Against the Wall (7 page)

“Do you have to call it a slut walk?” Matthew asks.

“That's the name of the event,” Kelsea says. “I can't change it.”

“I'll make the posters for you,” Eric offers.

Kelsea looks at her dad with puppy-dog eyes.

Matthew is strong-willed, but she wins the battle—this time. “I'll do it on one condition,” he says, pointing at Eric. “I want him to follow the parade, just in case someone tries to mess with you.”

Eric's gaze meets mine for a brief second. Then he looks away. “No problem.”

Kelsea squeals and hugs Matthew, making him stumble backward a step. “You're the best!”

“Yeah, yeah,” he says. “Don't make me regret it.”

We leave Fine Ink and hit our other targets. Both businesses agree to participate. The manager at Wild Locks wants a toned-down poster because some of her clients are teenagers. The Q Room has no issue with a provocative poster, even a full nude.

Kelsea is so excited, she's practically doing cartwheels. She calls Fine Ink to relay the message to Eric. She's planning to make new flyers with a map of the route and the names of the participating businesses.

“How do you feel about him following us?” she asks me.

“I don't want him to get in any fights.”

She taps her bottom lip with two fingertips, contemplative. “You think he will? He looks more like a lover than a fighter.”

“Looks can be deceiving,” I mutter under my breath.

Eric's handsome face makes him appear nicer than he is. Even with his hard-edged maturity and prison tattoos, he's still got sort of a boy-next-door vibe. He's sensitive and artistic. He knows how to disarm people, but he also knows how to settle a score with violence. It's the reason he went to prison.

I can't fault him for doing what he was raised to do, and I've benefitted from his fighting instincts before. I fell hard for him after he beat up Jack. He was my brave rescuer, dangerous and off-limits.

“He's criminally hot,” she says.

“Yes,” I reply, curling my sweaty palms around the steering wheel.

I just hope history doesn't repeat itself.

I get the supplies I need at an arts and crafts store after work.

Markers would be fast and easy, not to mention cheap, but I go for paint. I need the colors to really pop, and paint is kind of my thing. Paint and ink. I choose some nice brushes and six poster boards in case I fuck up.

They keep the spray paint near the front of the store. I stop and stare at the cans on the way to the checkout stand. Junior used to do a smash and grab for me about once a month. The best shit is in a locked glass case, like gold. Looking at it fills me with sharp longing. I miss those nights of lurking in the shadows, cans clinking in my backpack. There's nothing finer than a fresh wall.

I spend a good chunk of change on the materials. I'm trying to save what little I have but art supplies are always worth the money.

When I arrive at Noah's, it's almost midnight. April's not waiting up for me. I go straight to the den and start working. Kelsea told me exactly what she wanted for each poster. I sketch a grid in pencil and make a rough outline of the shapes. The naked hitchhiker is the easiest image to replicate. I love the female body and I have a lot of experience with it. Sexy women are the most requested art subject in prison. I've drawn more pussy than Picasso.

You'd think that criminals would prefer hard-core porn, but I sold more of the softer stuff. Couples entwined, pretty nudes, women in the throes of ecstasy. Those moved ten times faster than the crude drawings.

Next I work on the punk rock girl poster for the salon. I tone down the sexuality by giving her a mesh top with a bikini underneath. The bikini triangles have an X to mimic the electrical tape in the original image.

The final poster is the most difficult of the three, maybe because I know it's for the tattoo shop and I want it to be the best. I struggle with my sketch of Rosie the Riveter. I realize that part of the problem is the theme. The slut walk, as I understand it, is about girls being free to fuck and have fun. I'm all for that cause, though I don't blame Matthew for objecting.

I experiment with ways to adjust Rosie's look to match the others. Her handkerchief reminds me of an old-school homegirl, so I go with that and add a little barrio flavor to the piece. I change her denim shirt to a navy tank top. Instead of rolling up her sleeve to go to work, she's displaying a tattoo on her arm.

Perfect.

When I'm finished with the pencil sketches, I start painting. I work late into the night, using the boldest colors in my palette. I know I'm going overboard. I'm adding more detail and spending more time than anyone would expect for a last-minute project. The posters will be on display for two days at the most.

