Cats in the Cradle-(Jesse Fforde)

[Balthazar]

Balthazar surrendered the bulk of his jacket to the arm of the chair that was pointed out. His hand was empty only for the seconds it took to have it filled this time with the clipboard that held the forms he was all too familiar with. He had been handed enough of them that he barely read the questions before answering them.

Of course Balthazar’s name was needed on the top. What in the hell was he supposed to put there? His eyes flipped up just enough to see where the man that was still giving off some some serious vibes had went. **** it. His name would go there just like it was supposed to. No, he did not have any allergies. None that had anything to do with the process of getting more ink. No, he wasn’t likely to bleed to death before the work was done. No, he was not a drinker. Not anymore. The email line was left blank as well as his phone number.

All the wording below the standard questions had him shrugging as he settled into the still empty chair effectively claiming it. A brief glance at his bare shoulder where the work would go left him signing in acceptance of the terms listed above the signature line. All of this was done with his dominant left hand. He was one of those hard headed cases that survived all the attempts to get him to switch to the right hand in grade school. Now that the release was signed he opted to pass off the clipboard to the nearest flat surface he could find.. His eyes on the papers gave him time to notice what a streak of ink chaos his signature appeared to be.

“I know it’s not the most legible but it is as good as it gets.”

The Seattle native wasn’t in the mood to impress the man with the same last name with his penmanship- which was good when he gave a ****. But to sign a form just wasn’t inspiring enough. His boots lifted up from the hard wood and settled down over the bar below the seat that served as what he assumed were footrests. If not he was not going to sweat it out. He still had a case of the creeps going on and wasn’t exactly sure what to consider its true source. A gradual slow stretch of each leg outward spread his thighs comfortably apart. It was going to be some time before he would be getting back up so he figured now is good as time as any to get situated. His hand rubbed at the space of skin that would soon be sufficiently tender.

“I could take a nap in this.” His hands stretched out and gripped the armrests. He tried out the push forward movement that would generally have a chair reclining completely if the option was available. It did nothing but leave him where he was currently positioned. “Or not.”

He was disappointed the perk of catching some z’s wasn’t entirely available. Getting ink for him was as relaxing as getting his back scratched. That is if he wasn’t trying to ward off the bad vibes still trying to hang on while he sat there waiting for the guy to be ready to get down to business.

[Jesse Fforde]

The tattoo artist might not have even looked at the clipboard again if the customer had not referenced his signature. A guy so heavily tattooed couldn’t be allergic to ink and would, by now, realise that any tattoo artist worth his salt would not tattoo a drunk man. Shouldn’t, anyway. Alcohol thinned the blood and made the bleeding worse. For a tattoo artist who also happened to be a vampire who also happened to react rather chaotically to the scent of blood – it was best that there was as little of it as possible. At least, here, it was masked by the smell of ink.

The clipboard was collected and only a cursory glance was spared for the male who was, unsuccessfully, trying to get the parlour chair to go backwards. It could be done, but there were special levers. It was a complicated chair, rigged to be manoeuvred according to whatever the paying customers wanted and where said tattoo was to be located.

”I think you’re paying me for a tattoo, not for a couple of hours’ nap mister…” he murmured as his sharp gaze meandered over the answers to the questions, making sure they were all in good order, before snagging on the man’s name. It was good manners to know a customer’s name, wasn’t it? Jesse had to work on his good manners. They were somewhat lacking, which wasn’t a good thing in a business owner.

”Balthazar…” he started to smile, started to ask what had gone through his parents’ heads when they thought to give him such an antiquated name. What was its origin, anyway? Or was it a name the man had given to himself to match his eccentric fashion statement? But then his eyes continued to rove and it was the surname that stopped him in his tracks. ”…huh. What do you know?” he pondered out loud. The same last name. And this could not have been mentioned before? Curious. The clipboard was put aside, the thoughts churning like cogs in a well-oiled brain. Paranoid. Always paranoid. Still, he didn’t let it show.

”Could be brothers from another mother,” he said with a lopsided grin, pulling two gloves from the box of them, pulling one on and then the other, the elasticised plastic snapping into place. A jest he intended fully in jest. Fforde was not an unpopular name. He dismissed it as pure coincidence.

[Balthazar]

“Can't help it,man. These chairs make it tempting." The comment about brothers and different mothers hooked his attention. "Stranger things have been known to happen.”

He lifted his chin sharply in agreement with his own words while the gradual unease of any doubts gave way to the truth that filled him. Stanger than what? How about the time he finally owned up to the dare of jumping his bicycle across the massive fast moving creek that would risk him drowning before he ever succeeded. He said he could do it when everyone in the small gang of neighborhood kids said it was impossible. To this day Balthazar still couldn’t explain how at the very last moment, when he was pedaling furiously as he got closer to the ramp, that the frame of his bike snapped in half beneath him before he gained any air. What happened was a miracle and Hugh was a witness. He faced his fears and in turn lived to remember the lesson it delivered. The truth would set you free.

