Page 62 of Right Up His Alley

Ezra laughs, low and knowing. “It’s a play on words, I guess. Like, weekends are fun; so are tattoos. Detailed and larger tattoos take the whole weekend, if not the whole week. You know? Ink Weekend. Don’t think too hard.” He pulls open the door, and the cool air from inside greets us with an immediate rush.

The space is dim, with sharp white light illuminating art on the walls and within the flash art displays. Skulls, dragons, naked women, roses, tigers, and tribal pieces flood my sight. They’re done mostly in black ink but are still vibrant with details. The faint buzz of a needle echoes throughout the parlor. There’s an edge to this place. Something about the raw, electric atmosphere makes my heart beat quicker than usual. Even more exciting is seeing Ezra’s giddiness in motion. It’s like he’s walking on clouds as he steps into the studio.

A man sits at the front desk, ink winding up his forearms in dark, intricate patterns that catch the overhead light each time he turns a page. His brow stays furrowed, lips pressed in a line as he studies the worn pages of an old-school ledger, the faint scrape of paper the only sound he makes.

When he sees Ezra, his face shifts into surprised delight. “Well, I’ll be damned. If it isn’t Mr. Jiménez himself.” He stands up and offers a firm handshake. “How the hell are ya, kid?”

Matching his steely motion, Ezra’s fingers wrap around the man’s hand as if he wants to prove something. “You’ve known me for a long time, Zeke. You know Mr. Jiménez was my father.”

“Yes, I knew your father for a long time too, which is why I also know this world’s a better place with a Mr. Jiménez out there, especially if he was raised by the best.” He pauses. “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to come to the services, Ezra. Dallas has been keeping me busy.”

“I appreciate that, sir, but don’t worry. It was a nice service. My mother and I weren’t expecting almost the entire town to come out to show their support, but they did.”

“Your father was a very loved man. With how he ran the bowling alley, he did a lot for our community. He taught me a lot too. About running a business, that is. I’m sure he’s proud of you for stepping up and following in his footsteps.” A light curve at the corner of his mouth appears as he lifts his head up and then back down. “How is the alley doing, by the way?”

Ezra clears his throat. “It’s great.” His response is short, curt even. “Speaking of…” His quick deflection is subtle but noticeable. “How has the shop been doing? I can’t believe this is the first time I’ve been in.”

“We’re doing well.” Zeke turns, opening his arms, showing off the parlor. “I’m short-staffed though. This old man can’t seem to find any real talent that wants to work normal business hours. It’s making me think I’ll never have the chance to retire.”

He pauses, his eyes moving slowly across his studio. He takes it in like he’s seeing it for the first time. A sense of pride wafts through the room. “So, if you’re looking to get a tattoo today, I might be able to squeeze you into a slot later this evening. I have two small pieces coming in soon and a fairly large backpiece coming in about an hour.”

Ezra nods but remains quiet. I catch the way his shoulders drop slightly, like he came expecting to be allowed to linger and watch—hoping to show me a little bit more of who he wants to be, like he’d already imagined himself being the one designing the art.

I step up before he can talk himself into leaving, my voice bolder than I wanted. “Do you think any of the appointments in the next hour would be good for a beginner artist?”

Zeke raises an eyebrow, a little hope gleaming in the corner of his eye. “Unfortunately, no. The two coming in are newbies, and we’ve already consulted on what they’re looking for. It’s a recently married couple getting infinity symbols I’ve designed for them around their ring fingers. I wouldn’t trust a beginner I’ve never observed with such a small design on such a sensitive spot. But why do you ask? You an artist?”

I shake my head and grin. “No, but Ezra is.”

“No shit?” He looks Ezra over, his eyebrow raised. “How long you been tattooing, Ez? I’d love to see your work.”

Ezra shakes his hands, slowly backing away. “Oh no. I’m not finished with my training or anything. I just draw. I mean, I’ve done a little skin work, but nothing like what you do. I’ve been learning from Damien.”

“Ah, I see.” He pauses. “Has Damien taken you under his wing?”

He nods. “He’s been showing me the ropes. He’s let me do a few small tattoos on some of his regulars brave enough to let me experiment.”

“And how’d that go?”

“From what I gathered, they all seemed happy with my work.”

“Alright.” He sits back down at the front desk. “Damn, I would love to see how you do. But like I said, I can’t trust a beginner on replicating my⁠—”

“What about me?” The words leave my mouth before I can stop them. The moment is easily one of the most out-of-body experiences I’ve ever had. I don’t know what gets into me. Maybe it’s seeing Ezra look at the floor and giving it a subtle kick. Or maybe it’s just that I know he needs someone to believe in him out loud right now.

Ezra’s head snaps up. “Truett, no. You don’t mean that. You don’t even have any tattoos. It’s okay.”

“So?” I shrug, trying to play it cool, even though my heart’s speeding up just a little. “What if I want one? You gotta start somewhere. And I’d love for you to do my first.”

Ezra stares at me, stunned, while Zeke laughs, appearing more impressed than amused. “You serious?”

Am I? The hell if I know. Never have I once been drawn to the idea of having a needle repeatedly dig into my skin. The thought of it doesn’t exactly thrill me. In fact, it makes my stomach flip a little. Though, seeing Ezra’s face light up in a soft, surprised kind of hope over the idea of giving me my first, and probably only, tattoo makes it feel right.

“I’m serious,” I say, even with my voice croaking just a tad bit. “Let’s do it.”

Ezra smooths the sketch onto my skin. Right on the soft part of my wrist, just under my thumb. It’s small. Clean. A little bowling pin outlined in blue stencil ink. He leans back to study it, then looks up at me, brow furrowed.

“You sure you want a bowling pin?” he asks. “I mean, you’re already a professional bowler. Do you really need a reminder of that?”