Against the Wall (3 page)

Fine Ink is in the university area, about ten miles north of Chula Vista.

April offers to give me a ride during her lunch break, but I decline. She only has an hour, and San Diego traffic can be a bitch. I'd rather take the bus and maintain my independence. I'm not used to counting on other people. Alliances are necessary in certain situations, but it's better to stay out of debt and handle your own business.

I can't hide behind Junior or CVL anymore. I'm on my own now, and I'm not going back to prison—ever. My dad died in San Quentin. My brother overdosed at Donovan State. I can't pretend that I've made better decisions than they did, but I won't follow in their footsteps. I already know where that path ends.

I take the bus to the transit center, where I study the map carefully. There's a free schedule in a clear dispenser. I put one in my pocket and board the Midtown bus. I'm almost an hour early for my interview, so I duck into a restroom to check my appearance. It's a hot day, and I'm sweating. I take off my shirt and blot my armpits with paper towels. Then I hold the damp fabric under the hand dryer.

Some
puto
walks in and does a double take at my bare chest. “What the fuck are you looking at?” I ask in Spanish.

He grunts a non-response and steps up to a urinal.

I put my shirt back on, cursing under my breath. I need to get a grip. The guy isn't a threat to me. This is a public place, not my personal territory. I'm so used to acting hard, I don't know how to be normal anymore.

I leave the restroom and spend the next twenty minutes in an air-conditioned grocery store. It reminds me of the place I met Meghan. We both used to work at Bonita Foods on Broadway. I was a stock boy and she was a bagger.

The dinner last night was awkward. Meghan's boyfriend is a fucking asshole. I guess I shouldn't have baited him, but screw it. Anyone with the balls to ask me who I killed shouldn't be surprised that I have the balls to answer.

Meghan looked uncomfortable—and hot. She's even more beautiful now than she was three years ago. More mature, with her perfect makeup and sophisticated clothes. Her hair is still kind of short, honey-blond, and chin-length. Her legs are long and sleek. I remember every second I spent between them.

I buy a bottled water and walk across the street to Fine Ink. It reminds me of an old barbershop, with one of those swirly poles out front. There's a multicolored brick façade and big, spotless windows. The décor is sort of industrial-looking. I see black leather benches and polished wood chairs as I venture inside. The floor is smooth concrete. One wall is covered with framed photographs of tattoos.

My gut clenches with a mixture of anxiety and admiration. This place is way too good for a lowlife like me.

“Can I help you?”

The receptionist is Asian and high-class hot. She's wearing a revealing tank top. She has long black hair, dark eyes, pretty brown skin. It's a struggle to keep my gaze from drifting south. “I'm Eric Hernandez. I have an interview at noon.”

She looks me up and down, smirking. Her cheeks are pierced with silver studs, but I don't see any tattoos. “Wait right here,” she says and disappears around the corner.

I sit on a bench in the reception area, taking my portfolio out of my backpack. Noah told me to bring it along just in case. I'm sweating again. My fingers leave damp marks on the battered manila folder. I want to examine the photographs on the wall, but I stay seated. There's a stack of magazines on a coffee table made of inlaid sea glass.

“You can come on back,” the receptionist says to me.

I jump to my feet, almost dropping my portfolio. She laughs at my overeager attitude. I get my stuff together and follow her to a back office. She gestures for me to go through the door. There's a guy inside with longish, silver-threaded hair, a goatee…and a robot leg. A prosthetic, I guess it's called. My eyes dart up from the skinny metal ankle and curved base.

“I'm Matthew Fine,” the guy says.

I step forward to shake his hand. “Eric Hernandez.”

“Take a seat,” he says, walking behind the desk. “Is that your portfolio?”

“Yeah.” I pass it to him and pull up a chair.

He flips through the pages quickly, making no comments. “How many tattoos have you done?”

“Hundreds.”

“Do you have photos?”

I shake my head. I assume he knows I've been in prison, doing amateur tats with makeshift equipment.

“I can't evaluate your full potential without seeing your work on skin.”

