Chapter 13 � Summer is Dead

The midsummer of 2008 was upon me, and I had settled into St. Catharines and a new daily routine. I’d print t-shirts each morning, working alongside my spectacled, techno music-loving friend Wizzard. An interesting fellow he was, smaller in stature than most, glasses, an avid and professional screen printer, and an herb-ologist and Crowley connoisseur. Each afternoon and evening, I would work alongside Draven as well as the rest of our team at Sik Liquid, including his cousin and tattoo-apprentice in training Two Percent and the new kid, Kennedy. But most of the time it would be Draven and I working and spending the most time at the shop, and we did many tattoos. I grew quickly into tattooing full-time once again, and enjoyed working alongside these people.

 

            I was attempting to write more and more, hoping that this summer would be a fruitful and productive one creatively: I’d tattoo and screen print, and get to write a night. These were lofty creative goals I had for myself, and, to an extent, I accomplished these goals I had set for myself a few months previously. Yet, my heart longed for more, and I was unsure what that more was at that point.

 

I felt a trip was in order, hoping to go to the big city across the Great Lake: Toronto. I went there and attended the Northern Ink Exposure convention that summer, and was fortunate enough to spend the weekend at a friend’s place for the weekend. I was also entrusted to a mission that weekend to purchase some supplies for Sik Liquid while I was in the city. Toronto was only over an hour away by Greyhound, so I quickly found myself deposited in downtown a little while later. I enjoyed a weekend re-acquainting myself with this big, bold city that I had always enjoyed visiting. I always found the Big Smoke to be such an exciting and diverse city to be in, and have, at many times, contemplating living there. A millions secrets lie on each corner in every neighbourhood, and every sidewalk stain and crack has tales of former glories, lost loves, sweet pleasure, and simple times that have happened a million times before and shall happen a millions times again. I spent very little time at the actual convention, finding the venue for the event too crowded and constrictive as previous years, and ended up spending three glorious days and two evenings mostly shopping, sight-seeing, and people-watching. One of the highlight of the weekend was purchasing a pair of canvas sneakers, Chinese knock-offs of a popular U.S. brand, for a mere ten dollars. I still own these shoes.

 

I returned from my short jaunt across Great Lake Ontario to return to my routine, but began to feel unsettled. This was brought about by a number of factors. Firstly, though I enjoyed getting back into working a tattooist’s routine at a shop, the tattoos I did were not challenging enough for me. I wished to do more tattoos and do more elaborate tattoos and subject matter, but the area was going through a slump economically, as well as I was working in a very limited and competitive market. This slump would be forebodings of a looming economic recession, which would affect my future decisions. Also, though I did enjoy printing with Wizzard, the company that employed us to print their merchandise was not the easiest to deal with, and I as well as Wizzard became frustrated with this. Also, I began to feel socially withdrawn, as I did not see my friends as often as I would have liked. This was due to a number of factors and I cannot blame anyone for them, but felt as though I seen my friends just as often 10 drive away as I did when I lived across the country. Fear and doubt began to rumble.

 

I also began to have my complaints about living in St. Catharines, and Niagara in general. I again felt my old feelings of constraint, of being limited by my environment. I always battled with this, and had found after living in Edmonton for the past couple of years that there was a world beyond what I had known, and that those opportunities were endless. I also had noticed the true effects of the slow downgrade in life in Niagara since I had last lived here. The feeling on the streets was lonelier, sadder, leaner, and meaner. Many old friends had fallen or gone off the map, and the few that remained were the same, if not worse of than before. My closest friends had missed me in my absence, but their lives had gone on, and so had mine. It was true: you can’t go home again.

 

I continued through the summer, and as it neared an end, I began to seriously consider my options. I had wished to return home after spending two years in Edmonton for good, but was now faced with questions about my own financial prosperity as summer grew close to autumn. The word “recession” had begun to be heard, and I watched as literally every single factory in my hometown closed permanently. I foresaw the great rust belt of southern Ontario and the despair that might ensure, and got scared. Winter would come, and my tattoo and printing work would dry up, and I feared I would spend Christmas broke and without work. I knew options were still available back in Edmonton at my old screen printing job, and I began to get my feelers out for any tattoo shops that might be hiring there; perhaps I could use my online portfolio and find myself some part-time opportunities at shops and get myself established there. I also had saved myself up a sum of money, so I could afford to move to back.

