Page 2 of Ronen
Charlie:You okay? And, is that even a question? Of course I do.
I ignored her question asking if I was okay. My best friend didn’t need to know my bad dreams had been keeping me awake for weeks now. Charlie would mean well, but she would inadvertently let it slip to one of our cousins, or her dads–my uncles–or, worse yet, the grandma M’s. No one, least of all me, needed that.
As the baby of the family–by barely a day–I was already at a disadvantage with my family, even though I was a more than capable grown man.
Me:Be there in twenty.
The urge to hop on my classic Harley Roadster was strong, but not even I was reckless enough to get my bike out in the middle of January in northern Cali. We’d been slammed with a winter storm just a few days ago, and the ground was covered in a blanket of white and ice.
Throwing on some sweats, I took a minute to run my fingers over a couple of the rubber ducks aligning my dresser in a straight line. They were of various colors and some had on costumes, made to look like superheroes, or even other animals. I wasn’t even sure why I kept them, or who kept leaving them on my Jeep. Sure, it was a Jeep thing that had been around since before I was born, a way for other Jeep owners to acknowledge one another and to put a smile on someone’s face. The idea was to pass them along when you encountered another Jeep. Or to display them along your dashboard for others to see.
I did neither. Instead, I had them in a line on my dresser, where I could see them every day. They had started showing up about a year ago, and for a reason I couldn’t figure out, I kept them. The colorful pieces of rubber made me happy to look at and I liked starting my mornings seeing them.
Heading out to my garage, I started up my trusty Jeep Wrangler. Twenty minutes later, I was entering Charlie’s tattoo shop, the bell over the door announcing my arrival.
Eighties hair metal was blasting from the speakers, and Ezra, the other artist in the shop, nodded his head at me. Tossing out a “Sup?”, he went back to the client’s piece he was working on, not waiting for me to respond.
Making my way to the back to where Charlie’s workspace was, I pulled my shirt over my head before she had a chance to look up from her phone. When she did, she told me bluntly, “Ronen, you look like shit.”
Spreading myself on my stomach on her padded table, I flipped her off. She leaned over me, and I felt her eyes assessing my back, before she ran a finger down one side. “I’m gonna work on this part, adding more reds and purple.”
Nodding, I told her, “Do whatever. I just need to get out of my head for a little while.”
“Mmmm,” was her non-committal answer, as she snapped on a pair of clean gloves, cleaned the area, and got her gun and the ink ready. “Have you decided on the eye color yet?”
Rubbing my cheek against the padded table, I kept my body relaxed. “Not yet. It will probably be the last thing we do.”
The quiet hum of the tattoo gun instantly soothed me, and I felt myself start to relax for the first time since I had woken up. The first bite of the needle piercing my skin was like a healing balm to my soul. I let my mind drift to nothingness, as Charlie added color to the piece that took up the entirety of my back and some of my hip.
Because the design was so big, and the location of it, Charlie only worked on it a few hours at a time. The initial outline had taken a couple of hours in the beginning, and she had refusedto start the colored detailed work until I had healed. She usually told me when we were done, as I could keep going for longer than she deemed safe. But since she was the boss when it came to my tats, I didn’t argue with her. Much.
It took me a minute to realize the hum of the gun had stopped, and Charlie was cleaning and dressing my side. When she had finished, I sat up slowly, waiting as my head swam from being prone for so long, and lack of sleep.
She assessed me with a long look from her blue eyes, her lips pursed into a thin line of disapproval.
Shrugging into my shirt, I admonished, “Don’t give me that look. You look just like Grandma Mary when you do that. I’m fine. Just haven’t been sleeping well.”
“The bad dreams you mentioned?” She tucked a lock of reddish blonde hair behind one ear.
“It’s nothing,” I assured her, pulling out my wallet and handing her a handful of bills. “It will pass.”
The initial piece had long ago been paid for, but I still insisted on tipping her each time she worked on it. More so when I sprang a surprise appointment on her with no warning. Charlie took the wad of cash, snorted, then handed me half of it back.
“Ro, why the fuck do you even have that much cash on you? Venmo me like a normal person, for fuck’s sake.”
“It’s not my fault my dads droned it into my head to always have cash on me, is it?” Pushing the money she had tried to give me back into her hand, I gave her a look that said stop arguing and take it.
“Cash, yes. Looking like you robbed a bank, no.” She tucked the money into her pocket, tellingme, “And you don’t need to tip me every time. Even with the friends and family discount, I made bank on that piece already.”
I waited while she flipped off the lights and locked the front of the shop. I would walk her to her car, which I knew was parked at the back of the shop.
“What time is it?” I yawned, noticing lights on across the street as she locked the door.
“Around four,” she told me, stretching. “Uncle Quinn is awake.”
Our Uncle Quinn was the owner of The Sweet Spot Bakery and coffee shop, which was located directly across from Charlie’s shop.
“Mmmm, think he has anything baked yet?” I asked, as we headed through the shop towards the back door. “I’m kinda hungry.”