I unbutton my cuff and roll up my sleeve, revealing my best tat. It says chula vista in block lettering with a cityscape background. I'm proud of the piece's clean lines. For a jailhouse tattoo, it's pretty tight.

He frowns in disapproval. “You should never do your own tattoos.”

I let my cuff fall back down, deflated. Everyone in Chino thought I was the shit. This guy isn't impressed, but he's a legitimate artist with a successful tattoo business. I'm an ex-con nobody. It's a miracle I even got an interview at a place like this.

“Did you wear gloves in the joint?”

“I didn't have any, but I was tested when I got out. I'm clean.”

He closes my portfolio. “Professional tats are a totally different ballgame. The equipment we use here is very sophisticated. There are serious health and safety standards.”

I already know this. Prison tattoo guns are hard to work with. We make them out of any motor we can steal, pen ink, and random crap. It's like trying to draw a masterpiece with an unsharpened pencil stub. “I can learn.”

He leans back in his chair, contemplative. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-three.”

“High school graduate?”

“I got my GED in Chino. I took some college-level classes, too.”

“Do you speak Spanish?”

“Yes. I'm fluent.”

“I don't really need another tattoo artist right now,” Matthew says. “I have Gina and another guy named Tank who works part-time. But if you can mop floors and answer phones, I can use you.”

My spirits rise. “Really?”

“You'll have to double as a security guard. I can't be here every night and neither can Tank. Gina and Rose work in the evenings, and we're right at the edge of party central. Drunk guys wander in all the time.”

I understand. He doesn't want to leave his hot female employees unprotected.

“Are you willing to scrub toilets to get your foot in the door?”

“Fuck yeah,” I say without thinking. “I mean, yes, sir.”

His eyes narrow. “I want to make it clear that this isn't a charity. I don't care about helping you. I'm not trying to be nice. I'm only offering you a job because Noah vouched for you and you have a strong portfolio.”

“I understand.”

He makes a sound of skepticism. “If you work hard and get certified, I might try you as an artist. This neighborhood is mostly Hispanic and I wouldn't mind attracting more customers in that demographic.”

“Okay.” I don't mind getting hired because I'm Mexican. It's a lot better than
not
getting hired because I'm Mexican.

“You can't do gang tattoos, though. We don't do any racist or homophobic shit, either.”

“No problem.”

“You like girls?”

I suspect this is a trick question, but I nod an affirmative.

“We get a lot of college girls in here, so you'd better watch yourself. If you disrespect a female customer or even look at one of them funny, you're gone. If you hit on one of my employees, you're gone. If you show up late or act like an asshole, you're gone.”

I swallow hard. “Got it.”

“You do drugs?”

“No, sir.”

“Good. When can you start?”

“Anytime.”

“Fill out the forms with Rose and come back on Wednesday. You can work from two to ten. Impress me and I'll put you on the schedule.”

“Thank you for the opportunity,” I say. “You won't regret it.”

He hands me back my portfolio with a dismissive grunt. I do the paperwork with Rose, trying not to let my eyes wander down her top. It's difficult because she smiles at me and leans forward in invitation.

I leave the tattoo shop walking on air. As I ride the bus back to Chula Vista, my mind is full of plans. I'm going to learn as much as I can about the tattoo business. I'm going to impress the fuck out of Matthew Fine. I'm going to have a chance at a real future.

On impulse, I hop off the bus early and hit the library. I have to apply for a library card just to use the computer, and it's a long wait. College kids are studying everywhere. Fine Ink is only a few miles from SDSU, where Meghan goes to school. I wonder what it's like to attend a prestigious university. I've never even been to a community college. I dropped out of high school when I was sixteen.

I didn't have any trouble getting my GED in Chino, though. I'm not a dumbass like some criminals. I was born here and I learned English right off the bat. I can read and write better than most inmates. As a convicted felon, I'm not eligible for government programs like housing assistance or financial aid, but I could save money to pay my own way. I could continue my education. Get an art degree.

