Chapter 1
The Unlikely Misadventures of Stanley Greenbud
By: Stephen Greene
Chapter 1
One might call me a cliché, I thought as I relaxed to the gentle hum of the motor that was driving a needle into Rich’s arm. My studio was smoky, even though I don’t smoke or drink or do any drugs. My customers are allowed to, though, because it is good business. So, even though I was choking on the acrid fumes, I tolerated it for as long as I could, but once I stood up to grab a different bottle of ink I cracked a couple of the studio windows to release some of the smoke. Perhaps studio isn’t the proper word for it, but like I said, cliché. Rich looked over at Borgie and laughed as he saw Borgie put out the butt and light another one. I knew they found it amusing to annoy me by smoking inside, but they were customers, and the customer is always right, as Mr. Pleckerman says. Well, technically they weren’t actually paying for the tattoo’s they were getting, so calling them customers might be a bit of a stretch. They were my friends, I suppose, so I treated them with a bit more respect than I would other people. Actually, that is a lie too, because I treat everyone with respect, no matter what. That’s how my mama taught me to do things, and that’s how I have always acted.
“Cliché…” I thought to myself as I unscrewed the cap on the bottle of ink and stared up at the smoke that was filtering out of the windows into the humid Florida night. I was lucky to have a “basement”, if that is what you could call it. Basements are rare in Florida, almost non-existent, but my studio had a sunken downstairs that placed it about three feet below ground level, which actually helped keep it cooler in the summer and warmer in the winter. My customers felt pretty comfortable while they waited, all things considering. That is how I do business; keep the customers happy, and they stay nice to me. That’s what mama always said.
“Hey Stan, stop staring at the cartoon tits and get on with it. I have someplace to be.” said Borgie, in his usual nasal tone. “The babes are waiting for me down at Tokes, ready to party.” This snapped me out of my trance, as he knew it would, and I realized that, indeed, I had been staring at one of my drawings that I had as a sample for my other customers. The figure had a pretty face, jet black hair, a devils tail, and the perkiest tits this side of a porno movie. They were too perfect, I thought, because no woman I had ever seen had tits like that. Not that I had ever seen a pair of naked tits in real life, but in the movies they aren’t usually quite so full while still possessing upturned nipples. I was a tit expert, in theory, since art is my life, and all the girls I knew either in real life fell into two categories; they either had big, ample breasts that matched their big, ample asses, arms, legs, and double chins, or they were the skinny, stick-thin girls that had breasts that were smaller than my own moobs. I looked down and sort of jiggled my healthy teats to see how they swayed. Not bad, I thought to myself, and then sighed deeply as I saw my belly jutting from beneath my t-shirt, swaying more heartily then my man breasts.
“STANLEY”, cried both Rich and Borgie in unison. They were used to my temporary lack of concentration, and had learned to simultaneously snap me out of it. “Come on, dammit, hurry up, you’re sitting there drooling like a moron staring at your own tits.” I shot Redfish a hostile look, at which he smiled at me and laughed heartily. If I had a best friend, I guess it would be Richard Redfish, since he was really the only one who seemed to truly understand me and was actually nice to me, and even though he was sarcastic, he always made it obvious he was joking. Rich was of Cherokee descent, a member of the Cherokee tribe, he always liked to boast; that he was ¼ blood from his father’s fathers side actually made it so, and even though his mom was Scotch-Irish and his dad was half Cherokee and half German, he did indeed have the look of a pure-blooded Native American. The funniest thing about it was that in his family pictures; he looked like he had been adopted by a bunch of pale-skinned, red-headed farmers, and his sister looked like the world famous Wendy of the burger franchise. Maybe that is why we are such good friends; he had as strange a childhood as I did, and he understood my little quirks. “I mean, Stan, they are really nice man-boobs, and I know that being a virgin must make you super-horny, but damn, man, your own boobs? Come with us to Tokes after you get done and look at some real tits. I am sure Roxy will be there, and would probably flash hers for you if your bought her a couple of beers.”