But this is how I've always been with art. I get carried away. I start with a simple tag and end up painting a mural. Someone asks me for a quick titty sketch and I draw the most beautiful set of tits I can imagine, lovingly pushed together by pretty hands, because I have to. Even though the buyer will jerk off on it once and toss it in the trash.

I fall asleep at dawn and jolt awake a few hours later. April and Noah and Jenny are already gone. I eat a huge bowl of cereal, drink lukewarm coffee, and get right back to work on the posters. Markers are okay for the final touches. I use them like accents to outline and highlight the images.

When I'm finished, I study the results. I'm happy with the posters. I see some flaws here and there, but I think they're good. I hope Kelsea likes them.

I find a can of lacquer in the garage, so I give the posters a glossy protective sheen. Then I sandwich two of the extra poster boards together with duct tape to make a carrying sleeve. By this time I'm running behind.

I take a shower, get dressed, and hurry to the bus stop. Public transit is never a hundred percent reliable. Today my bus is thirty minutes off schedule, and it moves at a glacial pace. Every elderly person in the city needs to get on board. I end up sprinting the last two blocks to Fine Ink. Despite my best efforts, I'm five minutes late.

Matthew doesn't ask about my posters. I stash them behind Rose's desk and stammer an apology.

Please don't fire me.

“Get your bucket,” he says finally.

Heart racing, I fill a bucket with soap and water. Then I follow him out the back door. He gestures to the Dumpster, which exudes a pungent, unidentifiable odor. I've noticed this whenever I take out the trash.

“I've complained to the city that the Dumpster smells. They don't give a shit. It's empty right now, so clean it.”

This is a punishment. I want to explain that I was up all night making posters for his daughter, and the bus was late, but I get the feeling that he's not interested in my excuses. So I just say, “Yes, sir,” and get to work. I strip down to my undershirt and roll up my jeans before I climb inside the Dumpster.

Cleaning out the fish guts/dead rat smell is unpleasant, but it's nowhere near the worst experience of my life. It's not even the worst job I've ever done. Dumpster duty beats scrubbing crusty toilets in the pen.

Unfortunately, I seem to absorb the very stench I'm trying to eradicate. After I rinse out the Dumpster, leaving it squeaky-clean, I take off my undershirt and soak it in a bucket of fresh water. Then I wring it out and use it like a wet rag. I wipe down my face and torso, even my boots and jeans.

And wouldn't you know it. Matthew's daughter bursts through the back door and catches me shirtless in the back alley.

“Oh,” she says, appearing delighted rather than appalled. “Hello there.”

I toss my wet undershirt into the Dumpster. This is awkward. She's hot, and she's the boss's daughter, but I'd want to impress her regardless—because she's Meghan's friend. I'm like a kid in junior high, hoping two cute girls will talk about me. So I give her my good smile. She smirks back at me in a way that suggests she's heard every detail about my fling with Meghan, including my dick size.

That's fine with me. I've never had any worries on that front.

“Are you taking a bath in the Dumpster?” she asks.

“Your dad made me clean it out.”

“No way. What an asshole.”

I laugh, rubbing a hand over my damp face.

“Did you finish the posters?”

“Yes. They're at the front desk.”

She waits for me to grab my other shirt, which is hanging on a broom handle by the door. When I get closer her nose curls up.

“Do I stink?”

“A little,” she says kindly. “Stay right here.”

She disappears inside and returns with a can of disinfectant. I stand still while she sprays a chemical cloud over my boots and jeans. I'm not sure it helps, but I thank her anyway. We go inside together. Matthew, Gina, and Rose are in the front lobby. My posters are spread out on the coffee table.

“Who did these?” Matthew asks.

“I did.”

“With help?”

“No.”

“Holy shit,” Kelsea says. “They're amazing!”

Matthew studies my work with a critical eye while Kelsea bounces around the lobby, exclaiming over this detail or that.

Rose squeezes my arm and smiles. “Excellent job.”

“Thanks,” I say, clearing my throat.

“Did you stay up all night?” Gina asks.

I shrug, uncomfortable admitting it.

She points to the nude hitchhiker. “Why does she have rainbow sunglasses?”

“That one's for The Q Room,” I say. I have the vague idea that rainbows are some kind of symbol for gay pride.

“Nice,” she says, giving me a fist bump. “I'd pick her up.”

My chest swells at the praise. I wanted the poster to be sexy and in-your-face, but not sleazy. It's ironic that I learned the difference between porn and art in prison. Some of the most hard-core criminals are romantics at heart.

