A Toast to Starry Nights (16 page)

Towards the front of the booth lurked
the netbook, mini-printer and credit card scanner atop a small folding table
with a matching chair. A cord from the power inverter snaked up from the table
to a small solar panel held atop the canopy with hook and eye tape. The solar
panel juiced a power converter which shared the wealth of electricity to the
electronics. Under the table lurked a few boxes of plastic grocery bags for
bagging purchases, fliers and the hidden cash box. Finally, the beast came
alive.

Nita went on a mission in my car to
fetch caffeine, being that it was seven-thirty-five and Jet had yet to make her
appearance. I stood in the booth, fastening tie-dyed bandanas to the back
canvas wall as samples of styles and color choices for the custom tie-dye. With
that last chore completed, I looked around my well-organized booth and sat down
at my little pseudo-register. With all the implementation Dmitri supplied for a
quick set up, he should be here to witness how quickly it worked. He'd be
proud.

A tangle of smells kissed my nose. Rose
and Patchouli, Lilac and Musk. Cinnamon Apple, Sandalwood and Lemon Balm. I
moved my head and sniffed the air like a hound, trying to decipher the scents
and their location. I jumped in the air when I realized someone was standing
right behind me.

“Ha ha! One day, Grasshopper, you too
will know how to move like a ghost. How I never tire of the sight of your
pavilion dedicated to clown puke.” Jet held a large box in her arms. Up until
now, Jet's participation consisted of order taking and cashier. She liked to
sit pretty up at the front, flirt with guys and get some sales that way. So for
her to be hugging a heavily scented box as if it were a long-lost first child
was a bit out of character.

“Perhaps, Wise One. What do you have
hoarded in your treasure box? The severed remains of an ex who pissed you off
one time too many?” My curiosity was stoked. “Do we need to go dig a hole out
at the gravel pits for an impromptu funeral? My cousin can play Taps on her
trumpet.”

“Nope. My great contribution to this
Temple of Hippie you constantly erect. I can't believe I didn't think of this before...
it's so perfect in its irony. Tie-Dye and Incense. It's like peas and carrots,
Romeo and Juliet, Jerry Garcia and weed. Tell me I am not brilliant. Inform me
of my flaws. I'm ready.”

It
was
brilliant. Open flames
were banned from the Farmer's Market, but to have the scents mingle and dance
to tease one's olfactory sense when checking out could prove to be an
experiment of sorts. The appeal of finding out if it would sell lingered in the
air, like the smorgasbord of scents emanating from the box clutched still in
Jet's bare arms. “You're modest too. It is a marvelous idea... but what exactly
are we looking at?”

She set the box upon the now vacated
folding chair and opened it to bare the insides. Her hand dove down and pulled
up a little wooden displays with tubes sticking out the backside. Jet
reverently set it upon the table. Like a duck in water, the hand dove back into
the box's depths and brought forth a bag containing smaller bags of bundled
incense sticks. Two layers of plastic did little to shield the scents contained
within. Jet tore the plastic bag open and put the freed sticks into the
display. Some incense burners got a little home on top of the wooden temple of
scent. Beneath, long zip-topped baggies for customers to stash their sticks in.
A grand hand-flourish later and she stepped away from her handiwork.

“Two dollars for a dozen sticks. That's
about a thousand sticks of scented heaven. You are looking at about
one-hundred-fifty percent mark up for a profit. Happy early birthday, Kaylis.”

“Wow. What made you come up with that
idea?”

“Hanging out with your mom.”

Oh.

She continued on in conversation after
noting my facial acknowledgment of my mother being her muse. “So where's little
miss bridesmaid? Can we haze her? Just a little?” Jet clasped her hands beneath
her chin and gave me the puppy dog look. “Pwetty pweese?”

“She's on a coffee run. Want something?
I can text her.”

“Yeah, a blended mocha with whip.”

I sent a text message. Got a reply in
short order.
Lucky, I'm waiting in line at the kiosk now. Can do.