Chris had no reason to lie. Balthazar knew it all too well. He had been around that block before with Lunch Box.From experiences he discovered that the dying generally lose their motivation to continue on with deceit. It takes too much energy. The resentment and bitterness required alone is like a ton of bricks weighing on the soul that has lost its bartering power. Truth is like balm on those wounds that stayed open into the final moments. There was no question Christopher FForde was in his dying days. For whatever reason, despite the unnerving vibes he still was getting from the one he was about to permit to sink a needle into his warm hide, he was pretty sure what came out of Jesse Fforde’s mouth was more than a possibility. Clarifying it would wait for another time. A wise man doesn't disturb the one he is paying to inject permanent ink into his flesh.

“I didn’t notice since I arrived recently to the city but are there golf courses around here or is that not a thing?”

It was a relevant question for the ball diver. It was what he did and he did it well enough he was able to enough the perks of choosing where in the world he would sink his fins and face to do it. Everyone knew what a golf ball was but few knew what happened to them after they were sent into strategically placed ponds on the upscale courses. The gloved artist didn’t strike him as the golfing type but he had been wrong before.

[Jesse Fforde]

Stranger things definitely had happened, but the idea of another relative that Jesse had never heard of… well. It seemed uncanny. He’d already had one of those, and look how that had turned out? Uncle Tommy was dead. Christopher Fforde was dead. His mother was still alive somewhere, as far as he knew. She could have died from bad hooch by now and he wouldn’t know, wouldn’t care if she was buried beneath dust and rat droppings.

Jesse didn’t bother to tell this stranger that his father was dead and the likelihood of some lost brother from another mother was highly unlikely. In Jesse’s mind, his father was a pillar of goodness, a strong man, a reasonable man, someone he might once have looked up to, someone they might both have looked up to. He couldn’t imagine that he’d have a brother that he didn’t know about. He didn’t want to lose that, and so refused to think of the possibility.

”Nah man. Can’t say I’m into golf,” he said, pulling up a stool, rearranging the seat of it so that he was at the right height. He didn’t have the machine in his hands, but a fine-tipped pen.

”I’m just going to put in some guidelines,” he said. He liked being able to work directly on the skin. It was a kind of freedom, one that he enjoyed. And when the tattoo came out looking fresh and symmetrical, like a piece of art that should have taken hours but which would only take the tattoo artist half the time, well. It made him look more professional, like more of a genius. Truth was, it all had to do with the heightened senses, the better memory. He could work fast and neither his mind nor his muscles gave over to fatigue. ”Won’t take long, then we get to the good part,” he said with the vaguest of winks. The good part. The pain.

”I know we aren’t fans of assumptions, but you don’t strike me as the golfing type. What’s your story?” he asked. One question could have people talking for hours about themselves, and Jesse, as always, preferred to do the listening and not the speaking.

[Balthazar]

“I am full of surprises. A walking, talking pandora’s box.”

It was a fair statement considering that it never failed at the members only courses he preferred to work at. He was surrounded by those who had nothing better to do than assume based on his appearance what he was about. One look at him and the upper class would stand closer to their partners, keep a tight hold on their precious custom bags and find the first seat available so they could sit on their wallets as if he posed a threat to any and all. Every damn time. The whispers were hardly unnoticeable and more often than not typical. Who was he and why was he there?

“I am the guy to call when you lose your balls and don’t have the time to go find them.” Balthazar shrugged then looked up at the ceiling because maybe there was some glass up there too. “True story. Believe it or not golfing, or at least those that play poorly, keep me well paid.” He added while finding that there was nothing memorable in what he was looking at above him.

Part of him was disappointed. The glass floor in the front was pretty impressive. Why hold back on the ceiling? Obviously the guy had some change to spare from the looks of the place and the size of it. It was hardly a compact mall kiosk he had going on. He stole a glance at him and felt a bit uneasy for the effort. If a set of fangs or some slick move came he was going to rethink his current strategy. The creep factor was enough.

“You would be surprised how much people are willing to pay to get them back. No tie and jacket for me. Obviously I am far from the water cooler type.My suit I wear to the office is water proof, consists of a set of fins, and a tank” He smelled meat grilling and felt his gut shrink from lack of anything to keep it closing in on its own walls. Of course he indulged in a quick sniff to savor what would be a while before he could check out then he snorted. The scent of ink finally caught him.“So, what is your story? From coloring books to skin or what?” It sure couldn’t be a talent Christopher Fforde passed on to the tattoo artist- that is if his hunch was right. Chris could barely sign his name on a line and have it legible.

