This is the eleventh installment of the short story "Ink" by Steve Metcalf as it first appeared in the second Event collection "Iron Bay."
INK
Steve Metcalf
Chapter Ten
The Three Deaths
Jones felt a strong sense of déjà vu as he stood on the sidewalk outside 3rd Ave. Ink. It was yet again a busy Friday evening in the San Francisco Bay Area. Cars were cruising by on the street and people were bustling past him on the pavement. He was transfixed by the same poster as he was last week. Lightning Kills Todd. Staring at the reverse-image of the countryside, it seemed to move, to undulate. He blinked the hallucination away.
In truth, he didn’t feel so great.
He had continued to apply the new skin cream to his tattoo, but the irritation – while less painful – continued to spread up his neck. He had taken the week off work. Fortunately, his metrics were tops in the department, so the boss gave him a bit of leeway. His talks with Mo over the week had become less and less frequent. He had already made an appointment to see his doctor on Tuesday. A full workup. Blood. Urine. Everything short of a prostate exam.
Well, maybe even a prostate exam.
He had felt a little blurry. A little fuzzy. He had a scary moment when he thought the cream, somehow, was affecting his brain. He had shaken this notion loose as he gooped more cream on his chest.
He felt a peculiar sensation against his right thigh, realized it was his phone buzzing and grabbed it.
It was a text from Big Mo.
1 on clock 2morrow. Kickin in yer fucking door. Ya heard?
Jones smiled, replied OK on his phone screen and put it back in his pocket.
He reached forward and pushed open the door to the tattoo parlor for the final time.
* *
For the third time, the entry bell announced him in the waiting room of the shop. Just like last week, the front room was hopping with people – employees and customers. He didn’t see Kira, though, and only one tattoo artist looked up to greet him. There was a slight look of recognition that flashed across the man’s eyes. He nodded, lifting his chin in the traditional cool guy movement.
“She’s in her office,” he said over the buzz of equipment. “Go on back.”
Jones nodded his thanks, let the door hiss shut behind him and staggered off toward the employees only hallway. He pushed through the batwing doors and traversed the winding, office-filled corridor.
He knocked on the Black Widow door only to find it ajar. Jones went in to find Kira sitting on her red leather tattoo stool reading a magazine. She looked up and smiled at him.
“Jones,” she said, putting the magazine down. “I wasn’t sure you’d make it. You never answered any of my calls.”
Jones wobbled into the room and plopped down into the tattoo chair. He was out of breath, for some reason, and huffed a response.
“You didn’t call me.”
Kira shook her head.
“Sure I did,” she handed him a glass filled to the brim with a clear liquid. “Water? You look parched.”
He took the glass and gulped the liquid. There was an odd, tangy flavor and he made a face against it.
“That’s not, wah –“ he started, but didn’t finish.
Kira took the glass back and rolled it back over to the tiny sink in the corner of the room. She vigorously washed it, dried it and put it off to the side of a plastic case. It was the only cup on that shelf. As if she didn’t want it anywhere near the other cups. After her shift, she would heave the glass into the Bay.
* *
Jones kept licking his lips. They were dry, but he couldn’t figure out why. The action made him think of rubbing cardboard against cardboard … his tongue was just as dry as his lips. He was leaning back in the tattoo chair, shirt off. Kira was hovering next to him, wheeling back and forth on her little red stool. His eyes wandered around the room and stopped on a set of foot-high letters that stood, unassuming, on a bookshelf in a dark corner of the room.
BKD.
“What’s BKD mean?” he asked, slightly slurring his words.
Kira, selecting the color and wheeling back to him, spoke in quiet tones, as if she wasn’t really paying attention.
“They’re my initials,” she said. “The little statues were a gift from my parents.”
Jones reached up with his right hand and rubbed the corner of his mouth. Wet. He was drooling. How could he be drooling when his mouth felt like hot asphalt?
Hot ass.
Spicy ass. He started grinning. He was delusional.
“Your name’s Kira,” he slurred, once he got his giggling under control. “Not BKD.”
She had wheeled back to him and was about to get started on the third application. It was again going to be on his left pectoral, branching up toward his shoulder, and down almost to the bottom of his ribcage.
“Bren. Kira. Duk,” she said slowly. Enunciating each word.
“Mmm,” Jones moaned a bit at her touch. He was looking forward to seeing this new addition. His eyes were closed against the impending blurriness of the world. “I knew a girl in high school named Bren. I wasn’t very nice to her, I don’t think.”
“Is that so?” Kira said, absently. She was focused on her work and only entertaining conversation as a nicety. The type of conversation your dentist has with you when you have four pounds of equipment in your mouth. “It’s a fairly common name.”
Jones nodded a bit. He tried to reach up and wipe his mouth again, but Kira delicately moved his hand back down – it would have completely blocked her work.
His eyes were still closed.
“Yep,” he said. “She was too small. Tiny. Teased her a little. Moved on.”
Jones grunted a bit at her contact. Kira had started working on the third application in earnest. This one was basically filling in the blanks and adding the necessary detail to The Three Deaths. She was using modern equipment, modern inks, a modern technique.
“Is that right?”
He nodded a bit again. He could feel himself slipping away.
“Yeah. She was a freshman so whatever. The guys made once a hairy monster to be. And then just another girl in the shower.”
“Are you going to tell me your name?” she asked, not looking away from her work.
Jones, with what little energy he had left, shook his head.
“Know it. You. Jones,” he mumbled.
Kira continued to work.
“Jones is your last name,” she said. “What is your first name?”
He snored a bit and jerked himself awake.
“You’ll laugh at me,” he said.
“I won’t,” Kira said. “I promise. But I need you to tell me.”
There was silence as if Jones was truly considering his next words.
“My parents were strange,” he slurred. Kira had actually stopped working and was watching his face intently. “They named me Hiawatha. Hiawatha Jones. But everyone in school just called me Hi. They called me Hi.”
He stopped talking and Kira kept watching his face. Eyes closed. Mouth hanging open. A silver strand of drool from the corner of his lips to his chin. Jones began snoring.
“I know,” she said.
With zero emotion on her face, Kira looked back down at the ink and got to work, finally, in quiet.
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