I glance around the library guiltily, as if someone might guess my thoughts and rat me out for overstepping my place. Guys like me don't become college students. We beat up college students.

When it's my turn, I log on to the Internet and do some research. In order to be a legitimate tattoo artist, I need to take a health class and get a body art practitioner's certificate. It seems pretty straightforward. There's a local beauty school that offers training sessions once a month. I jot down the name and address on scratch paper. Then I search the library catalogue for tattoo books and make a list of titles.

I log off, bringing my list with me. After wandering up and down the aisles, I find the right section. I check out a few books.

I'm feeling good as I head outside again. It feels good to be free. The halfway house was a lot nicer than prison, but it was still a regimented facility with strict rules. I couldn't go anywhere besides work. I had a temporary job picking up trash by the freeway.

Today, for the first day in almost three years, I can do anything I want.

There's no one breathing down my neck, no guards supervising my every move. No
cholos
telling me what to do or questioning my loyalty. No one treating me like a threat, or a punk, or a piece of meat.

Walking down the street in the afternoon sunshine is a privilege in itself. Chula Vista is warm and sunny all year round. It's a beautiful spring day. There are some fine-looking girls in my hometown. A trio of Latinas pass by me in shorts so short, I can't help but stare. They giggle at my reaction.

Damn.

I haven't been with anyone since Meghan. I didn't have the opportunity at the halfway house, and I never looked for a willing partner in the joint. Some straight guys did it on the down-low. I didn't judge them. You go crazy in a cramped cell. It's a nightmare of constant stress and crushing boredom. That's why I started doing tattoos. I needed an outlet, just like everyone else. In the early days, I wanted to die. I felt suffocated by the crowds and walls and bleakness. Without art, I probably would have killed myself.

I'm not the type to seek conflict to let off steam, like Junior. I'd already seen and done enough violence by the time I went in. I fought when I had to, but only in self-defense. I kept lifting weights and working out to stay in shape. You can't be soft in prison. You can't show any weakness.

I'm still locked up inside, on edge and defensive. Alert is my default setting. I don't know how to relax in a crowd anymore. It will be a challenge for me to dial down the aggressive attitude at work, but I have no choice.

If I want to be an artist, I can't act like a thug.

Staying calm isn't the only thing I'm worried about. I'm not sure I can control my reactions to the female clientele. I can't ignore hot college girls in skimpy clothes. When the goods are on display, I'm gonna look.

Maybe I can find a sweet little mama to take the edge off. I used to hang out at a convenience store on Fourth Street, chatting up the honeys who passed by. I don't know how that ever worked, and I can't imagine doing it now. I'm too old to holler at girls on the street. I'm also rusty as hell. I've been using my own hand for so long, I'd probably come at the sight of bare tits.

I push the idea aside and cut through a park by my old neighborhood. It's quieter than I remember, almost peaceful. Everyone is at work or indoors. As I approach the benches that used to be my selling territory, I notice a group of gang members smoking weed under a tree in the shade. They look young, like they should be in school. The brown bandannas wrapped around their wrists indicate that they belong to CVL, my former clique.

I'm struck by a memory of Junior sitting in the same spot with me, doing the same thing. We'd meet here at the park and go tagging in the wee hours of the morning. I didn't just spray-paint names and gang signs, either. I experimented with colors and designs. I made criminal art, with Junior as my lookout.

Head down, I continue across the street. Junior used to live in an apartment complex on the other side of the park. I'm sure I could find him if I asked around. He always has girls at his disposal. But he's also in deep with the gang, dealing drugs and running a crew. I can't get caught up in that shit again. I want to stay clean and turn my life around.

So I keep walking, straight ahead.

I need to get my letter back.

The thought of Eric finding it and reading it makes me squirm with embarrassment. I can't remember exactly what I wrote. Some mixture of sappy love and wannabe sexy. I imagined having an intimate relationship with him through steamy letters and illicit photographs.

What a dope.

