Ink

By Bob Garick

An unwanted phone number scribbled in haste a few moments ago has come to life on Tracy’s palm. The numbers, written in ink, have begun a countdown, but a countdown to what? She desperately scans the city street for a clue but sees nothing. The countdown reaches zero, a scream echoes from across the street. Tracy knows she must do something, but what?

Tracy is a frustrated classically trained artist making ends meet as a graphic artist who removes the pounds and pockmarks from Crazy Eddie print ads. She stumbles into Quincy in the local coffee shop and when he rudely scribbles his phone number on her hand her life makes a sharp right turn into the bizarre. When those numbers begin a countdown, everything changes for her. Her life is indelibly changed as her new inky abilities plunge her into a well of intrigue. She discovers that ink on her skin leads her into an adventure that begins with a run in with Mr. Right and ends in a showdown with Mr. Big.

Told in first person, Tracy’s wit and irreverence permeate this story, giving it a voice all its own. Whether she predicts how many mass murderers are currently sitting around her on the bus, knowing that the girl braiding her hair in jail is ranked somewhere on the Most Wanted list, or forgetting whether homeless people prefer to be referred to as outdoorsmen or campers, Tracy’s personality in the narrative brings a new dimension to the story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bob Garick
• Release date: Mar 1, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370056507

Bob Garick

A formerly funny English teacher turned techie. Bob has two daughters in college and one still at home in Oviedo, Florida where he spends his time with his wife and beagle, Charley.

Book preview

Prologue

If you had asked me three days ago where I would be tonight, I would have guessed that it involved ice cream, a chick flick, a threadbare bathrobe, and slippers. Being locked in the back of a semi truck driven by a couple of bald-headed bad thugs, nursing a new tattoo, and sporting Sharpie art on both arms wouldn’t have even made the list. Besides, in what Bizarro World would that have even been one of the choices on any list?

It hasn’t really been a great couple of days. But, now that I’ve lived through them – at least so far – I can speak with authority on a few key points that I was not aware of four days ago.  

Bald is not beautiful.

Tattoos hurt.  

Sharpies stink.  

Some men are just not worth it.

But I’m a little ahead of myself. Allow me to elaborate…

Normally this is where the story starts, as a new author I realize that one can’t just go jumping into the plot without a little backstory. I think to better understand things, you need to know a little about me.

Who else am I going to talk about? You?

Please.

First of all, adventure is so not my thing.  I'm not really an out there sort of girl. I tend to watch life from a safe distance and make snide little remarks where no one else can hear them. I do not spend my time around crime or criminals or tattoos.  BTW, you cannot spell tattoo without ewww.

I'm actually a very normal girl. Yes, girl. Not woman. Woman is for the older folks, like thirty. I am old enough to drink and to live alone. The former – not so much, the latter – all the time. I’m sure, to you, I would seem a very boring girl.  Very – goes to work every morning.  Very – takes under an hour at lunch. Very – stays just a bit later than I have to in case Mr. Richard starts counting my bathroom breaks again. 

I don't stand out.  I don't attract attention.  I'm very Yes, I've completed the illustrations for the Crazy Eddie's Fall Clearance Bonanza, Mr. Richard.  On a not so interesting side note, I have met Crazy Eddie. He is such the mouth-breather.  Like seeing his sweaty body jumping around on his television commercials isn’t bad enough, but lately he’s been spending his marketing dollars in print. And when Crazy Eddie is in print, it is my responsibility to pretty him up.  It amazes me that no one notices that Eddie’s skin that is much less lunar and he’s about 40 pounds lighter when he appears in the Sunday paper?  One can only assume that Crazy Eddie's clientele aren’t that discriminating.  Or perhaps they're just so fixated on the cra-$avings they don't notice his transformation.  Either way, when Eddie's in print, the world sees him through Tracy-colored glasses.

What I am, when not body-sculpting the digital clay that is Eddie, is an Artist.  I am a classically trained visual artist.  At least as classically as my local community college could provide.  Originally, I wasn’t even interested in higher education but my units would not be a party to that. I felt that I didn’t need community college to express myself artistically. But the paternal unit was all like, I will not have my daughter out in this world without a degree.  Bellow.  Grumble.  Bluster.  Harrumph.  I know the guy means well, but he just has a difficult time getting some painful truths through that Harvard-educated cranium of his. Oh, please. He can’t understand why everyone is not a lawyer.  And I’m not talking about the cool kind of lawyer that cuts deals with henchmen in order to take down bigger fish in the Organization.  My paternal unit is more like the Have your team of associates call my team of associates and let’s really get cracking on that 300 page contract sort of lawyer. 