[Jesse Fforde]

Jesse was forced to pause and stare at the guy, as if he thought his leg was being pulled. People seriously got paid to retrieve golf balls? How did one even stumble into that kind of job? Why would one even want to keep it? Stumbling into it at a young age and doing it for a few years to save some money, sure. Did this guy not have any dreams or aspirations or would he forever be a ball retriever? All that Jesse offered was a sly arch of the brow, the laughter that he wanted to let loose kept on a tight leash.

This was exactly the kind of client Jesse liked. One that talked a lot. And while Balthazar talked, the pen flew across the skin – a special pen that was both permanent and not, removable with a special substance. It would withstand the alcohol that he would rub on the skin later to disinfect, but would remain while he worked, coming away slowly as the tattoo came together.

Of course Jesse should have expected that the question would be reciprocated. What was his story? He offered a shrug and, for a quarter to half a minute he didn’t reply. He continued to work, swiftly but with easy talent, and if it hadn’t been for the shrug one could have assumed that he hadn’t heard the question. He was merely formulating the response – the one that required the least amount of words.

”I enjoyed nothing but art, but art school wouldn’t take me. This was the next best thing. It stuck,” he said, finally leaning back and gesturing toward the back, and the door that led into a small room. That’s where the mirror was – away from any place where Jesse might inadvertently walk in front of it near the customers. They wouldn’t see his lack of a reflection.

”If you want to go and have a look, let me know whether that suits. I can change whatever,” he said, leaning back. His feet were hooked behind the bar at the bottom of the stool, his hands resting idly on his knees while he waited.

[Balthazar]

Balthazar checked out what was left on his shoulder when he reached the room he was directed to. He stood sideways while his head dipped in just the right angle so he could be sure the effect of shadow and line was there that would have the piece appearing even and proportioned as he gave the joint a reason to roll. It needed to be clean, neat even with movement. It proved to be what he expected and was looking for. A few more stretches of his arms sent both elbows back and up and down. If it appeared he was checking out more of his own body than the temporary ink on his shoulder he wasn’t. He had a thing for his ink. He didn’t take it lightly. Before it was forever a part of him he made sure he was fully invested in what he would be looking at for a long time.

“It works.” Standing there he commented loud enough to be heard without looking for the one who decorated his skin with the image he was taking in. He paused and leaned a little closer as if he spotted something at the last possible second, which he did. “Wait.” He shifted his feet then suddenly clicked his heels of his boots together as if coming to full attention. The only thing missing in the odd action was a firm handed salute. “Maybe the lower jaw could be a little more squared?”

Balthazar’s fingers scraped at the coarse hair on his chin giving it a little more thought while he finally looked at the artist while his feet carried him back. He noticed how the shop owner was positioned and something came to mind he didn’t expect. Something lost over the years in a life of events that made overheard conversations seem insignificant. Until now. Stroganoff, which he always hated and gagged over, came to mind as he continued to stare blankly at the physical trigger of the memory he could do without.

”When are you coming home?” Kita was in the kitchen with the scent of Hamburger Helper filling the air. It was a Wednesday. Stroganoff Wednesday. He was standing in the hallway with the worn leather baseball glove on his right hand. ”I hope she is worth it, Chris. Had I known it was this ******* easy for you to make a mess and not clean it up I would have never had him! It wasn’t me who wanted a kid. I don’t ******* care what you do but you come get him. I don’t have time for this.Chis! Do you hear me?! Don’t you ******* hang up on me!”

The words didn’t hurt. Not the first time or the second time with the memory coming back. It would have if he knew of something different. Something like what Hugh had with his mom. The kind of deal where there were baby and school pictures on the walls, some special book holding a lock of hair from a first haircut and an envelope of a tiny remnant of a tooth lost. None of that ever existed in Kita's house. He never had a blanket, a favorite stuffed animal or a fear of the dark. He never met any grandparents or had someone at school functions. Despite that he never felt insecure or afraid of the world outside his bedroom door. He knew he was alone from the start. No matter where he was.

“Other than that it is great.” He cleared his throat and moved back to the chair. “I am good with it if you are with that suggestion.”

[Jesse Fforde]

Lower jaw squared. Jesse could do that. Easy. He nodded and waited for Balthazar to reclaim his seat; everything was now set up and ready to go, the ink laid out in its little pots and a fresh sterilised needle attached to the machine. The needle he’d be using was for the outlines and, halfway through he’d change over to the one required for the shading.

”Okay, now you can get comfortable. The jaw will be fixed in progress,” he said. He was artist enough to not need a true and honest outline. The outline didn’t need to be exact. He could work around it. The outline was merely a guideline and if he was working on a regular who truly trusted him, he wouldn’t be using an outline at all. Given this was Balthazar’s first time, however, he figured the man would want some reassurance that what he was getting was good quality.