I drive to Noah's house before work, hoping to sneak in while Eric's gone. He has an interview at Fine Ink today. I'm surprised that Noah's going out of his way to help Eric get a job. April must have worked some pregnancy magic on him. Her baby bump has turned my brother into mush.

I missed my chance to look for the letter last night because of Chip's volatile temper. After we got home, he massaged my stiff shoulders and tried to make up for his loss of control. But I knew what he wanted. Giving me a back rub is his silent request for a blowjob.

Ugh. I pretended to fall asleep.

It's not that I don't enjoy oral sex as part of foreplay or even as the main event. It's just that Chip doesn't seem interested in anything else. And he takes without giving.

Eric was a more generous partner. We were only together twice, but he cared about my pleasure, and he had no trouble finding the right spot. He was eager to satisfy me in every way, to learn my body and discover what I liked. When he touched me, I trembled.

Pushing those memories aside, I park in the driveway at Noah's house and unlock the front door. I'm greeted by silence, so I head straight to the den. Eric's not there. The bed is neatly made with a black backpack sitting on top of it. I'm tempted to search through his stuff, but I resist the urge. I came for my letter, which he rejected. He didn't want to read it then and he doesn't deserve to now.

The only question is…where did I
put
it?

I remember transferring the contents of my desk to a box in the closet. I start there, shoving the clothes aside. My body hums with a strange sort of tension. It takes me a minute to realize that it's anger. I'm mad at myself for leaving the letter behind. I'm mad at Eric for coming back from prison more handsome than ever. I'm mad at Chip for bruising my arm and wanting a blowjob. I'm mad at my parents for being so disappointed in my choices.

I'm mad at the world and at the way things worked out.

There are some old photos and jewelry in the box, but my letter isn't there. I suspect that April has moved my belongings and my frustration skyrockets. Leaving the closet in disarray, I check the nightstand. Eric's clothes are in the top drawer, along with a shaving kit and a stick of deodorant. I imagine removing the lid to smell it like a lovesick girl.

I grit my teeth and shove that drawer shut, moving on to the next one. There's a large manila envelope stuffed with letters that aren't mine. I peek inside anyway. I can't read the folded pages without removing them, but I recognize the slanted masculine scrawl. I've seen it in Eric's letters to Jenny.

Before I can snoop further, someone walks in the front door.

“Hello?”

It's Eric. I toss the envelope back into the drawer and shut it quickly, retreating in panic. He appears in the doorway before I have a chance to escape. I can't come up with an excuse to be in here, so I just stare at him, my heart racing. He's wearing the same shirt as yesterday with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His boots are work-worn, his jaw smooth. Freshly shaved. There's no hint of softness in his face or body. He's all sharp edges.

He's quieter than I remember, more self-possessed. There's a new stillness in him, as if he's braced for trouble. “You don't have to clear out your stuff on my account. I told April not to bother you.”

I cross my arms over my chest to hide my trembling hands. Then I glance into the closet, which is full of the quirky thrift shop clothes I used to wear BC. Before Chip. “I wanted to pick up a few things.”

Eric stands at the threshold, studying me. He looks hot. Not just good-looking hot, but sweaty hot, as if he's been walking in the sun for miles. He probably wants me to leave so he can freshen up. I imagine him stripping off his shirt and my brain short-circuits. He's got more tattoos now. Harder muscles, broader shoulders.

I clear my throat, flushing. “I'm sorry about Chip.”

Eric shrugs. “It's okay.”

“No, it's not. He was rude.”

“Does he know about…?” He trails off, making a vague gesture between us.

“He knows now.”

His gaze searches mine, brow furrowed as if he's wondering how many details I shared. He makes no attempt to apologize for the things he said when I visited him in jail. Maybe he doesn't remember that conversation—or care.

“I heard Noah set you up with an interview at Fine Ink.”

“Yeah, he did.”

Matthew Fine is my best friend's dad. He met Noah through me. “How'd it go?”

“Pretty good. I start tomorrow.”

“You move fast.”

“Not always.”

I'm not sure what he means by that. He moved pretty fast with me. Then again, I threw myself at him.