Groan. 

My maternal unit isn’t any better.  Where the paternal unit wants me in the family profession, she is more like, I'm a doctor and you… couldn’t handle it. Actually, I think she thinks I’m mildly retarded. Okay, not retarded, but at least Aspergers.  It is nothing that she has ever just come right out and said and it is nothing that she's done.  But when I announced that my big plans for my mandatory higher education would involve matriculating at the local community college, her mouth said, That's great, Honey, but those eyebrows were definitely saying, Good luck, Little Miss C+.  Perhaps I'm being too harsh.  What mother would think that about her only daughter?

So anyway, I'm an Artist.  I have been since the first grade.  I would have been an artist in kindergarten as well, but my kindergarten drill instructor, Ms. Who-Cares-What-Her-Name-Was, didn't believe in fostering creativity in children.  Her focus was much more geared toward order and discipline.  Two things that any kindergarten class excels in: order and discipline. We certainly were drowning in it.  Our desks were in rows. In the hall, our ranks were straight. When coloring, we were safely within the lines all using the appropriate colored crayon. Once, this color-blind boy had colored the sky a bright shade of violet, and Ms. I-Still-Don’t-Care-What-Her-Name-Was revoked his recess. When his parents complained, the boy had to redo the assignment with the aid of another student who was given the task of picking out the crayons for him. When the Annual Meadow Brooke Kindergarten Art Show rolled around that year, our class only had one submission. The only other artwork we had done in class were two maps of the United States and we had all colored them exactly the same. Therefore, our class’s only submission came from Becky Manningham's parents who brought in her explosion of painted pasted pasta who had entered it into the show themselves.  My parents weren't as involved in my early education. They were saving their influence until later in life.  Though, to be fair, if there had been some kindergarten contracts that needed reviewing, I bet the paternal unit would have been all over that. Well, he probably would have sent over a paralegal or two. The maternal unit?  Not likely.

One thing that the old community college did do for me was to train me how to use a computer.  Before I enrolled, I knew that I could draw. Crayons.  Markers.  Pencils.  Pens.  Colored pencils.  Charcoal.  Acrylic.  Watercolor. Gauche.  Chalk. I was pretty proficient with an Etch-A-Sketch, too.  However, when I used a mouse and was forced to stare into an outdated CRT computer monitor that bombarded my sensitive skin and problem T-Zone area with harmful radiation, then my talent resembled that of that denied kindergartner who didn't get her work in the show.  Don't get me wrong.  I was way better than anyone else in my clases, just like I’m way better than Lazy Dave and Creepy Deacon now, but I do not digitally do as well as I manually do.  And it is those skills that now allow me to beautify sweaty discount appliance storeowners and make huge call-outs filled with words like Insane, Wacky and – my personal favorite – Unhinged.  Sometimes I even get to make them look three-dimensional. 

Joy!

So why do I work to beautify the pockmarked and the portly?  Because my career as a visual artist has yet to gain any traction, I am currently employed by Mr. Richard at DNR Commodities – with a strong emphasis on the Oddity. The job is temporary at least and short-lived at best. I graduated from community college with a GPA a whole letter grade higher than what I achieved in high school.  I have moved to a city where actual art galleries exist.  And, I have a studio apartment, which is more apartment than studio.  I am definitely on my way to becoming an Artist.

Funny story. I actually looked for a studio apartment specifically because of the studio qualifier, but now – in retrospect – I realize that this was not a sound strategy.  Instead of an expansive work area with lots of natural light, I found that I had rented one tiny room with an attached bathroom. It should have been listed as a micro-partment.  Though it is rather convenient to sleep, cook, and shower all without that bothersome walking around.  One other thing that my apartment isn’t is apart. My apartment is actually the back half of another much larger and more spacious apartment. Not really apart when you have to get to your apartment by going through someone else’s apartment.  It’s kind of like experimental subletting.  A cutting-edge rental.  And to reach the front door of my dwelling, I can either make my way through my landlord – Leon’s – apartment or I can use the fire escape for my own private entrance.  Even without knowing anything about Leon, which one would you choose? I chose the fire escape too.  I try to limit my Leon exposure to just once a month when I hand him what I'm sure is most of his rent and, in return, he slips my mail under my door almost every day.  That would be the door with the new deadbolt that I had installed the day that I moved in. I considered it a housewarming gift to myself. I had decided against using the lock that Leon had installed.  I thought it was important to have all the keys to my front door.  There are some things in life you just have to be sure of. Knowing where all the keys to your front door are is right up at the top of that list.

