The Instant Billionaire's Wife

Ed

I am sitting in The Throne, drumming my fingers, when the clock hands finally hit nine a.m. and the front door opens. Even though we are a business, our door doesn’t chime when it’s opened. That sort of noise could make a tattoo artist jump and fuck up a tattoo. But we’re all very much aware of our door opening, because every time it does, we get to hear the raucous group of reporters that is constantly outside our chime-less glass door.

This is an important day. Well, anyone else would say that. Me? I don’t know. It’s just another day of tattooing. But yes, it’s a high-profile client. That’s not something that will stress me out, though.

Rick Graves has a scheduled appointment for nine a.m., which is why we’ve all been waiting anxiously for the shop to open for the day. Sure enough, he walks through exactly at nine a.m. Not eight fifty-nine. Not nine-oh-one. The guy’s probably spent so much time in the corporate world, he can’t remember how to be late to anything.

“Swanky,” Graves says as he sweeps his eyes across the new shop.

“Uh, thanks, man,” AJ dumbly says like the intimidated idiot he is.

“Mr. Graves,” I say, standing up and walking over with my hand outstretched. That’s what they do in the corporate world.

“Ed Grund! Great to meet you!” he replies, grasping my hand in a power hand shake.

“Yourself as well,” I say.

“So! Sorry about all this press. This has got to be annoying for you,” he apologizes.

“Oh, no, that’s always there,” AJ puts in. Keep your fucking mouth closed, you dumbshit! I want to yell. We’re supposed to be impressing this man with how important he is. If he changes his mind now, we’re out $16,500. Nerves can ruin a tattoo artist’s day.

Sure enough, Graves says “Too late to turn back now!” and chuckles awkwardly. He sits there quietly while I sterilize his arm and AJ sets up the equipment. Well, not really sets it up, exactly, since we had it all ready before Graves got here. AJ pretends to set up. I thank AJ and that’s his cue to go stand behind the counter with Ella.

“So I bet you’re wondering why I told the press I was going to do this?” Graves starts. He obviously doesn’t like awkward silence. God, I hate the chatty customers. Silence when I’m tattooing just isn’t awkward for me. They all seem to think it is, though, so I very rarely get to tattoo in peace. Anyone will tell you I’m a quiet guy. But my business depends on me trying to be sociable. I try.

“Uh, yeah, most celebrities try and keep it quiet before they get it done,” I say. “I guess they’re scared they won’t like the results. They only want to go public with it if it’s good.”

“Yeah, I realize that,” Graves says. “But there were a few reasons I had that press conference. One, I was scared I’d puss out and not get it done, and I really, truly want to know who I should be with. With the press involved, I really can’t puss out. And two, the media went nuts over my company last year when we had that mini-scandal in the human resources department. Somehow, the press made my stock soar. But then we fell out of the spot-light. Maybe this will revive the public’s interest?”

Graves is chatty, that’s the truth. I mean, this is a guy who built a multi-billion dollar corporation by smooth talking companies into buying personal carbon-use calculators for all their employees. Granted, they made the companies look more sustainable, and sustainability is the goddamn key word of the century, but still. That’s no easy way to make a billion dollars. Silently, I thank the God of careers that my life’s work doesn’t depend on talking the way Rick Graves’ does.

“Uh, yeah, I hope so,” I say, hoping that’s enough input. It is. He keeps talking.

“God, I’m just so sick of sleeping with supermodels.”

I almost choke. Did a human being just say those words? I clear my throat to cover my shock. I’m finished with the scroll part of the tattoo. Time to start writing the name.

“I know it sounds weird,” he continues. “But meaningless relationships just aren’t for me. I mean, don’t get me wrong. Models and heiresses are great. But three nights a week, I just look over at the girl and think ugh. I want a real live wife. And kids. You know, I was married once. Bad situation.” He barely ever stops to take a breath. Good thing, ’cause I am focused on his upper arm. M, I write involuntarily. What a weird feeling, giving complete control of a tattoo over to your all-knowing hand. I’ll never get used to it.

