He loves those spider plants.
After debating Grindr for a few more minutes, I finally remember that I’m supposed to go into the tattoo shop. I somehow dropped a sketchpad when I was last there, and I’m hoping Stone will have a minute to talk about how my practice has been going. I’ve been taking different images and then drawing versions of them that I think would work for a tattoo, but I’m eager for someone who actually knows to look and give me an opinion.
Biking to the shop, dripping sweat, I remember again how I’d loved to draw all over myself as a kid. As far as parents go, I kind of hit the jackpot. My parents love each other, and they both love their oddball kid. They’re accountants and pretty traditional people in a lot of ways, but when they got a son who was interested in art and geek culture and saving the environment and not at all in fitting in, they didn’t have any problem with it. They just went ahead and learned about those things with me.
Not that we’re totally different. We’re a sci-fi family, after all.
I find Stone is his room in the back of the shop. It’s busy, and I can hear tattoo machines buzzing and people chatting throughout the space. The smell of ink is in the air, which I love, and when a woman passes in the hall beside me, I see that she has an arm full ofStar Trektattoos.
Cool.
“You busy?” I ask.
Stone gestures. “Come on in. Here’s your sketchbook, by the way.”
I take it from him. Stone is sitting in a small wooden chair at his desk, and I sit in a similar chair across from him. I drop my backpack at my feet. He’s dressed in his usual black T-shirt and jeans, but I notice that there’s one streak of his shaggy brown hair that’s dyed purple.
“Thanks for keeping it for me.”
“You said you’ve been practicing?”
I unzip my backpack. “Actually, yeah.” I pull out the banana that I’m particularly proud of, which I’ve wrapped in toilet paper. There’s a crisscross pattern around the whole thing that’s still surprisingly crisp, and I pull the toilet paper off to show him. “Take a look. The banana is starting to brown, but the ink is holding.”
Stone chuckles as he takes it. “Very nice work.”
“I’ve got my drawings, too,” I say, shuffling for them. “I don’t think I want to work full-time at Blade, but I am curious about tattooing. As an artist,” I clarify.
My need for better work comes rearing back to my attention. It reminds me how screwed I would be without Alexander and how it’s kind of embarrassing that I need him this much, which makes my heart squeeze and all the weird emotions from this morning come rushing back.
“Sorry,” I say, squinting and adjusting my glasses. “What were you saying?”
“Nothing.” Stone shrugs. “Let me see.” He takes the drawings. “And yeah, I tattooed for years before I made a career out of it. I’ll be happy to teach you some of what I know either way, man.”
“Cool.” I smile, relaxing a little. “Did you know that there’s a whole history of gay people and tattoos?” I ask. “Alexander told me about it. He read a book.”
“I do know a little about that,” Stone says, nodding. “Gay people used to get tattoos when most people still wouldn’t.”
“Right. And in the 1940s, lesbians would get nautical stars tattooed to show that they were gay, on their wrists so they could cover them with watches during the day. Alexander says it’s common to notice tattoos in the old photographs at the archives.”
Stone turns up half his mouth in a smile. “You two are good friends for each other,” he says. “I like that.”
I’m kind of thrown off. Usually, people follow that with something like,do you think you’ll ever be more?But Stone doesn’t really seem thrown by much, and I can tell he just accepts this about us.
I feel weird again. Wearegreat friends. I love that Alexander is my best friend. Why does Stone saying that make me wrinkle my brow?
I shake my head quickly, pushing the storm of emotions away. “Yeah, we’re pretty lucky,” I say with a smile. “All of our friends are great. You and Matty are family to us, you know?”
I realize I’m talking for Alexander. How often do I do that?
I blink hard. “Anyway,” I say quickly, with a gesture toward the drawings in his hand, “that’s what I came up with.”
A shadow falls across the room. When I turn, I see a tall man with white hair in the doorway. He must be in his fifties, and he’s heavily inked with vivid, colorful work, dragons and motorcycles and tidal waves. He lumbers there in a worn gray shirt, not saying a word, his steely gaze set on Stone.
“Caesar,” Stone says, standing. He nods to me. “This is my friend. Rafael, this is Caesar. He owns the shop.”
“Right.” I stand. I’m not trying to work there, but I know that I’m looking at a really talented artist, and I want to show him respect. Caesar has pioneered entire styles in tattooing, and it’s an honor to even share space with him. “Hi.”
The old man’s eyes dart down to the drawings in Stone’s hands, then to me. “You the guy who left those drawings here?”
