Oil & Ink

Chapter 1: Welcome to Tucker's

Charlie sat in his black leather chair — the one with the holes worn in it — and waited for someone to mosey over to his corner. His station was tidy, except for the walls covered with tattoos he'd finished.

From his corner, Charlie could see the tall sign that attracted drivers into the shop all the way from the highway. It read: "Tucker's Oil" in grassy green letters with the current gas prices underneath.

There was a smaller, wooden sign hanging from the bottom that said, "Tattoo" in black. Charlie drew the sign and his neighbor hung it the day after the shop's last inspection. Charlie's small portion of Tucker's only met the minimal requirements needed to pass and stay open.

His sign shadowed exit 22 off I-90 going west toward Wyoming. Tucker's shared the exit with a Stuckey's that caught most business; the vans and the SUVs piled with kids on their way to a state park or a campground.

Tucker's got everyone else; locals who needed the classifieds and a coffee or travelers checking directions. The Grand Tetons lured adventurers of all sorts, even just for long weekends. Rugged SUVs driven by college students would roll into the parking lot with camping gear in the trunk and a neon kayak secured to the top.

After filling up, everyone from the car would descend upon Tucker's to use the bathroom and load up on energy drinks and salty snacks. Even if none of them ended up in Charlie's corner, he enjoyed listening to the bits of conversation he could hear through the wired racks of sour gummies and sticks of beef jerky.

"How much longer from here?" They would ask each other.

"This should be our last stop before we get there," some would say.

"Do we have room in the cooler for the six-pack?" was also a common question he overheard.

Sometimes, though, passersby did stop in Charlie's little shop. Most of the time, they were curious about his setup — Was it usual for someone to get a tattoo at a truck stop? When Charlie said, "Sure, why not?" It became a novelty — it would be a tattoo experience you'd never forget.

If they didn't get the tattoo on their way to their destination, they'd stop in again on their way back. It was a souvenir much more meaningful than a postcard or a shot glass.

Charlie's clients were a mix of people. Some of them were locals and their teenage daughters. A good majority of them were bikers and semi drivers. Sometimes, he even tattooed himself.

Charlie stood up, stretched and walked out from behind the short walls that separated him from the rest of the store — the rotating sausages, coffee, and Moon Pies. He shook out his thin legs and smoothed his red t-shirt over his belly. There was rumbling coming from the interstate as a group of bikers approached.

Three Harleys slid into the gravel in front of Tucker's. The riders — all men — stepped off their bikes and into the store. They looked stern; their skin worn by the sun. Sara, the college student working the register, greeted them without looking up from her magazine.

"Y'all serious about that tattoo sign or are y'all a couple-a-jokesters?" one of the men asked her.

"No, it's serious," Charlie said with a bit of a wave.

"Great. Gear up, we want 'em, kid."

In South Dakota, Charlie was still a kid even at 26 years old. In his heart, he felt older than his years. He'd been at Tucker's for two years, but on his own for seven. In a way, seven years felt like an eternity, but it had flown by in a manner that made Charlie understand how people felt when they talked about the years disappearing.

He wanted to be a top artist in the tattoo world.

But Tucker's wasn't necessarily bustling with tattoo business. During the busy season, he was able to cover himself and save for the months that were less busy. But, in general, Charlie had little savings and no support from his family.