“Your coffee has been ordered. And no,
we can't haze her. It's bad enough she has a mother much like mine. Can't that
be considered a lifelong hazing? You ever met my Aunt Daisy? She's like Willow,
but happily married. I'm not sure how she ended up with a kid like Nita. You'll
like her. She's a Fact Geek like you.”

“That
is
a likeable quality.” Jet
pirouetted and asked “What do you think?” as she stopped and struck a pose,
Betty Page bangs bounced. Today she sported hot pink and magenta streaks in her
hair. The “man lure” for today's fishing expedition included a purple and black
tie-dyed cropped halter top that showed off her abdomen and a pair of jean
shorts that barely straddled her hips to cover her ass. God help the world if
she had to bend over. Stripper shoes completed her ensemble.

“I'm glad you don't dress like that in
the village. You'd be burned as a heretic.”

“A sexy heretic. Maybe you can applique
a crimson
A for Awesome
to my top. Free advertisement, ya know? I'm
going to chart how many sales I get based on gender. Wager a good percentage
will be men.”

I rolled my eyes. “You do realize that
you'd have to do a chart over the long term and another one as a control with
you in neutral clothing to make your study valid, right? Oh, did you remember
to slather your tats with sunscreen? If you haven't, I've got some in the glove
box of the Jeep.” Nita needed to return. I required sunscreen before the sun
crept toward its zenith. Just thinking about the sun full-strength on a bared strip
of skin got me twitchy. Itchy hives with a nausea and migraine chaser is what
the unfiltered sunlight does to me. Ain't pretty.

Realization hit that Jet sported a new
tattoo. Until fairly recently, her torso was devoid of ink because most of her
tattoos were on her upper arms, shoulder, ankles, feet, calves, ass-crack and
right above her breasts. Now a gold, red and purple phoenix arose from a tiny
fire situated above her navel. The tail, almost peacock-like, spread over her
ribcage to wrap around to her back. It was quite pretty. “When did you get that
one done?”

“About a month ago. It’s still a little
scabby, but I think it's awesome. Thirteen hours. Total adrenaline rush, let me
tell you. I found the design in a book about Persian legends. And it’s fitting.
When life throws a personal catastrophe at one, one arises from the wreckage a
new person. Hopefully a bit wiser from the experience. Ever count how many
times you've risen from the flames, Kaykay?”

Not even eight yet, and she waxed
philosophical. “I need my coffee before I think of the flames. I need more
caffeine.”

Minutes ticked closer to eight, when the
market officially opened for business. Potential customers mingled in singles
or small clumps to peruse offerings at each booth. To the left of me, a
grandmother who crocheted and sewed dolls and stuffed animals.

When business got slow, she would
inevitably move her folding chair closer to her side of the booth next to my
dye station. Lenora's gray eyes would watch every movement my hands made when
I'd work on dye orders. And all the while, she'd run her gums about the lucky
blokes she met at the local dive bar, not three blocks away, and the
shenanigans she got herself into whilst drunk. Her first husband died in a car
accident, her second when indulging in a cocktail of Portuguese Diesel and over
the counter sleep meds. Thus nowadays she preferred to love 'em and leave 'em,
as it is for their own good.

To the right, a gent who carved animals
and figurines from found wood. His driftwood birdhouses were quite popular, and
I occasionally made deals with him on behalf of my mother. She liked birds in
her permaculture experiment and tended to buy in bulk to furnish her fetish. He
liked meade to furnish his fetish for renaissance fairs in the off-season. Two
gallons of meade got Willow sixteen of Gunther Stremmenhild's beautiful
birdhouses for her backyard jungle.

Jet sat in the folding chair, smiling to
passersby. I stood at my dye station, getting primed for the flow of traffic to
come through. Being busy dyeing things catches the attention of potential
customers. So I started dyeing some handkerchiefs that would get used as quilt
blocks for a project down the line. Each of the fabric squares would have
hearts in the center. Being that the material I chose for this project was a
hemp and silk blend, the colors would be rich and saturated with the cellulose
fibers. The silken threads would only absorb a portion of the procion dyes I
had on hand, and would offer a sheen of contrast within the fabric itself.
Blues on silk come out more purplish, blacks go green. Rinsing these after the
dye got exhausted would be like opening presents on Christmas morning.