The tattoo would take an hour or two – more the latter, given Jesse’s propensity toward perfectionism. Glove snug on his fingers and comfortable in the stood that he had claimed, Jesse’s foot tapped the pedal on the floor to make sure the machine was in good working order. With not much more to say and no need to now ask whether Balthazar was ready, Jesse got to work as soon as the man was settled. The lamp was bright as it was focused at the shoulder, Jesse’s skin pallid where it, too, was illuminated. Unlike other necromancers, however, he did not look quite as dead or corpse-like. His complexion was pale, but not to the point of unhealthy. How he’d managed this, he wasn’t quite sure. But he wasn’t about to complain.

Needle pierced skin, and from here on, Jesse would hold his breath. Mixed with the ink the scent of the blood wasn’t quite as affective as usual – but Jesse wasn’t going to take any chances. There was no good in going rabid on his customers.

[Balthazar]

A needle was something that was known to make a person forget the decline of the state of the world around them or the way they were unraveling at an otherwise alarming rate from the ties that tethered them to reality. The effects it delivered could be powerful. For some it was the narcotic that waited in the cylinder walls to be pushed forward full of promise. It offered a nearly instantaneous shuttle to a chemically padded realm that held onto them a little longer each time they made the trip. For others it was to have something as permanent as the dark ink that was ready to color the exposed flesh beneath its point.

Balthazar was never one to gamble more than he could afford to lose. Life was never easy but he knew there was only one and he really had a desire to keep the reins on it as much as he could. So ink was his fix. He used it to colored his body and record the visual maps of where he had been and where he planned to go.

The consistent repetition of the needle danced over his skin as he sat still. His mind had been given enough time to override the case of creeps coming from the unusually cool hands that were covered with gloves. Was he Christopher’s kid or was it some coincidence? A side glance offered him a closer look at the face that resembled the man more than his own.

”And first place for sketching goes to Balthazar Fforde. Balthazar come on up.”

A single whistle pointed out that Hugh was in the third row from the back. A cough that no one is comfortable hearing echoed from same area. Balthazar nearly tripped over his own feet as he glanced back to acknowledge the only one who really mattered in the auditorium. Hugh had four months left but there he was. A blue mask covered the lower part of his immunosuppressed face while his pale spindly arms pumped up in the air. People they had seen for the last three years in the very school they were currently in didn’t recognize Lunch Box until he was pointed out. The few that did were asshats and said he must have been working out. Their words, their lack of compassion didn’t matter. Not then. Every moment counted. The lanky body that stood up and towered over the row in front of him reminded him there were no awards for the kind of talent and courage a dying kid possesses and it was a shame. Time was running out and there Balthazar was stepping onto the stage to get some meaningless award. Hugh wouldn't have missed it for the world.

“Ever been to Seattle?” It was the only thing he could think of that could ease the memory back where it was usually stored. “Have some talent there and great shops.”

[Jesse Fforde]

The scrutiny was felt rather than seen, though Jesse could of course see the turn of the other’s head out of the corner of his eye. It was greeted with a narrowing of the eyes, a simple twitch of a small muscle in the jaw. A subtle sigh was issued when conversation was sought – and here Jesse thought that they would be customer and client, able to work in silence.

”I have not,” he said, leaning back and using a tissue to wipe away the blood and ink, to clear the canvas before he could continue. The tattoo was coming along nicely; some of his finest work was going into this skin. But then, Jesse’s finest work went into everything. He would stand for nothing but perfection.

”I have only been across the border into New York. Not far. Only for a week,” he said. The memory was not a good one. Grey had found herself in a bad situation and Jesse, being Jesse, had followed her. He’d dropped everything, risked everything, and had gone to save her. To collect her. To bring her home. They’d slept in a car in a carpark to keep safe from the sun, they’d gone to a cabin to stay, away from Harper Rock, away from everyone else. There’d been arguments. There’d been love. It was but one of those cautionary tales, a glimpse of what life with Grey would be like. The Necromancer still did not know whether he had done the right thing, letting her go. He had not seen her since, nor heard from her. He was allowed nowhere near her.

”Though, why would I go somewhere where there’s already talent, and great shops? You think I could do with some teaching?” he asked with a smirk, wondering why the guy brought up Seattle all of a sudden. ”Is that where you’re from, then?” he asked. If the guy wanted conversation, well… maybe Jesse was just being stubborn by not interacting. His focus returned to the tattoo, the needle once more hitting skin. In a few minutes, he’d swap from the fine needle to the shading needle. The bulk of the tattoo would begin, the downward slope to completion.