“See, Dad?” Kelsea says. “It's not offensive. It's a celebration of femininity.”

Matthew looks skeptical, as if he's not convinced that I'm celebrating femininity so much as painting my horny fantasies. But he doesn't dispute her. “This is good,” he says shortly, of the tattooed homegirl.

Kelsea squeals and hugs me. Then she takes multiple photos of each poster and one of me standing next to them. Rose hangs up the homegirl in the window. Kelsea leaves with the other two posters, her eyes gleaming with excitement.

The afternoon rush hits, followed by a Friday-night deluge. There are customers jam-packed in the lobby until closing time. I answer phones, accept credit card payments, and stock supplies. Rose gives out most of Kelsea's flyers. I get a lot of compliments on the poster, which makes me feel pretty great. Even the Dumpster smell fades away.

“You're a big hit on Instagram,” Rose says at the end of the night. She's behind the front desk, looking at her phone. “Thousands of likes and shares.”

I sit down next to her. “Really?”

“What does
ay papi
mean?”

“Who said that?”

She shows me the page. There's a photo of me with some flattering comments underneath.

“It means ‘oh daddy,' ” I say.

Rose giggles at the translation. I would stay and read all of the responses, but I'm too tired. It's my first free Friday night in three years. Hot girls on Instagram are into me. And I just want to go home and sleep.

Matthew locks the door after Gina leaves. He leans his elbows on the front desk and stares me down. “I checked the Dumpster. It's not clean enough.”

I straighten in my chair. “It's not?”

“You have to do it again.”

“Right now?”

“No time like the present.”

I get up, trying not to appear disgruntled. This is un-fucking-believable. Then he smirks and I realize he's joking.

Rose almost falls over laughing.

I'm more relieved than amused. My jeans still smell a little fishy, and I don't like dark, enclosed spaces.

“What have you done besides tattooing?” Matthew asks me.

“Art, you mean?”

He nods. “You can paint and draw, obviously. What else?”

“Spray paint.”

“Tagging?”

“It started as tagging. But some of it…I thought of it as art.”

“So you can do large-scale projects? Murals?”

“Yeah.”

“Which do you prefer?”

I would've said tattooing a week ago, but now I'm pumped up to paint again. I want to go all-city and hit every fresh wall from here to the border. I'm excited to fix up my Chevelle, too. Classic bodywork is another kind of art. “I like it all.”

“Come back to my office,” he says.

I say good night to Rose and grab my backpack. My pulse races as I follow him through the door and sit down across from him.

“I want you to get your body art certificate.”

“Okay,” I say, mentally doing a backflip. Fuck yeah!

“You're still a probationary employee, so don't get too excited. I'm not going to offer you a job as an artist until I have an opening. If you continue to work hard, I might let you learn the business and get your start.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Don't be late again.”

“I won't.”

“You have a cellphone?”

“No.”

He removes a phone from his drawer and hands it to me. “You can borrow this one for tomorrow, but don't make any personal calls on it. Go straight to SDSU, and consider this part of your security duties. You're on the clock. I'm not paying you to chat up the girls or stare at their asses. Is that clear?”

“Yes.”

“Instead of following them, I think you should stay in front, like a hundred feet ahead. Don't get involved in any altercations. Just call me if there's a problem.”

“Got it.”

“Noah told me you like to fight.”

I bristle at the charge, which doesn't sound like something Noah would say. My first instinct is to deny it, but I stay silent. Getting angry and defensive will only reinforce my violent-offender reputation, which isn't exactly undeserved.

“He also says you think with your dick.”

“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath. This meeting went downhill fast.

“Is that an unfair statement?”

“No,” I say, sullen.

“Touch my daughter and I'll make you sorry.”

My hands clench into automatic fists. I hate being threatened, and I'm not even interested in his daughter. Meghan is the one I can't resist. “You don't have to worry about that. I know which girls to stay away from.”

“Do you?”

I nod curtly, resenting this whole conversation. I wasn't raised to be weak. Taking chances is part of my nature. But I'm trying to find the balance between standing strong and being too aggressive. I have to stay in control.

It's like art. You self-edit.

“Are we done?” I ask.

Matthew studies me for a minute, seeming perturbed. “We're done.”