Chapter 7

Branna

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As an O’Sullivan, I had summer jobs like any other teen. But if, God forbid, a male coworker got too friendly closing shop together, he’d come back in the next morning with a pale face, probably a limp, and a sudden inability to look at or even near me. I could make money, but the real value in money is freedom. It’s the freedom to do what you want when you want to, the freedom to have what you want when you want it.

I didn’t have that freedom, so money meant little to me. I like pretty dresses and nice shoes as much as the next girl, but none of that could buy me happiness. And all the money in the world couldn’t buy me what I really want. There was no amount of dollars, pesos, Euros, pounds, or yen that could buy back my mother and sister.

The idea of getting a job now that I am free, with pay that’s all mine to do with what I please and coworkers who won’t get the shits if I try to be their friend, is thrilling to me. I have to admit that imagining having anything left after rent, food, and bills was perhaps romanticizing my situation, but still—I am finally responsible for myself.

I already unpacked my few belongings into the worn drawers of my dresser, so now I just double check that the folder with my freshly printed resumes is in my backpack, along with a yellow notepad and several blue, ballpoint pens that I picked up at the printer’s yesterday.

The folder is there, so I head out on my job hunt. I have a pretty basic plan of attack. I’ll start with the highest end tattoo parlors, which are most likely to be able to afford to hire a new artist and most likely to have the highest pay. I do need money and I need it now.

The first place I walk into is in what’s clearly “the right” part of town, in the proverbial right-wrong dichotomy of luxury versus poverty. There are floor-to-ceiling mirrors making up two whole walls, with various orthopedic-style tables and armchairs for clients to sit in while they get their tattoos. The waiting area could double as an upscale lounge, with luxurious carpeting, glass end tables with artfully arranged stacks of alternating light reading material and intellectual journals like Science and Psychology Today. There is a hostess gliding quietly between the waiting area and tattoo area to refill drinks and offer hors d’oeuvres and small, rolled towels on a heated tray. The doors to the back rooms for bodywork are a rich, red mahogany with ornately carved crystal doorknobs.

The receptionist politely takes my resume, scans it over, hands it back, and without blinking or changing her expression, bids me on my way and suggests that I consider reapplying in a few years, after developing a strong portfolio. I ask to show her my portfolio, but she declines, already looking over my shoulder to wave the next person in line to the front.

I’ve never been so summarily rejected before. No one would dare to, with my dad’s rep known far and wide. But I remind myself that I’m not confined by mafia life anymore and that also means I’m not going to benefit from the ‘protection’ Dad’s associates can offer. The trade-off is well worth it.

With that steeling thought, I head into the next parlor. It’s a scaled-down version of the first, but the response my application elicits is much the same.

The same is true of the third parlor, the fourth parlor, and the fifth parlor, though the sixth parlor says that they might give me a call to reapply if they have the need for another artist. The fact that the woman telling me this barely looks up from her cell phone the whole time, however, is unpromising.

By the time I make it to the last parlor on my list, my shirt is sticking to my back and I’m pretty confident that I could fry an egg on my forehead. Not that I’d want to.

I don’t let the boarded-up window on the storefront next to the parlor get to me, nor do I let the faded lettering on the sign steer me away. I need a job.

“Hi, I’m Branna.” I introduce myself to the single occupant of the shop, a woman dressed in head-to-toe faded black denim. She sizes me up, takes in my folder and hopeful expression and summarily dismisses me.

“We’re not hiring.”

“I’m a great worker,” I argue. I’m getting desperate. “I’ll work for little and am always punctual, polite, and thorough. I brought my portfolio with me.”

“We’re not hiring,” she says again, but she’s a little slower with her rejection this time. I jump on that hesitation as my opening.

“Here, just take a look.” I hand her my portfolio. She shakes her head, but takes it.

First, she’s just flipping through it dismissively, clearly trying to get me back out of the door, but then she slows down. Her eyebrows inch up her forehead in intervals as she takes in the photographs and sketches.

“Where did you work?” she asks, when she finally hands my portfolio back to me. “You’re way too good for a place like this.”

“I haven’t worked before,” I admitted.

“Friends?” she asked.

I nodded.

“You did all that without training, just fucking around with friends?” She shakes her head, this time in disbelief. “If I could do that, you bet I wouldn’t be working in this dump. Hun, you have talent.” She looks me sternly in the eyes. “I mean real talent.”

“But first I need experience,” I said, “No one will hire me with a blank resume.”

“Eh.” She acknowledges my point, scratching her chin in thought. “I really wish I could offer you something, hun, but we aren’t making rent as it is on this place. We really can’t afford to bring someone else on. I’m Anna-Lynne, by the way.”

“Thanks, and I understand,” I sigh. “Honestly, I’d do it for free. But I have to pay my rent, too, you know?”

Anna-Lynne nods in companionable silence for a moment. Then she says, “Sorry, hun. I don’t know what to tell you. But whatever you do, don’t give up.”

I nod. “Thanks.” The encouragement feels good after being on my own for all these weeks.

Unfortunately, encouraging words won’t keep a roof over my head, nor will they get me any closer to my dream of being a tattoo artist.