Rick

I am so ridiculously, intensely nervous right now. They say tattoos are supposed to hurt. The pounding of my heart against my rib cage hurts worse. I hope Ed Grund doesn’t realize how nervous I am. I bet he sees tons of customers that are totally cool about the whole process. How pathetic am I. He seems like a weird guy. You don’t usually see a huge walrus mustache on a skinny guy like Ed Grund. Maybe it’s one of those ironic artistic things. Or maybe he’s trying to make his appearance more cohesive with his roughneck name. Ugh. Ed Grund. Sounds like a 55-year-old mechanic with sweat stains down his front.

I hope Ed doesn’t realize that I’m jabbering on about supermodels because I’m so scared. Why did I ever decide to get a tattoo from Ed Grund? Well, I already told Ed and the whole goddamn Associated Press why I decided to get this tattoo. Which, by the way, I hope didn’t offend any of the lovely women I’ve dated. But why, oh why, did I go through with this stupid plan? I mean, let’s think of the possible outcomes here.

Possibility one: the name is of some random 26-year-old elementary school teacher in the Midwest. A cute girl that I never would have otherwise met. Things go really well. I finally find true love. All her dreams come true.

Possibility two: things go badly with that girl.

Possibility three: the name is of someone from my past. We realize how wrong we were in breaking up and everything turns out beautifully.

Possibility four: the name is of one of the girls I recently casually dated. She is offended that I want to take her back just because of some dumb tattoo and then I have to live my life knowing I ruined things with my true love.

Possibility five, six, seven...

Am I saying this out loud?

No, I’m pretty sure I’ve been silent for a while now, since Ed Grund hasn’t made any acknowledgement that I’ve been talking. It could be that he just doesn’t like to talk.

I clear my throat. “So...tell me, Ed Grund, do you believe in soul mates? One person for everyone?”

“No one’s ever asked me that. Interesting,” Ed Grund says. “You’d think I’d get asked that every day.”

“Yeah, for real. So do you?”

“Um, I don’t really know.”

“Really? After spending every day with customers that pay a fortune to find out the person they belong with? And making all your money off of it?” This conversing is doing a good job taking my mind off the stressful tattoo.

“Well, that’s true, but you know, it’s not like I chose this...gift, for lack of a better noun. It just happened. I don’t think I like the odds that come with one person for everyone. In this huge world, what are the chances you’re going to find that person?”

“But, Eddie, you’ve made those odds a lot better for the people who believe in that shit.”

“And the people who can afford it,” he adds sardonically.

“Yeah, that too. So even if you don’t believe in soul mates, have you ever thought about tattooing yourself? Find out the who’s the girl for you?”

“Oh, I’ve wanted to. I haven’t tried it, though. I mean, I don’t even know if it would work.”

“You have a girlfriend already? ’Cause that would complicate things if it didn’t end up being her name. Just stating the obvious.”

“No, I don’t have a girlfriend,” he says, then glances up from my arm to the cute receptionist with the bright green eyes and punk-girl hair. I hope she’s my soul mate, I think. She is on the phone with, I would assume, a potential customer. Maybe a movie star? A tech tycoon? A prince in Dubai?

The conversation is lagging, so I ask, “Do your customers usually peek at the tattoo while it’s being drawn?”

“Uh, some do,” Ed Grund replies. “Most wait till I’m finished for the big surprise.”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s what I’ll do.”

“Well, actually, I’m pretty much done here.”

I gulp. I realize that’s a hugely cliched thing to do when you’re about to find out something really important, but I gulp anyways. I’m so, so pathetic. He must think it’s hilarious that the president and CEO of a huge multi-national corporation is freaking out over a silly tattoo.

He hands me a hand mirror.

Here we go...will it be a name I recognize?

My heart plummets out the bottom of my chair.

This can’t be right.

Matilda Jones?

That bitch hates me.

“Well? Do you know this woman?” Ed Grund asks me. I briefly wonder if he always asks this question or if he can just see the awful look on my face.

