely not a damn thing anyone could do about it.
Sighing, I turned the key, the engine starting with a soft growl.
A simple movement of my hand to put the transmission in gear, a quick glance to check for traffic, and I was heading home.
Back to my not-so-wild plans and my deep soaking tub.
Back to eking out my smaller and more realistic dreams.
Back to my quiet life.
But as I drove, I couldn’t keep from wondering why my quiet life didn’t seem quite so fulfilling anymore.
“Too much work,” I told myself as I navigated the streets, looking for a place to park. “I’ve been working too much. I just need to take next weekend off, download a good book, and recharge.”
There. A plan.
I was good at plans.
Except . . . I didn’t think this one was going to solve anything.
Least of all, the itchy feeling in my heart that was telling me I needed more than pipes and a place to live and a new car.
Luckily, I was excellent at ignoring my heart.
Four
Garret
“Ow,” the big bulky dude cried as he was sitting in front of me. “Ow. Ow.”
Considering I’d just done the exact same tattoo on his wife—aw, cute, matching tats . . . and yes, I was fully aware that I was salty because of Lorna—I didn’t have much sympathy for the body builder type.
The tattoo, a conglomeration of nerdy things the couple loved, was pretty cool, if I did say so myself. And I supposed I did say so myself, since I’d designed it. But the point was that the piece wasn’t overly large or being put on a particularly sensitive spot. It was going on the inside of the forearm, which was a great place for a first tattoo.
Also—this should be noted for the room at large—his wife hadn’t made a peep.
In fact, I think her exact comment had been something along the lines of it hurting less than a Brazilian.
Heh.
But this was the part of my job that I loved. The people.
Getting to hear the stories, the reasons behind why clients chose an image to be permanently etched on their body. Some, like this couple, had created a story, ten years of marriage and mutual interests on their arms. Others just wanted something pretty or that looked cool. Both were completely fine.
I got some creative license because I was the person painting it into their skin with needles, but the client’s preference trumped all.
Because it was their body, and it was permanent.
Delia liked to tease that she was the smarter one because anyone could take out a piercing if she screwed up.
At least until I pointed out that piercings still left a scar.
Now . . . she still gave us all shit.
All of that, the work, the stories, the comradery in the