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smackenzieI spend my unoccupied free chunk of time that afternoon driving around town, trying to think of places Kay might have gone, and then going into them myself to see if he's been there. I don't have any luck, but if Alene was right and he's been missing a week, that can be a long time to remember one customer out of many, especially when the one customer looks like so many other college-age kids, and is pretty quiet and unassuming to boot.
What can I tell people about him, to make them remember? He's about average height, skinny in a slightly underfed kind of way, he has medium-brown hair that could stand to be cut, he's quiet in both the "doesn't say much" way and the "doesn't speak very loudly" way, and he's considerate and quiet and likes cats and puts sugar in his orange juice and has a little bit of magic that he probably won't tell strangers about.
And at least two of his friends are worried enough that they came to Suzume Tattoos to practically yell at me for not knowing he was missing.
I look up animal shelters on a whim, and since there's one on the edge of town on a bus line, I drive out there to see if Kay stopped by to play with the cats or something. It seems like a long shot, and when no one working in the place remembers a random nineteen-year-old coming in to hang out with the animals but with no intention of adopting one, I think it's a waste of time.
But then a girl comes running after me as I'm about to leave, telling me that almost a week ago, a guy came in and talked to one of volunteers about maybe doing some grunt work, feeding the animals, cleaning up around the place, whatever.
"Gilda said she couldn't pay him," the girl continues, "and he said that was ok, he'd volunteer. She left a note in case she wasn't here when he came back, just so we'd know she'd talked to him, but I totally forgot about it. I don't know if that's your friend, but it could be."
"He didn't leave his name, did he?" I ask.
"No." She hands me the piece of paper she's holding, which seems to be the note that Gilda wrote. It doesn't say much, only that a college-age boy came to the shelter and talked to her about volunteering but didn't make any commitments - "didn't (couldn't?) commit" is how she put it - but if he should show up again, let the record show someone did talk to him and he did get some good information about being a volunteer.
"He didn't leave any contact information," the girl says, almost apologetically. "I don't know why Gilda didn't ask. Usually she's really good about that kind of thing, so we can follow up."
"If he does come back, will you call me?" I dig a pencil out of my purse, slap Gilda's note against the wall, and scribble "If he returns, please call Sparrow Duchesne", with the studio's phone number, my home phone, and my cell. I use my cell phone so infrequently I sometimes forget to charge it and it dies. I'll turn it off and forget to turn it back on. But in this case I think I can remember to keep it on and charged, and the more ways people have to get ahold of me, the better I'm going to feel.
The girl takes the note back, promises to call me if Kay shows up again, and promises to tell the other people working at the shelter to keep an eye out. I thank her and head back to the studio.
"Any luck?" Kona asks me, when I get in.
"Nope," I say. "I don't know what I was expecting. Oh, I found an animal shelter that Kay might have gone to, to volunteer. It must have been right after he came to my house and met my cat."
"That's good. What did they say? Did he give them a phone number or anything?"
"He didn't even leave his name." I heave a sigh and flop down on my chair. "They weren't that helpful, but I don't think it was a complete waste of time. I left my number in case he comes back. How's it been here?"
"Good. Productive. I got a new client coming in aaaaany minute now." He glances pointedly at the door, and I note that his station is shiny and clean and everything that should be covered with plastic wrap is, and there's a row of empty little cups sitting on his rolling tray waiting to be filled with ink. The stencil is lying on Kona's chair, ready to be placed. All he needs is the client. "Maya came and left. She met with someone for about ten minutes and cleaned up the kitchen."
"She's not booked today. I should ask her to ask her boyfriend to look around campus."
"Can't hurt," Kona agrees, and then the bell over the door jingles and I know his client's here.
I don't have an appointment for another half-hour, which is enough time to make some tea, have a snack, and get myself and my station ready. This client is a retired fireman who already has a number of water-influenced tattoos, the design today being a flying fish on his calf. He has very helpfully worn shorts. For an older guy, he has nice legs.