Ed

Rick Graves has an awful look on his face. Shit. Now I’ve done it. My days of tattooing the rich and famous are over. I ask the question. “Well? Do you know this woman?”

“Yes,” Graves says, calming himself. “It’s my ex-wife.”

“Ohhh...” I say, comprehending. Shit, shit, shit. I don’t know how this is my fault, because I obviously can’t control what my brilliant hands write, but it is my fault. Goddamn it. “So, how bad is it?” I ask.

“I haven’t seen her in eight years. I left her right as my fortune starting spiraling

upward. I left her with half-a-million dollars and went on to make three billion. It was a cold, terrible thing to do. I try not to think about Matilda.”

I don’t say anything for a while. He doesn’t seem like she’ll be happy to find out they’re actually soul mates (there’s that word again; so overused in my life).

“Ella, come here,” I say.

“Hm?”

“So...Mr. Graves here has a problem,” I say, then I explain the situation, hoping that crazy creative mind of hers will work out a solution.

“Well, the only thing I can think of would be to make a decoy tattoo, just for the press, she says. Brilliant.

“Definitely. I could draw the same tattoo in permanent marker on your other arm, with a different name,” I say.

“I already have a tattoo there.” Rick Graves has tattoos?

“Okay. Somewhere else?”

“I told them in the press conference it was going to be on my upper arm.”

“So we’ll tell them you changed your mind. This is all we can do, unless you want to show them the tattoo.”

He agrees, and I draw the same tattoo on his right forearm, only this time I write the name “Anna Gushlenslaw,” hoping there isn’t an Anna Gushlenslaw out there. I’d hate to give out false hope of marrying a billionaire. Thankfully, my magic hand only seems to work when I’m working with real tattoos, so this time I actually have the power to decide what name I write.

“Here y’are,” I say when I’m finished. Rick looks at it and nods.

“I think this will work,” he says.

“Let’s pray to the God of names that there isn’t an Anna Gushlenslaw watching CNN right now, about to find out she’s Rick Graves’ true love,” Ella says.

Rick gets his suit jacket back on and heads over to the counter. Ella tells him the astronomical fee he owes me and he writes a check. I hate that I have to charge so much for a tattoo, but my finance guys tell me it’s the only choice I have. Now that my shop is so famous, there are far too many people lined up each morning to find out who their soul mate is. The only way to decide who’s worthy is to test their finances. Capitalist bull, but whatever. I like my new Porsche.

I offer to waive the fee, since he didn’t get the best results, but Graves says that’s ridiculous; I did my job. It wasn’t my fault it went wrong. He pays.

“Okay, Eddie, you going to come out there with me?” Rick asks.

“Uh, why?”

“Well, this is a major press event. They’re going to want to hear you talk about it, too.”

I shrug. “Okay.” I don’t like speaking in public, and usually the movie stars and other celebrities I tattoo are too self-promoting to want to share the attention with me. But the cameras are always out there, every day, waiting for the results of this strange relationship test.

We open the doors and the cameras start flashing. Why? The sun is already glaring down on us. The reporters start pushing each other around and yelling out generic

questions.

“What does the tattoo say, Mr. Graves?”

“Mr. Graves, how did it go?”

“Mr. Graves, what are you planning on doing now?”

They are all silent, however, when Graves pulls his jacket sleeve up and shows them a small banner with the name Anna Gushlenslaw written in it. He beams enthusiastically at them.

“Could you spell that please?!?”

“G-U-S-H-L-E-N-S-L-A-W,” Graves spells. They start furiously questioning him again. He begins to answer with bullshit answers like, “I’m going to start looking for this girl right away, any way I can. If she is watching this right now, she should call my assistant at 555-254-7485.”

I tune out the riot.

Then, a reporter asks, “Mr. Grund, could you please offer a statement about the allegations your ex-customer, Melanie Wollace, made about your business being a, quote, joke”?