I blushed at the thought of a woman lifting her shirt for me, and obviously my face turned bright red because both of them broke out in laughter. Roxy was one of the regulars down at Tokes Bar and Grill, a little restaurant and bar up the road from the studio, just a short walk from the beach. Rich and Borgie went there often, since it was within walking distance of all three of their homes, and I had heard all about Roxy and her promiscuous ways. I had known a Roxy when I was younger, but I'm sure it isn't the same girl; from the stories my friends have told, she sounded completely different from the Roxy that I had known. Tokes was run down, and had a leaky roof, but it stayed relatively busy at times, especially during the summer months. In the winter, however, it was usually empty, except for a few regulars and beach-bums who would meet there and drown their sorrows. The owner Squid was a real ass most times, but Vanessa worked there some nights as a waitress, and that made it worth listening to Squid’s stupid rants and lame jokes. The only time I would venture out of my studio and walk to Tokes was on nights when Vanessa was there, and then I would sit back in the corner, having a coke and a foot-long chili dog, and watch her as she waited tables. She has never even noticed me when I was there, and why would she; I am 6'2”, 250 lbs of flab and pale, pasty skin, and although I have been told I could have a handsome face if I took better care of myself, I have never particularly concerned myself with my appearance. Most days I have a day old growth of beard, and my hair and sideburns have always been long, curly, and oily looking. I have a triple chin, so I don't give the appearance of a man with any potential, but I don't care. I am completely happy living in my studio, drawing and practicing tattooing, preparing for the day when I will have a clientele that will stand in line for hours just to have the opportunity to get inked by Stanley. Aside from that dream, I don't care about what anyone thinks of me, nor do I have any interest outside of my family, my two friends, and myself...except for an occasional romantic fantasy of catching Vanessa's eye and stealing her heart.
“Vanessa…” I thought as my eyes glazed over. I had known her since kindergarten, and we had gone to school together up until 7th grade, when my dad lost his job and went to jail. As a result my mom had divorced him, and we moved to a house on the beach, residing in another school district. I remembered her most of all out of the “fabulous four”, the “frisky four”, the “ferocious four”, and whatever other names they called themselves every different school year. They had all met in kindergarten, Vanessa, Renee, Gretchen, and Leesa, and had been best friends for as long as I had known them. Of the four, Vanessa was the only one I had really ever liked; it would probably be more honest to say I had a huge crush on her. She was blonde, pert and bubbly, and petite. She had penetrating blue eyes, but she was so shy and timid that she hardly ever looked anyone directly in the eye. She had probably only said two words to me in the eight years that I had known her, one of them being “eww” and other being “duh”. Renee wasn’t so bad; she was blonde as well, a little bit more husky, and always the center of attention. She was also a notorious flirt, and every guy who had ever boasted within my range of hearing had said he had gotten somewhere with her. This didn’t really bother me, since, for one, I was all about Vanessa, and for two, Renee had really close set eyes and a long nose, which made her look somewhat like a bird, and I hate birds. Renee was also the only girl I had ever known, at least until 9th grade, who had actually tried to get my attention; she constantly flirted with me, and would whisper how she wanted to see what I was packing, even though we were only in 5th grade. The first time she said this I shrugged and took off my backpack, pulled out my G.I. Joe comic book collection, my tanned squirrel skin, and a bag of beef jerky and she had rolled her eyes and said “Oh my GAWD..” in her little southern drawl that a lot of the boys liked so much. I admit I was a little confused, and as they walked away Vanessa had looked back at me and mouthed the word “DUH”. Even so, I thought I caught a glimpse of a little grin as well, and it had made my heart beat a little faster and my face flushed. It wasn’t until around 7th grade that I finally found out what “packing” was, and by that time it was a little too late, since Renee had a steady boyfriend or eight until I moved away. Then, of course, there were Gretchen and Leesa, the other half of the group. I never liked either of them, since they were both pretty much lacking in personality and good looks. Both were large girls for their size: Gretchen had red hair and freckled skin, saggy arm flesh, large thighs, and a fat ass. When she looked at me, I thought back, it had reminded me of being stared at by an alligator. Leesa, on the other hand, had dark skin and curly, oily hair, and she was taller and more muscular than any of the other kids in our grade, at least until Curtis Tample came back from bible camp the summer of 7th grade five inches taller and 75 pounds heavier. Leesa was pretty in her own way, but even so, her personality was what ruined her. She was the enforcer of the bunch, and kept the group safe through brute force. Most of the other kids were scared of her, and thought of her as a bully, but in truth, she only followed orders.
