Graffiti

Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick.

Storm clouds gathered over Caleb County the way vultures do around a carcass. But the upcoming storm was a different breed. It was part of the town’s landscape, half of whose buildings were still made of brick. It was part of the air its people breathed, which was the recycled breaths of not too many people. 

But the storm, if nothing else, was most definitely part of their lives, which unfolded in pockets of stories.

The coming storm was ominous and indifferent. For now, the clouds stood like gladiators waiting in the dark labyrinth of hallways that circulated like veins within the coliseum. Pumped, locked and loaded, the storm clouds were ready to be introduced into the arena, Caleb County.

Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick…

There was one lightning bolt and then a low rumble in a stretch of evening sky out of ear shot of the town. The sky had already turned from a pale wash of light gray to the shade and look of a jumbled up pile of flat pieces of slate. The few lightning strikes that were able to make its way to the ground and the many more awaiting were to be like spindly glows of fire growing out of an ever-heating bed of charcoal. 

But for now under this ashen sky, Jeffery Holmes stood with a spray can in his hand.  

He stood beside the western wall of Caleb’s Best Supermarket, looking up at the art he had created so far. He had worked on it aggressively much like the impending storm, propelled by the music in his ears through his ear buds. It was heavy on the bass and the rhythm was a constant march of beats.  

His arms moved fast and methodically with an intent anchored in the explosive power he naturally had inside — a power capable of releasing his creative potential to paint a reflection of the feelings embedded in his heart. The form those feelings were spelled out in a beautiful mural that, in bittersweet tones, contrasted and complemented the brewing stormy dusk.

It was a mural of magnetic standards — magnetic because the face Jeffrey decided to paint was that of a girl he had fallen head over heels with.  

Cassandra Lewis, like Jeffrey, was seventeen and like most teenagers at that age, she was burdened with the overwhelming expectation of moving up in the world after high school. But  Cassandra seemed impervious to the anxieties that came with that burden; it didn’t bog her down the way it did to most of her classmates. Jeffery saw this, and that was what he loved about her: her boundless confidence. She didn’t stress about college, walking the halls of Caleb High worrying about her SAT scores or anything like that. She didn’t stress about choosing which university she wanted to go to. Part of the reason why she took things with relative ease was because she was confident already with the fate she was going to carve for herself.  She knew she had to head to California.  She wanted to be an actress. 

And she was leaving the next day after work, meaning that she was leaving the day after the storm. But that would mean leaving Jeffrey, who hadn’t gotten the chance to tell her his true feelings. In fact, of Jeffrey, Cassandra only knew that he was in the same grade as she, and that he was a descent enough guy.

A can of burnt Sienna brown worked perfectly for her complexion and he had her eyes sparkle with the hues of smoky topaz. Her hair had an energetic effect, electrifying like lightning, given to spirals and coils that could spring with life. Her head was cocked to the side and her eye brows revealed both care and excitement. He truly wanted to capture her.

What Jeffrey had not finished painting was the bottom portion of her face — her mouth.

It wasn’t that he didn’t know how he wanted to paint it; no, it was that he didn’t have enough time — yet.

Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick.

The storm clouds loomed ever closer. As he reached to start the upper lip, one of his ear buds fell to the ground. To his surprise, what replaced his music was the soft sound of police sirens from off in the distance. They instantly froze him. He didn’t have to look, didn’t need to see the familiar red-blue alternating lights that came with the sirens, both of which were lost and blurred in the gray static atmosphere.

A few quick intakes of air — panicked eyes — thoughts racing — those lights, those sounds were there for him; he knew.  

The mural, her mouth.

He felt his heart beating like timpani drums, or was that another rumble of thunder?

Jeffrey dashed toward the yellow bins at the foot of the overpass nearby and ducked, eyes wide but laser-beamed on the police car rushing toward his mural.  

In his hand was the spray can of paint the color of garnet. It had taken him months to find it, but he knew it was worth the search because her lips were no other color but that.

He crouched and waited but not for long. In under a minute, the police arrived: two guys in their mid-forties, one of them pot-bellied with a healthy head of black hair under his hat, and the other was tall and lanky with a buzz cut that made him look like a number two pencil with a rounded-off eraser on top. After parking the car right in front of the mural, they jumped out.