“I need a bag for my stuff,” I say, brushing by him. April keeps trash bags in the kitchen. I grab one and return to the den. Eric makes himself scarce while I start tossing vintage tees and secondhand dresses into the large plastic bag.

When I'm done, I tiptoe to the desk in the corner. It has a hidden drawer that I haven't thought about in ages. My fingers search the underside of the desk for the release mechanism. It pops open and sure enough, there's a pale blue envelope inside, next to a cross on a thin silver chain. Eric left it for me the day he got arrested. He seemed to know he wasn't coming back from that fight.

I shove the necklace into my pocket and hide the letter in the clothes, heart racing. Then I pick up the trash bag and drag it out. Eric is in the living room, drinking a soda. He opens the front door because my hands are full.

“I'll carry that for you,” he says.

“No, I've got it.”

I try to sidestep him, but I'm all out of sorts and clumsy. I stumble over a potted plant by the entryway. He grabs my arm to save me from falling on my ass. Unfortunately, it's the tender arm. I wince as he steadies me.

“Are you okay?”

“I'm fine.”

His hand slides to my elbow. It's a man's hand, strong and dark against my pale skin. The fingerprint bruises are visible on my upper arm, just under the edge of my shirtsleeve. He pushes up the fabric, frowning. “What happened to you?”

“Nothing.”

“Chip did this?”

“I bruise easily,” I say.

The last thing I want is Eric going after Chip. The two of them hated each other on sight. I don't need any more grief from Chip, and Eric is supposed to stay out of trouble. One slip and he'll be back in prison.

He releases my arm, which tingles from his touch. Then his eyes travel down my body, as if searching for more injuries. I'm wearing a thin tunic blouse with cutoff denim shorts and sandals. His gaze lingers on my bare legs. We both notice the silver chain at the same time. It must have slipped from my pocket. Now it's lying on the carpet, glittering in the afternoon haze like a beacon of shame. He bends down to retrieve it.

“That's yours.”

“I know,” he says flatly.

I want to tell him that the item means nothing to me, but I'm not the best liar. My mouth goes dry and I don't trust my voice. He puts the cross in his pocket, straightening. I can't believe I kept it. I couldn't bring myself to fling the necklace off the end of the pier after he went away. Instead I crushed it into my fist and wept.

Moving past him, I continue out the door. He follows me to my car and helps me put the bag in my trunk. I stand by the curb, self-conscious. I can smell freshly cut grass and warm dirt. Bees buzz in the background, swarming high in the trees. My face is hot, heart racing. I feel alive in the most uncomfortable way, like I'm electric. It's as if I've been reanimated or woken up from a coma. I'm not ready for this much stimulation.

“You look good,” he says.

“So do you,” I reply, mildly resentful of this fact. He doesn't look good for someone who's been in prison for three years, either. He looks good, period. He looks hard and healthy and strong. He looks like he hasn't seen a pretty girl in a long time and he wants to eat me up.

“I'd better go,” I say.

“Yeah. You'd better.”

Despite the warning in his tone, I don't move. The memory of our ill-fated affair, and the way he broke things off, hangs in the air between us.

I can't let him use me and toss me aside again just because he's eager for female attention. He's young and well built. He's always been handsome. He'll have no trouble finding a girl to hook up with. He needs a
single
girl, one who won't cause so many complications in his life. Noah would be furious if Eric touched me, and Chip would go ballistic.

Instead of leaving well enough alone, I lean forward to kiss him goodbye. My lips brush his cheek, lingering close to his mouth. It's a friendly kiss, even sisterly, but I'm taunting him. Daring him to cross the line with me. His jaw clenches in annoyance.

I want to elicit a reaction from him. I want to make him sorry. I have this revenge fantasy of getting him excited and pushing him away.

He stands still, his muscles tense. He doesn't throw me down on the grass and try to ravage me. I don't know whether to be disappointed or relieved by his lack of response, so I step back and say goodbye in a cool tone.

As if I'm not on fire for him. Heart aching.