He tells me about firefighting while I work on his calf, and I learn that he had to retire after he fell off his motorcycle and hurt his back.
"Couldn't carry my gear like I used to," he explains matter-of-factly. "Sucks getting old. My wife made me get rid of the bike, too. Sold it to my son." He chuckles. "She still doesn't know."
"I take it your son isn't local?"
"Lives in Houston. His girlfriend works for NASA. She's real sharp. Great girl. I like her a lot."
"What does your son do?"
"EMT. He drives the ambulance. After I had to retire, he said to me, 'Dad, you could be an EMT. Still get to save people.' So I looked into it. Six weeks into the training, now."
"Yeah? That's pretty cool. How do they feel about having a retired firefighter in the ambulance?"
"Someone has to point out the fire extinguisher every day I'm there." He chuckles again. "I like it. Gotta do something with myself. Working keeps me young. Bunch of kids in the program wanna go on to something else after, but I don't."
"It doesn't bother your back?"
"Nah. I don't gotta carry so much so far. I got a partner to help lift patients. Doc gave me exercises. My wife looks after me, too. Wouldn't have gotten in the training program if they didn't think I could do it."
"I guess not."
By the time I'm finished with his new ink, he's told me about the other EMTs in the program - "Kids, all of 'em" - his wife, his son, and his three dogs. He admires his fresh tattoo and asks if I do feet, because he was thinking about getting a pig on each one.
"Firefighter buddy of mine wants to go sailing for a week," he says. "Me and my wife, him and his wife. Just sailing around, fishing. Now, I can swim, but being on a boat for a week? Gotta have some insurance."
"And pigs can swim," I finish for him. "You'll look like an old sailor."
He laughs. "Ain't nobody ever gonna confuse me for a sailor. Even though all of my ink got something to do with water. Can't stop now."
"You want to make an appointment for me to do your feet, you can. I'd suggest one at a time, though."
So we discuss foot tattoos and what he wants the pigs to look like, and he makes an appointment to get one of his feet tattooed. It's been a while since I did a foot. I'm looking forward to it.
words: 1278
total words: 22,321
What can I tell people about him, to make them remember? He's about average height, skinny in a slightly underfed kind of way, he has medium-brown hair that could stand to be cut, he's quiet in both the "doesn't say much" way and the "doesn't speak very loudly" way, and he's considerate and quiet and likes cats and puts sugar in his orange juice and has a little bit of magic that he probably won't tell strangers about.
And at least two of his friends are worried enough that they came to Suzume Tattoos to practically yell at me for not knowing he was missing.
I look up animal shelters on a whim, and since there's one on the edge of town on a bus line, I drive out there to see if Kay stopped by to play with the cats or something. It seems like a long shot, and when no one working in the place remembers a random nineteen-year-old coming in to hang out with the animals but with no intention of adopting one, I think it's a waste of time.
But then a girl comes running after me as I'm about to leave, telling me that almost a week ago, a guy came in and talked to one of volunteers about maybe doing some grunt work, feeding the animals, cleaning up around the place, whatever.
"Gilda said she couldn't pay him," the girl continues, "and he said that was ok, he'd volunteer. She left a note in case she wasn't here when he came back, just so we'd know she'd talked to him, but I totally forgot about it. I don't know if that's your friend, but it could be."
"He didn't leave his name, did he?" I ask.
"No." She hands me the piece of paper she's holding, which seems to be the note that Gilda wrote. It doesn't say much, only that a college-age boy came to the shelter and talked to her about volunteering but didn't make any commitments - "didn't (couldn't?) commit" is how she put it - but if he should show up again, let the record show someone did talk to him and he did get some good information about being a volunteer.
"He didn't leave any contact information," the girl says, almost apologetically. "I don't know why Gilda didn't ask. Usually she's really good about that kind of thing, so we can follow up."