“Damn it, Huey, where’d the kid go?” Asked the pencil.

“Couldn’t have run off too far.” Huey spotted a metal trash can with a lid on top. It looked like it came out of a boxing fight with its dented sides.  “Hey Mike,” said Huey in an excited whisper as he walked toward it, eying the lid.  He pointed exaggeratedly at it and mouthed, “You think he’s hiding?” Mike walked toward him, smiling as if a steak dinner were within reach.  Huey did a quick 3-2-1 countdown with his fingers, then abruptly opened it. 

But the trash can was empty.

From his hiding spot, Jeffrey was relieved he didn’t choose to hide inside that trash can. He remained crouched behind the cold and dirtied yellow bin that seemed impossible to move.  He allowed his breaths to seep out with the kind of control needed to turn on the faucet just the right amount to let one droplet fall at a time. In a tight grip was the spray can held like a pistol with his pointer finger on the nozzle.

Huey put the lid back on. “Well, at least I think I got a good glance of the kid, but I can’t be a hundred percent positive. Looked to me like that Holmes kid.”

“Yeah, you think so?” Asked Mike without really asking. “Wouldn’t be surprised.You know how he is —artsy.” 

Mike nodded his head toward the mural and it was then that the two of them really got a good look at it. The curves and the details. The realism nuanced with just the right amount of caricature. Or maybe it wasn’t even caricature but an emphasis on character without the funny.

“Yeah, definitely Holmes,” said Mike.

“But he isn’t the only ‘artsy’ one in town. Lots of kids do this graffiti shit.”

“Well yeah, but look.” Mike walked up to the mural, pointing specifically at the coils of hair and even the cadence of each individual eyebrow strand of hair. “That level of detail, how realistic it is. That’s definitely Holmes. I was thinking maybe even Wilkins or Coleman, one of them kids, but they’re not up to this level. No, Holmes is a different kind of artsy.”

“Gee Mike, you really know your stuff.”

He really does know his stuff, thought Jeffrey, feeling a blush come on that he never expected would come from a compliment given by a police officer.

Mike just nodded, hands at his hips while looking at the mural. His eyes fell down and noticed a missing mouth. He furrowed his brows. “Hmm, looks like we stopped him before he could finish.”

Huey followed Mike’s gaze. “Too bad for him, I guess. What do you say we catch him a different day? Get something to eat instead.”

From behind the yellow bins, Jeffrey let out a sigh of relief, faucet-controlled.

Mike was perfectly fine with the idea. He has reprimanded countless teenagers day in and day out for graffiti and other delinquent deeds. Letting one slip by wasn’t going to mean the end of the world, and if he were to be honest with himself, out of the street kids, he had taken a liking to Holmes. The others always graffitied words of profanity but Holmes was in a different league, an earnest one. But Mike would never admit his low-key admiration for the kid.

The two officers entered Doug’s Donut Shop a few blocks down the road. 

Jeffrey had waited for them to be sufficiently out of sight before he got out from his hiding spot and darted toward his mural, spray can in hand. The next obstacle in his way was the storm. Without wasting time, he reached up his arm and continued with the upper lip of Cassandra. He made one long arch that actually looked like an elongated, scripted ‘M’.  After filling it in generously with the garnet paint, he started the bottom lip.  But it was a crash of thunder and lightning that shook him up momentarily.

He looked up at the sky. “I’ll beat you to it,” he murmured under his breath. But the storm was right at Caleb County’s doorstep, the way a baby’s head starts crowning at childbirth. With a clean swoop Jeffrey wasted no time finishing Cassandra’s bottom lip.

After that there was nothing to do but stand back and appreciate his own art, hoping that Cassandra would come in tomorrow for her last shift and see this and understand that someone right here in this small town had feelings for her. Would she go to California even then? 

Jeffrey took off just as it started raining.

A few moments later, the officers returned to their car. “Hey Mike, would you look at that. Your kid must’ve come back,” said Huey. He gave a quick chuckle as he sat in the passenger seat, drinking his coffee.

Mike stood, gazing at the mural, noticing the freshly painted lips. He stood a moment, forgot he was even holding his coffee, and considered this. 

“Huh,” he said in surprised appreciation, nodding his head. “Would you look at that.”