Monday started like any other in a long string of Mondays. I readied myself for work and slipped down the fire escape and out onto the street.  The Oddity was only four short and two long blocks away. About ten minutes on a typical day. 

I enjoyed the sights and sounds of the city. The taste, touch and smell of the place left a lot to be desired. But one thing that made up for it was the coffee that I picked up on my way in to work every morning. My reward for being such a trooper and holding down a regular job as I waited for my art career to take off.

The Coffee Shoppe sat at the halfway point of my morning foot commute. I smiled, knowing that I would soon be holding a double half-caf, half-decaf with soy milk and a dash of hazelnut in my hand.  I could almost taste it.  I focused on that smell when I saw Milo, the homeless sentinel, standing guard just outside the Coffee Shoppe door. What made these people become homeless? What’s had to happen in a person’s life to drive them out onto the street? Personally, I thought it was ineffective long-term planning. That and lack of control over one’s life. That’s what kept me donating to my 401k.

G-good mornin', Miss, Milo stammered.  I hated stammering. It made you sound weak and scared at the same time. Neither was attractive.

I took a big breath before I got within scent of him. Mornin', Milo.  As I passed him, I slowly exhaled, timing it so I wouldn’t have to inhale until after I was inside the shop. My reward: the coffee aroma.  Milo smiled back with his bloodshot eyes and all three of his teeth.  I grimaced and reached for the door of my sanctuary still slowly exhaling.  But then, as I went to push open the door, some guy stood just on the other side of the glass trying to push the door out.  This Einstein was not only blocking the door, but he was actually trying to push a door out even though it clearly opened in. Technically, he was holding the door closed. I shot him a quick glare at him, then realized that I was almost out of breath.

On the verge of desperation, I lowered my shoulder to try to push the door through this interloper who was obviously too dense to get out of the way.  I stopped my exhale and drove my shoulder into the door. But as I pushed, the door dude looked up, finally surveying the situation, and saw me for the first time.  He cracked a winning smile as I tried to crack his face with the Coffee Shoppe door. I only had a few seconds of air left in my lungs.

It was then that my plan fell apart.  My 100 pounds of frantic female, fueled by my need to breathe was unable to overcome the 200-pounds of smiling stupidity on the other side of the door.  The door jarred against him and failed to open. The last of my breath rushed from my traitorous lungs and – at just that moment – Milo leaned into to me. His face and his hair and his breath filled my nose with his sickening sour street smell.  Are you alright, Miss? he hissed through his three teeth directly into my face.  I felt the mist of saliva from his mouth sprinkle my skin.  I gasped.  I gagged.  I felt consciousness slip away. 

Bleep.

One other important note. Everyone cusses. There are plently of other books you could be reading that have a lot of foul language. But not here. I don’t use it. I don’t believe in it. It’s so easy.  It's so base.  So lazy.  The English language has so much more to offer than a couple of scoopfuls of four-letter combinations.  I don't use those words in my vocabulary, but if one happens to slip out, which is about as often as I go line dancing, I bleep instead. My kids might read this one day and I don’t want them to think their mother was a sailor.

I get seasick very easily.

I fell to the ground and in a daze. I felt myself jostled around, hands touching me, voices talking over me. Germs everywhere! But my body was rebelling, refusing to let me control it. And as a result, I felt myself carried into the shop.  The outside humidity vanished as I was placed in one of the cafe chairs, the sounds and smell of the street a distant memory. Was I dead? Had I risen from my body and was about to survey the scene on my way to the big bright light? The only sensation that surrounded me was the rich aroma of coffee with a subtle finish of the fog that surrounded Milo. Is that what Heaven smelled like?  When I tried to open my eyes, they spun so I closed them again, putting out my hand to increase my personal space, giving me some much needed room.  Immediately I felt my equilibrium return.  I forced myself to take a slow breath and slowly opened my eyes.  I could tell immediately that Milo was gone.  The world shifted, wavered, and finally slid back level.  But whom do I see instead of Milo?  Who had saved me from my brief drop into the gag-filled world of homeless odor?