 

Admittedly with this, the lure of the West began to call me. I thought of my time I had been there and how I had not ventured as much across the lands there to see all that I had wished to see. I had hoped to perhaps get into tattooing more out there, and thought I might make some extra cash and find myself the time to get to see the great sights the West has to offer. I dreamed of mountains and the great prairies, and all the little places that lie beneath the big skies. I imagined the exotic sounding places I seen on maps and the things I might find if I went there: Jasper, Medicine Hat, Saskatoon, Calgary, and the great Shangri-La that lies over the Rockies, Vancouver.

I rode home one dreary night in September, my bike silently cruised the dampened streets from the rain. I watched the water gather along the gutters, collecting the golden maple keys that swirled around the sewer grates, disappearing past me as I slowly pedalled along. The faint glow of street-lamps barely lit my path on my journey home, dimly-lit blackened roads that run slick against the rubbers tires. I felt as though the world was dying, as I traversed through this city that was once a new beginning, but had now slowly turned into a bitter end of things. I had so much hopes for what was once a joyous summer of homecoming and it had turned into a resentful realization that it was not to be. All that I had wished to accomplish had been done, but with sacrifice. I had been gone two years, and felt as though little had changed, except that the return to my idyllic home had been tarnished with doubt and despair that surrounded me. Friends I had once known now seemed lost to ages and the plague of misery of their own misfortunes. I needed to go again.

I spent one more night in Toronto for a quick jaunt that included a night of clubbing, alleyway walking, and breakfast the next morning in the sunny neighbourhood of The Beaches. After this trip, I had made up my mind to move back to Edmonton and return to a familiar life, but was planning for it to be different. This time, I assured myself, I would not allow myself to be tied to some job, but find the time to tattoo, and now I realized that this was to return to my life, even if only a few hours a week. I put word out that I was looking for such a position, and, within time, I had a few responses to consider, one with the most promise. The name of the shop was Little Buddha, and the owner, Shawn-Ray, had offered me an opportunity. I received this and a few other offers, and felt sure that part-time tattooing would not be a problem finding. I contacted my former screen printing employer, and informed him of my return to Edmonton. He assured me there was a job still available for me. I searched for a place to live, found one, and made arrangements to pay rent and deposit before my arrival. I also obtained and scheduled my move. This was done within a few weeks time. Draven had been made aware of my intentions beforehand, and, though he admitted he would miss my workmanship and friendship, hoped the best for me. He also assured me of a spot at Sik Liquid any time I was in town again, and we would always remain in contact.

 

By late October, all was in place for my cross-country move. My plans had fallen in place: screen printing job back, part-time tattoo gig secured, move arranged, flight planned, and all the odd-and-ends that come with moving were in place. OI had a last night out with old friends, and one of my last nights in St. Catharines I spent with Draven, Kennedy, and two Percent out on the town. We had a simple and quiet few drinks, and they wished me luck. I told them if my plan to return some time the next summer, and they hoped I would return. I dreamed aloud to tattoo and travel, and they hoped the best for me. A couple hours and few photographs later, I was headed home to move the next day. The next few days were quick: I moved all my belongings out of St. Catharines to my mother’s house in Welland, where the movers would arrive the next day. This was done in a few hours, and the next morning, as planned, the van arrived and was packed within minutes. I had two days at my mother’s house to reflect on the summer, and spent my birthday alone. I flew back to Edmonton, and with bittersweet disdain, knew I would not see Niagara again for a long time. I would be satisfied to leave it remain the collection of poetic memories that I call home, and flew into the night.

 

I arrived in Edmonton and was picked up by my friend there, Bubba. He was also an aspiring tattooist, having not worked in a shop yet, but had his own clientele in his home studio that he had set-up. We had spoken to another tattoo shop in Edmonton, and it had looked as though we might have the opportunity to work together in the near future. After retrieving my luggage, we made way to his car, jumped in, and headed to the city.

 

“Well, how does it feel to be back, Jim?” Bubba asked. He handed me a joint he had lit, as I had informed him of how much I had missed the quality of marijuana in the West. He had promised me beforehand, a few days earlier through our communications, to bring me some upon my arrival. He did not disappoint. The dark highway from the airport blurred past us as we made our way to the bright lights of Edmonton’s outskirts.

 

“Good,” I replied. The air was much colder in Edmonton than Niagara, and I knew it would not be long before winter would set in, probably a few weeks. I took the joint from his fingers, and held it to my lips, inhaling deeply. It tasted good, just like I remembered. The smoke hit my lungs, and I quickly warmed up. After a few minutes, I asked “So, when are we going to start tattooing?”