"If he does come back, will you call me?" I dig a pencil out of my purse, slap Gilda's note against the wall, and scribble "If he returns, please call Sparrow Duchesne", with the studio's phone number, my home phone, and my cell. I use my cell phone so infrequently I sometimes forget to charge it and it dies. I'll turn it off and forget to turn it back on. But in this case I think I can remember to keep it on and charged, and the more ways people have to get ahold of me, the better I'm going to feel.
The girl takes the note back, promises to call me if Kay shows up again, and promises to tell the other people working at the shelter to keep an eye out. I thank her and head back to the studio.
"Any luck?" Kona asks me, when I get in.
"Nope," I say. "I don't know what I was expecting. Oh, I found an animal shelter that Kay might have gone to, to volunteer. It must have been right after he came to my house and met my cat."
"That's good. What did they say? Did he give them a phone number or anything?"
"He didn't even leave his name." I heave a sigh and flop down on my chair. "They weren't that helpful, but I don't think it was a complete waste of time. I left my number in case he comes back. How's it been here?"
"Good. Productive. I got a new client coming in aaaaany minute now." He glances pointedly at the door, and I note that his station is shiny and clean and everything that should be covered with plastic wrap is, and there's a row of empty little cups sitting on his rolling tray waiting to be filled with ink. The stencil is lying on Kona's chair, ready to be placed. All he needs is the client. "Maya came and left. She met with someone for about ten minutes and cleaned up the kitchen."
"She's not booked today. I should ask her to ask her boyfriend to look around campus."
"Can't hurt," Kona agrees, and then the bell over the door jingles and I know his client's here.
I don't have an appointment for another half-hour, which is enough time to make some tea, have a snack, and get myself and my station ready. This client is a retired fireman who already has a number of water-influenced tattoos, the design today being a flying fish on his calf. He has very helpfully worn shorts. For an older guy, he has nice legs.
He tells me about firefighting while I work on his calf, and I learn that he had to retire after he fell off his motorcycle and hurt his back.
"Couldn't carry my gear like I used to," he explains matter-of-factly. "Sucks getting old. My wife made me get rid of the bike, too. Sold it to my son." He chuckles. "She still doesn't know."
"I take it your son isn't local?"
"Lives in Houston. His girlfriend works for NASA. She's real sharp. Great girl. I like her a lot."
"What does your son do?"
"EMT. He drives the ambulance. After I had to retire, he said to me, 'Dad, you could be an EMT. Still get to save people.' So I looked into it. Six weeks into the training, now."
"Yeah? That's pretty cool. How do they feel about having a retired firefighter in the ambulance?"
"Someone has to point out the fire extinguisher every day I'm there." He chuckles again. "I like it. Gotta do something with myself. Working keeps me young. Bunch of kids in the program wanna go on to something else after, but I don't."
"It doesn't bother your back?"
"Nah. I don't gotta carry so much so far. I got a partner to help lift patients. Doc gave me exercises. My wife looks after me, too. Wouldn't have gotten in the training program if they didn't think I could do it."
"I guess not."
By the time I'm finished with his new ink, he's told me about the other EMTs in the program - "Kids, all of 'em" - his wife, his son, and his three dogs. He admires his fresh tattoo and asks if I do feet, because he was thinking about getting a pig on each one.
"Firefighter buddy of mine wants to go sailing for a week," he says. "Me and my wife, him and his wife. Just sailing around, fishing. Now, I can swim, but being on a boat for a week? Gotta have some insurance."
"And pigs can swim," I finish for him. "You'll look like an old sailor."
He laughs. "Ain't nobody ever gonna confuse me for a sailor. Even though all of my ink got something to do with water. Can't stop now."
"You want to make an appointment for me to do your feet, you can. I'd suggest one at a time, though."
So we discuss foot tattoos and what he wants the pigs to look like, and he makes an appointment to get one of his feet tattooed. It's been a while since I did a foot. I'm looking forward to it.
words: 1278
total words: 22,321
