Eerybody has been asking about the status of the second part of the story. But honestly, I debated even writing it.
She did say that Part One was a lovely opening to an experience that had left her mind reeling. As admittedly mine had been, too, ever since the taillights of her green Subaru faded south, leaving The City to feel that much more empty in her sudden absence.
My weiner was starting to feel a little peculiar about it all, too. Not sure about how hers was feeling. Things not meant to cling were starting to get sticky. Weird, but in a way not entirely unpleasant. Like going to the gym drunk.
But I still found myself hesitating.
And it didn’t really help literary matters that I have been stupid busy.
Between kicking tin, selling the art, and just the general hustle of it all, finding room to chase after the words has been a challenge. But for those keeping score at home: seven pieces of art sold, one upcoming interview/article has been scheduled, a major event is in the initial stages of planning, and the life of a pilot was saved. This time from a fire in the #1 engine—things are seldom boring for the “99 Gateway Gangsters.”
And when they are, that’s when I push myself to live loud. Like a temper tantrum. Because the deeply ingrained fear of the mundane triggers my motivation to just keep going. To make more color happen. Chase new words. Find that new adventure.
Because life is a hell of a lot more interesting when you say “yes” more than you say “no.” And I wasted too many fucking years saying no.
So that is how I ended up finding myself at the counter of an Old Town piercing shop, standing beside a beautiful woman whose hair I hadn’t smelled in years, trying to decide which hole in the head would best celebrate that particular moment in our story.
I just didn’t expect the celebration to be quite so… argumentative.
At first glance, it was a nice shop. The vibe was pleasant and seemed welcoming. The gentrification of it all wasn’t too overwhelming, unlike other parts of Old Town that are guilty of trying just a little too hard. Overall, it was a comfortable place in which to modify a body. And since our warranties had run out years ago, it seemed a reasonable reaction to what had been an almost magical day.
The shop was chill. The staff not so much. And I mean that in the best possible sense.
We were initially greeted by a bespectacled girl all of 5 feet nothing and about as pale as a foggy Michigan morning.
She tried her best to explain the confusing clapboard sign that had drawn us in, deciphering, in what came across like a Ritalin-infused diatribe, all the different levels of piercers and their corresponding skill sets.
And that only left us with more questions.
The owner of the shop then entered into the conversation. A towering six and a half foot Black man, with a booming presence and assertive personality, found himself inexplicably pulled into the vortex of all that gibberish.
The two of them combined was absolute comedy gold.
Because they argued about *everything.* Not in a mean way. More of a sitcom, hilariously mismatched married couple kind of way. Even when they were actually in agreement, they still had to argue about it.
Glasses was as stubborn as he was tall and I had to admire how she didn’t conversationally back down. He refused to relent, even though the point under convention was smaller than the employee with whom he was caught arguing.
They squabbled about prices. Placement. Intentions. It was truly a clash of piercing titans. A David and Goliath struggle of body modifiers, locked in an epic battle for our business. And it would have made a damn good reality show. Because that dynamic was fucking hilarious.
She made her decision first. And after what felt like an hour standing at that counter listening to their tit for tat banter, we collectively made our way to the back room where we would soon be bleeding.
Given the advanced state of her existing piercings, and the fact that the chattery pair of glasses wasn’t yet qualified to punch a needle through that particular part of an ear, the shop owner was taking the lead. Probably because he is an “Alpha,” something he must have mentioned at least a dozen times before the prep was even completed.
She was going to round out her ear with the tenth piercing, all lined up around a gentle curve I couldn’t help but touch while perusing the jewelry options. It was going to be the definitive DONE stamp on what had been a long journey for her. And I was thrilled to be a witness to her achievement.
I sat on the bench catty-corner from the piercing table upon which she lay instead of the one directly at the foot. Because as much as I admire her ass, I wanted to see her face since I know, and understand, just how much she digs the bite of the needle.
And I like watching her be happy.
There was much talk about the flatness of her ear. How lucky she was to have avoided the whole cauliflowerness of it all. And what a great canvas it would be for some future ink work.
And I could see her gears starting to turn at that suggestion.
A quick punch of the needle and it was done. A few tears leaked out, but that was after the fact. Because for those of you at home who might remain unmodified, it isn’t the actual piercing that really hurts. It’s when they twist the jewelry into that freshly stabbed hole that the pain receptors truly scream.
Then it was my turn.
Walking in, I honestly had no idea which part of my body was going to be modified. I just knew with absolute certainty which parts were going to remain jewelry free—nose, lips, brow, and yes, teeth (*shudder*).
I relied upon her opinion to help make the choice, not because I was intimidated in any way, but because I truly and genuinely didn’t really give a shit. I’m not often picky and was hoping that if she helped me choose, that choice might help make me just a tiny bit more attractive or interesting to her.
Despite the fact I was going to fall prey to the piercing skills of that set of glasses, the boss had to chime in about my perceived indecision. Repeatedly. Because, well, he’s an Alpha who can read a room—just ask him. And apparently understood our dynamic enough to offer free psychological analysis, despite having just met us.
But unlike the piercings, it really didn’t go that deep.
As I lay back in preparation for the Helix being installed, she smiled at me. It was a moment caught in my mind. One upon which I flash whenever I happen to think of that night. Which is about every single time I put my reading glasses on my head. Or hearing protection ahead of an aircraft’s spooling whine. Those moments when I have forgotten about the hole in my head and end up banging that fucker with something, giving me the reminder that “Oh, yeah. That happened.”
A voice behind me told me to take a deep breath in. But having just put a mint in my mouth to combat the lingering damage from that sample of her gin and juice, I thought that was a bad idea. So we decided on the “Count of Three” system of preparation. Which, honestly, I didn’t even require.
It was a quick poke and twist. One which represented all that I wanted us to be that night. And I was thankful to the Universal Screenwriters that we were afforded that opportunity.
After a rambling lecture on aftercare, including the giggle-inducing advice to not finger them with dirty hands, we wandered up front and paid the tab. Me being me, I added a hefty tip because, well, they had not only given me a solid story, but also quite a deal on our modifications.
With throbbing ears, we walked back to the cars through the glow of an Old Town Saturday night. Laughing. Making jokes. Carrying our treasures, some more permanent in nature.
Her smile was the grandest thing about the river that Michigan night. And I was thankful to have briefly had the experience of her. But a part of me wanted us to linger there, along the river, in that moment forever.
The rest of the evening I am keeping to myself. Because foxes, though playful, tend to guard their secrets. And I have already shared more than intended when I sat down in front of this typewriter.
But we do check in on each other pretty much every day. Ask about the current status of our respective holes. Remind each other to not finger them too aggressively. At least not yet—it’s gonna be a long three months.
It’s a connection we share even though she’s 131 miles south as I write this. Busy gliding through the air. Raising The Kid. Or breaking legs at rehearsals when not trying to figure out what’s next in her life.
And she hasn’t exactly been playing fair. At least not when it comes to her art, what with sending those potential song choices for her aerial routines. Including the one that almost destroyed me.
I’m stuck 131 miles north. Banging out the words. Kicking the tin. Chasing the bright colours of the absurd. Wondering what’s going to happen the next time we have the opportunity to share the same room again.
Whatever it is, I just hope that it’s ridiculous.
Because my world is a better place when she smiles…