I drive to work and head inside, donning my uniform in the changing area. The Hop is the oldest, most popular burger joint in Chula Vista, known for fast carhop service and waitresses on roller skates. The food is great, the throwback style is fun and the skirts are short. We draw big crowds. For the next six hours I skate my ass off, balancing heavy trays and a heavier smile.

I don't think about Eric. I can't.

I'm near the end of my shift when Noah's unmarked police car pulls into an empty space. He doesn't come here often, though he likes the burgers. He jogs every day and tries to eat healthy. I wonder if he's here to warn me away from Eric.

Ugh. Brothers.

I nod hello to Noah and finish taking the order of the customer ahead of him. I'm distracted and have to double-check the electronic ticket pad.

“How about a pirouette?” the man in the car says.

I look up from the screen. “What?”

He twirls his finger in the air. He's about fifty, with gray hair and bloodshot eyes. “It's a spin-around move.”

“I know what it is. Your total is $18.50.”

“Can I get a smile at least?”

I smile sweetly and imagine roller-skating over his face. He hands me a twenty. I tuck it into my apron and glide toward Noah's car, not concerned with giving Mr. Smiley fast service. “Does April have a craving for fried pickles?”

“No,” he says, rubbing his nose. He looks tired. “She already ate, and I'm working late. I thought I'd buy you dinner.”

I check my watch. “I'm off in five minutes.”

He tells me his order and I add mine to it. My stomach growls in anticipation. I skate away to the indoor cash register. Then I deliver food, drinks, and change to my last customers. Mr. Smiley asks if he can slip a dollar bill into my apron. I want to dump a drink in his lap, but I restrain myself.

After I clock out and take off my skates, I join Noah in his car.

“Was that guy giving you trouble?” Noah asks, unwrapping his burger.

I follow his gaze to the next car and shrug. “Nothing I can't handle.”

“I heard what he said.”

I don't bother to tell Noah that I've heard worse. The pirouette request was pretty creepy, but I get asked to smile all the time. One guy begged me to wag my tail and bark like a dog. What can I say? Men are pervs.

I eat my chicken strips and fries, glad to be done for the day. Before I finish, a CHP officer on a motorcycle pulls in behind Mr. Smiley and writes him a ticket. I give Noah a sidelong glance.

“Expired tags,” Noah says. “And fuck that asshole.”

There are certain advantages to having an overprotective cop for a brother. There are also plenty of disadvantages.

“I wanted to talk to you about Eric.”

Here we go.

“You left pretty early last night. I didn't expect you to bring Chip, either.”

I swirl a french fry in ketchup. My appetite evaporates.

“I'm sure it's awkward for you to see Eric at the house.”

“It's not awkward,” I lie. “I could care less.”

Noah crushes his burger wrapper into a ball. “Couldn't care less,” he corrects.

“Okay, professor,” I say, rolling my eyes.

“How are things going with Chip?”

I reach for my drink and take a fortifying sip. Noah has never said he doesn't like Chip, but I can tell. He doesn't like Eric, either. He's only letting Eric stay to make April happy. I don't want to admit that I'm having second thoughts about moving in with Chip. First of all, I have nowhere to go now that Eric lives in the den. Second, I can't bear the thought of being single and vulnerable again.

“I'm only asking because you haven't told Mom yet—”

“She'll freak out.”

“Not necessarily.”

“Right,” I scoff. “She ignored the fact that you and April were living together before you got married, but that doesn't mean she'll do the same for me. You're her golden boy and I'm a sinning harlot.”

He flinches at the harsh words. “Don't say that.”

“It's true.”

“No, it's not. It's a bullshit double standard.”

I'm surprised by his admission that our parents treat us differently. I thought he didn't notice the unfairness. We grew up in Cedar Glen, a very small town in central California. My father is an Episcopalian preacher, my mother a homemaker. Before SDSU, I attended a Christian university. My parents didn't want me to transfer. They never made a fuss about my brother forging his own path, but I was expected to follow theirs.