That door doofus. And he was sporting that winning smile that he seemed so fond of.

Jerk.

Were you holding your breath? he asked, signaling the barista with his unspilled coffee.

I unpacked my adjectives. You bleeping bleep!  Why the bleep would you bleeping bleep in the middle of the bleeping bleep? I've seen some bleeping bleeps in my day, but I'm usually looking at a bleep.  I hate line-dancing.

And you know what this guy did for a rebuttal?  He smiled.  He actually bleeping smiled. It seemed he was ready for another onslaught. As I said before, I am not so outspoken, but this was an exceptional circumstance. And, with the goofy look on his face, he was asking for it. I inhaled mightily in an attempt to break my single-breath-bleeping record.  But before I could begin, the doofus grabbed my left hand, turned my palm up, and wrote across it with a pen that appeared in his hand as if by magic.

You're cute, he told me as he finished writing and then reached above me, grabbing something.  Call me.  He placed a latte on the table in front of me.  I was only momentarily stunned but before I could muster another verbal volley, he was out the door, slipping a dollar to Milo on his way out. Obviously he had figured out the very complicated door.

I was in shock.

No way. 

I looked at my palm. 

No way. A phone number was written across my palm in neat, quick lettering.

555-0009. 

No bleeping way.  I reached for the pity coffee that he had left on the table to throw at the door but then I caught a whiff of hazelnut.  I cautiously, deliberately smelled the brew.  I paused. Then skeptically tasted it.

Double, half-caf, half-decaf, soy milk with a dash of hazelnut. 

Bleep.

I was so not going to call him. 

I was not the kind of girl who calls guys.

Any guys.

They’d be passing out the cold weather gear in Hades before this girl called a guy.  Especially a guy who shoved me well outside my comfort zone.  Breathing all that Milo.  Making a scene in the Coffee Shoppe.  Like I could ever go back in there after today.  I crept out of the Coffee Shoppe and I stewed over my embarrassment as I trudged the rest of the way to the Oddity.

I lifted my coffee for another sip and saw the ink across my palm.  Moxie was one thing.  Marking a complete stranger: unacceptable.  There was no way that I would call him.  Even though his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled.  

I pulled out my cell phone, my anger rising again. 

I was not going to call him.

I texted him.

Jrk  

That about covered it.

What took you so long? was the immediate response.  He must have a phone with a full keyboard. Mr. Punctuation.

Ugh!  Now I was furious.  I reopened my phone and cleared his response.  I even went as far as removing my initial Jrk message so I’d have no record of the interaction.  I vowed to wash my hand as soon as I arrived at work. 

This was not the way to start the work week.   

I walked into work and wove my way to my desk to drop off my bag. Then it was an abrupt about face and I was off to the bathroom for a quick hand wash when Creepy Deacon rolled into the aisle blocking my way.

Morning, Tracy.  He grinned, his brown teeth dark in his mouth.  What did he do, chew poo?  I shuttered.

Deacon.  I tried to skirt around him.  He rolled to intercept.

Richard's looking for you. 

I rolled my eyes.  I have to use the bathroom, Deacon.  I'm sure it can wait a moment.

Tracy? rumbled the basso voice of Dane Newton Richard.

You told him I was here? I accused.

He shrugged and rolled back into his hole.

Can I see you in my office, Tracy? Richard asked.

Tool, I hissed at Deacon and turned to Richard's office, the writing on my hand temporarily forgotten.

I walked into Richard’s office but before I could even sit in one of his not-so-comfortable chairs, His Baldness asked me to close the door.

Not good. 

When your boss calls you into his office, warning bells should start to jangle. If he doesn’t give you the chance to boot up your computer, then the jangle should be claxons.  If he asks you to close the door, then you probably should have called in sick that day.  There is only one thing worse. If he calls you into his office and closes the door himself, then you're fired.  If he asks you to do it, then he still thinks of you as his employee and is still comfortable asking you to do things.  But if he does it himself, then you’re already terminated.  You account is locked.  Your emails are cut off.  Payroll has already been notified.  There's even an office gremlin out there deactivating your keycard because he couldn’t do that before you walked into the office that morning.  The only remaining formality is the informing the now-former employee phase of the interaction.