Gretchen was the true leader, sly and sinister, an instigator. She could always be depended on to sabotage any uprising among the other girls when they tried to form rival groups, and she controlled the schools with an iron fist. With Renee as their figurehead, Vanessa as the brains of the operation, and Leesa as the heavy, they pretty much ran Helmwood Lighthouse Elementary school and City Gate Middle school; in fact, they probably ran things all the way through high school, as far as I had heard through the grapevine. I guess in a way I got lucky, because since I was chubby, had long, curly hair, was quiet, and had no desire for attention, I was never considered a threat. My only issue was when it was my turn to be picked on again, which happened every year for a couple of weeks. Looking back on those years, the girls were probably the only ones who had ever paid any attention to me, at least until 7th grade when Dad got busted and went away to jail. After that happened I was the center of attention, most of it unwanted, for the month that I remained in school. That was before we moved in with Grandma Janice on the beach and I changed over to Gamble Middle School. I remember that I had spent a lot of time crying and alone, but I also remember that that was the only time someone had actually kind to me. Vanessa had somehow escaped from her friends for a few minutes and had found me hiding behind the school, shielded from view by a row of bushes. I was crying because Tommy Dimler had said my dad was a drug dealer and had run around the playground shouting out my new nickname, Greenbud. She had walked up to me quietly and put her small arms as far around me as much as she could, which basically was with her hands under my arms, and she had given me a hug and whispered “I’m sorry Stan” in my ear. That lasted for about two seconds before Renee yelled out Vanessa’s name, which startled her, and she let go of me and jumped backward as they rounded the corner. She said “Aww” to me before spinning around and stammering to her friends “He tried to grab my boob!” Luckily that had been my last day, and I didn’t have to feel the wrath of Leesa, even though I heard of rumors throughout my school years of what would happen to me should ever I cross the path of the “ferocious four” again.
“Oh, wow, he is actually thinking about coming!” said Borgie, bringing me out of my daze yet again. “Come on, Stanley, party time tonight….bewbs…bewbs…beeeewwwwbbbsss!!” he yelled as Rich started chanting along too. I shook my head slowly, because I knew that wouldn’t be happening; I was due to work for Mr. Pleckerman at 7 a.m.., and not a second later, or my “ass would be canned”, as he so often reminded me.
“No, guys, I can’t go. I gotta work tomorrow morning, and I can’t be out late. I will go next time.” I replied. This was, of course, the same thing that I always said each and every time they invited me to go out, so they both looked at each other and frowned. Rich then shrugged and said “It’s your loss; Vanessa is working tonight, and she always wears that tight white shirt… and now she stopped wearing a bra so she would get more tips. That image should be worth missing some sleep!”
I must have really blushed at that, because they both burst out in laughter again and Borgie lit another cigarette, knocking over the ashtray in the process. I thought about it for a long, long moment, because Vanessa probably had those tits…just like my drawing. I had never actually seen them under less the full body armor of her blouse and bra, but I could imagine them being so. For a moment I felt a darkness sweep over me, an urge to say “to hell with it” and go along just for the chance to see her again, but the moment passed as the ashtray fell off of Borgie’s leg and tossed ashes and butts in all directions. At the same moment, a loud slam from the room above announced that my roommate had returned, and both Borgie and Rich jumped up and headed for the door. It took me only a split second to process everything and then I felt like my head was about to burst.
“Dammit, Borgie, you spilled that crap all over my bed!” I hissed at him, and he looked down at the gray dust covering my flowery comforter and shrugged lamely, knowing what he had done, but not caring about doing it. He pushed past Rich and opened the door, and called back over his shoulder to me. “Come to Tokes, I will buy you a beer for the trouble.” At the same moment Rich pointed at his arm, and frowned at me. “You were almost done, dipshit; all you needed to do was finish the word, and it would be perfect. I will sneak over tomorrow and you better get it... and spell it right, Stan!” He then looked up at the ceiling as if he had had a premonition of what was about to strike. He shifted his gaze back to me and shook his head, then said quietly as he backed out the door. “Stan, you need to come out with us. You are 28 years old, and still a virgin. You need to live a little, bro; you know you do…and get your own place for fuck sake.” He pointed at the ceiling as the footsteps pounded above, and then squinted wisely at me and said. “…and you will let me put some tats on you too, man. I have let you ink me so many times, and not one single speck of color on your pasty ass! Not cool bro!” He took another step, bowed slightly and gave me the look…his shaman look, he liked to call it, both wise and sarcastic, at the same time.
The bellow from above struck like thunder, which sent Rich bolting like a wild horse, and I cringed, knowing that this explanation would be a most difficult since the great beer bong incident of 2010. “Stanley Greenbaldemal, I can smell that tobacco smoke coming from your room. Get up here this instant…and shut your windows, I’m not cooling all of Saint Augustine just because your friends want to disrespect my home. There are groceries in the car getting hot, and my feet are killing me. I need you to get out my foot massager and fill it up, and put the groceries away. Then we will have a little chat about your punishment.” The light above my tattooing chair shook back and forth at the force of her voice, and I quickly swept the cigarette butts into the trash and flipped my comforter into the air to try and disperse the ashes. I glanced around the room, then grabbed the bottle of Febreeze I kept to prepare my studio….err bedroom, for customers, and sprayed it like a madman. I knew I had only a moment before the next wave of terror was set to hit. I placed my tattoo gun and ink on my desk and ran toward the stairs, and called up just as I heard her intake of air in preparation to trumpet my name once again. “I’m coming, mom…I will be right there, coming up the stairs right now.”
Did I mention something about cliché?