On the table without the dye box, I laid
out the hankie and folded it in half. With a fading fabric pen, I drew half a
heart. This one would be big and poufy. When that was done, I began to
pinch-fold tiny pleats on the disappearing line. One must keep the folds in a
straight line to make the design really strong, and I secured the folds very
tightly with a rubber band. It got chucked into the bucket of fixer to soak.

A dozen hankies met that fate as people
began to explore my pavilion of colorful offerings. Anita Ann arrived, coffee
cups huddled in a tray.

“Here you go, an Executioner.” She
foisted my blended drink of white mocha, espresso and raspberry syrup over. The
best is when the raspberry addition was light, just a touch more than a hint.
This beverage was perfect. Nita handed Jet the blended mocha, and from the
looks of it, my young bridesmaid got herself a blended chocolate chai. It
didn't take long for Nita to do a double-take in Jet's general direction.

Jet stood at the little table holding
her scented contribution. In one hand, her mocha with the whip cream already
stirred into the drink. In the other hand, a wand of incense waved before her
upturned nose, green eyes closed as she enjoyed the odoriferous wind blowing
her way. I can't say she 'sniffed' the air, as that is too delicate a word for
the porcine snorting coming from her general vicinity. Anita Ann looked to me,
as I looked to her. My face, painted with a bemused
I have no fucking clue
why she's doing that, but that's Jet for you
look said it all to Nita.

The kid had moxie, I'll give her that.
“Is that a Seal for the Guild of Calamitous Intent tattoo?” A circle with a
wyvern atop a globe served as my best friend's tramp stamp.

Incense stopped and Jet's eyes opened as
she turned around to face Nita. “A fan of the Bros are you, wee'en?”

Nita smiled like an imp. “I thought it
was wrong to kill off Moltov in the fourth season. They could have drawn out a
better death for her.”

Jet turned to address me. “You were
right, I do like her.” She turned and spoke to Nita again. “Yeah, that was
jacked. They could have killed off Hatred instead. He's due for a non-grazing
bullet for his uncle Touchy McFeely ways.”

I watched Nita's eyes widen as she took
in all of Jet's ink. As the Great Jetnia once told me, each tattoo represented
a chapter in her life. Starting at her right foot from the base of a giant
padma flower, a jasmine vine wound all the way to above her knee. Sprinkled
throughout were plumeria, moon orchid and lotus blossoms with bees and
butterflies hidden among the foliage. A blue and purple hummingbird fed on an
orchid just under her kneecap. That, I was told, represented her roots in
Indonesia.

On her left upper arm, a zodiac wheel.
On the right upper arm, her natal wheel. Between her tatas, the cosmos danced.
Nebulae, binary star systems, planets... even an asteroid belt, on a deep
bluish black that faded upward to her collar bone. And on her shoulders, torn
dragonfly wings in purple and green.

None of the tattoos were offensive;
rather they were colorful pieces of art upon the paper of her skin. The inkwork
served to make a neon arrow point right at Jet for being the flamboyant peahen
she was. Bright nails and streaked hair only highlighted the obvious.

Anita Ann turned to me and said in a
dead pan voice, “Gee, Cuz. You weren't joking about the exotic factor.”

Jet laughed. “
Exotic
is a nice
way of saying I stick out wherever I go.”

I retorted, “That's because being
'normal' is the worst thing one could ever inflict upon you. More heinous than
than disembowelment.”

“That too. Horrific. Can you imagine a
Californian Amityville Horror? That's me, attempting to be so-called normal. I
prefer to be Abby Normal. With graffiti. Booyah, bitches!”

The Executioner resided on the
now-vacated workbench as I turned my attention to the bucket containing soda
ash fixer and tied handkerchiefs. With a smirk, I donned the elbow-length black
rubber mad scientist gloves. “Hey Jet, when's the last time you saw one of these?”

“Last time I had my prostate checked.”

Nita snickered.

“Should we incorporate a codpiece a part
of your Maid of Honor gown? Could be snazzy, start off a new trend.”