Believe it or not, there is a something worse.  That is when the boss fires you at the end of the day so he can get one final day of productivity out of you before he returns you to the wild.  Normally, when one is terminated, one should quietly collect one’s things in the box provided and graciously make one’s way out of the office, bidding one’s coworkers a fond farewell, exchanging email addresses where appropriate.  But if you're canned at the end of the day so you can finish up some project, then you are well within your rights to throw the equivalent of a professional temper tantrum.  You can shout.  You can knock things off desks, starting with the desk of the opportunistic lowlife who thought that one more day of work would outweigh the potential scene you might cause.  If it happens to you, you are well within your rights to tell each and every employee how you were fired and what a scum-sucking gas bag of an employer that they all share.  An excellent morale killer.  If the company is resourceful and the terminator anticipated your reactions, security will be there to usher you out of the building before you can shatter the resolve of the remaining drones. But if not, try to take as many of them with you as you can. It may not be that day or the day after, but you can still plant the seed. The damage you inflict, if cultivated correctly, can clear out a department faster than birthday cake in the break room.

Oh, and one other bit of advice. If you Scene It, and they have to walk your butt to the door, your personal items will be sent to you. So be sure to snag your purse before you start your tantrum and lively walk of shame. 

So I closed the door and tried not to panic.  Hopefully, he was just going to make some inappropriate sexual advance or lame innuendo.  I really needed this job.  If he overstepped, then at least I'd have a couple of weeks of paid vay-cay while HR got to the bottom of the matter. 

Tracy.  You've been with us for almost two years.

Uh oh. Someone looked at my hire date.

And in that time, you've done everything that's been asked of you.

I started to panic. Come on Boob comment! 

But times are tough...

I thrust out my chest a bit.

And I'm afraid we're going to have to cut back.

Me, and my boobs, settled back into the chair.  It was over. I kind of drifted off, looking over Richard's shoulder. I didn’t really have the heart to pay attention. My morning had started poorly and was only going to get worse.  As I looked around, I noticed that his office was wood-paneled and some sort of sporting trophies inhabited the dusty shelves.  I looked at Mr. Richard, immediately despising him more for having a first name for a last name. That and his dull, hairless scalp. His beady eyes. His wood paneling.

...so at the end of the week, I'll make my decision. 

I swung all my senses back around, feeling that I'd missed something important. 

I'm sorry it has to be this way.

Wait, what way does it have to be? I really should have been paying more attention.  I’m sorry, but what way is that, sir?"

He looked at me, aggravation crossing his skin-filled features.  That I have to choose which one of you I have to lay off next Monday.

So it's not me?  I perked up.  My day looked brighter.

Well, uh, it might be.  I'll be deciding at the end of the week.  After I've seen your portfolios.

That took a minute to sink in.  Portfolio.  Like in college. Shut up. Community college is real college.  It even has .edu in their website address. 

So I had to justify my existence to keep my job?  With my two years of hard work and all that extra time spent on projects I had to re-apply for my job?  I had to prove to Richard that he should keep me instead of Lazy Dave or Creepy Deacon?

Pishaw.  Those two were losers.  No sweat. 

I perked up and asked as sweetly as I could.  Is there anything else, Mr. Richard?

Now it was he who thought he might have missed something important.  Uh, no, Tracy.  That's all.

I got up, opened the door, and walked out, my ponytail flipping merrily.  It was like tail-wagging. 

It's an autonomic response.

So back at my desk, I fired up my computer when Creepy Deacon rolled back around the edge of his hole, his teeth catching the light in a glimmery brown sparkle.

Richard's a douche, he said, stringing his second sentence together.  That was pretty good for Deacon.

Deacon, I began.  I do not want to discuss it.  I never wanted to discuss it.  My only comfort in all this is knowing that I have a fifty-fifty chance of not seeing your face one week from today.

I should just quit, Deacon mumbled, trying to stir some put-upon employee outrage.  He can't treat us like this.  We've worked too hard to have to justify our existence. 

I don’t know how my previous comments were misconstrued as encouragement, but it seemed that Deacon was looking for input.  And, in this case, I made an exception – with both barrels.  "Deacon, what you see as a threat to your professional manliness, I see as a way for me to move closer to the window once your sorry backside is outside.  Even without this little contest, Richard should have fired you for the hours you spend each day on the Internet (this I emphasized with some air quotes) doing research on your little men. That’s not even counting the time you spend on eBay or Craigslist looking for more of your little