“I’m sorry?” I say. She repeats the question. I have been blindsided, and they all know this. Damn Melanie Wollace. Damn her to hell. “Um...I was not aware of this allegation. I’ll have to speak to Melanie before I can comment. Please disregard anything she says, though, for now.” I turn on my heel, whisper good-bye and thank you to Graves, and head inside my shop. Oh God, I do not need this right now. Melanie was my first customer. Well, my first magical customer, or whatever. Why would she want to mess with my reputation? She loved me so much for telling her some Enrico guy was the one for her, she brought all her friends to me. That was years ago. Why is she doing this now? I’ll have to deal with her later.

“Ella, are we still on for dinner tonight?” I ask.

“Yeah! Of course.”

“Is eight o’clock fine?”

“Yeah, that sounds good.”

“Okay, I’ll pick you up then. I know which building you live in, so be ready, I’ll be on time,” I say with a smile. She flushes a little and smiles. She’s probably confused about how I’m actually talking right now. Usually I say like three words all day. What a weird mood I’m in. Maybe I’m nervous for our date? Oh, Ella Vee, you’ll be the death of me, I rhyme in my head. “Rick Graves was the only one on the schedule today, right? I wanted the afternoon off. So I’m going to head out now.”

“Okay, see you tonight,” she says.

“Yep, see ya,” I say, and I head out the back door to my shiny new Porsche. I’m not really a materialistic guy, but I couldn’t resist spending my newfound fortune on a nice car. And it’s probably good that I already did that, since Melanie Wollace is about to ruin my cred and put me out of business. I catch my reflection in my rearview mirror and scrutinize the Mustache. When I was learning to tattoo, like the real kind of tattooing that requires talent, I grew a Hulk Hogan ’stache so I’d get the biker-dude clientele base, but obviously I haven’t tattooed them in ages. Maybe it’s time to re-grow that ironic indie-guy beard I had back in my one semester of college. It would certainly look more appropriate on my skinny frame. But then I think I would miss Ella teasing me.

As I drive around the block, I catch a glimpse of Rick Graves still taking questions from the mob of reporters. I hope he’s doing okay. I worry about him, now that he knows he’s already fucked things up with the love of his life. But he’s a crazy smart guy, he’ll figure it out. And if not, there are more supermodels arriving in L.A. every day.

Rick

When my limo finally pulls up, my first thought is, How the hell am I supposed to

get through this mob? But the other guy in the shop named AJ comes out and guides me through the reporters. He opens the door of the limo for me and I thank him. It occurs to me that maybe they go through this every day at Edgy Tattoos, and perhaps AJ’s entire job is to usher the celebrities through the crowd to their limos. I feel a little less important.

In my limo, the driver doesn’t ask how it went, which is nice, but now I’m alone and I have to think about my new problem. If Matilda Jones is really my soul mate, should I try to get her back? My romantic side tells me yes, but I doubt I have the balls to do that. I think back to when we loved each other more than we thought anyone could ever love each other. I married her young. We still had debt up to our ears from my Yale education, but we were so in love, we barely noticed.

If she could get past our bad ending, maybe Matilda and I could be that happy again. She’s a ball-buster, though. Even assuming she believes in the famous Ed Grund’s ability to determine soul mates, it will be a tough sell. She isn’t one to go weak in the knees over a confession of love and a bottle of priceless champagne. Then again, maybe Matilda is what I need. I’m sick of the gold diggers. Isn’t that why I went to Ed anyway? And come to think of it, have I ever been happy since the divorce? Not particularly.

I call my assistant. “Hi, Samira? Could you find the phone number of Matilda Jones, in Connecticut? Yeah, it’ll be in your computer. That might not be the right number, though. It’s been years since I’ve talked to her. My lawyer, John Collins, he would probably know her current number. But try the one in your computer. Yep, thanks, Samira.” I hang up.

This is going to be a tough phone call. Hi, Matilda? It’s that jerk that divorced you because of a red-headed supermodel. Yeah, here’s the thing. You’re the love of my life. Take me back.

I can’t imagine what she’s going to say.