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Graffiti

Posted on August 27, 2007
Filed Under The Stories |

The shadowy individual in the dark hoodie and baggy jeans withdrew a spray can from a deep pocket and shook it. The beads rattled against the walls of the can, signalling the commencement of a graffiti artist’s work. With a final flourish the lid was popped and paint hissed across the uneven wall in smooth curves and bold lines.

To watch the graffiti artist work from a distance was to watch poetry in motion. A combination of poise and balance, the artist’s entire body seemed to go into the production of the swirls, curves, lines and dots that made up the shape that the front wall of Sharkey’s Pizza was being tagged with. The city frowned upon graffiti and even though the graffiti artist was practising a form patronised in places as far off as Paris and Singapore, there was no chance of receiving understanding or escaping jail time for being caught in the act. The people whose walls were tagged would not be very understanding either.

To counter the effects of governmental crackdowns and policing by the people the artist had learnt to design fractal graffiti - tags that built upon themselves so that an incomplete piece could just as easily be identified as a finished one. The graffiti purveyor operated under the alias Stylez and though it wasn’t Banksy, the work was getting recognition in the hip-hop and graffiti communities. Not that Stylez’s work would be appearing on album covers or t-shirt designs anytime soon. Anonymity was key to being able to continue working and so no one, not even a good friend or a family member, knew who Stylez really was.

Anwar was the big dog in the neighbourhood so he got to kick it in an open-plan loft at the top of the tallest building in the area. Which still put him only eleven stories above civilization but his giant windows afforded him an unobstructed view of Sharkey’s front façade. He got to see the graffiti artist hard at work as he wandered past his window on his way to bed. After a few seconds watching the hypnotic lines appear he dialled a number on his cellphone. Maleek was speed-dial number nine and he answered the in-house phone on the fifth ring, “Yeah.”

“Yo it’s Anwar.”

“Man what you doing up so early?”

“Ain’t been to bed yet dog.”

“Now that’s what I’m talking about? What you been up to?”

“This and that. You know how it goes.”

“For sure. So what’s up man?”

“Just wanted to give you the heads up dog.”

“What’s up? Police comin’?”

“Nah. Nothing like that. Some kid’s tagging your front wall. I’d run down myself but he’d probably go missing by the time I came round the corner. You should take care of it.”

“Motherf-”

Maleek dropped the phone on his way to picking up one of the nine baseball bats he kept behind the desk. He had bats for every occasion and his fingers closed around a simple wooden one before he burst out the front door to get his hands on some graffiti-punk ass.

With every passing minute the graffiti artist was vibrating at a higher frequency of awareness about getting caught. As every stroke added depth, character and dimension to the tag the artist grew ever more watchful. So when Maleek took his first swing at the spot where the artist was crouched and painting, his bat swung through thin air and smashed against the wall, sending a shock up the wood and into his arms as the head of the bat shattered into a million splinters. At the first sign of danger the graffiti artist had turned and run, like a middle distance runner focused on staying in the race until it came time to make that final burst and win.

As he gave chase Maleek roared, “Where you going bitch? I’m a shove this bat so far up your ass you’ll taste wood chips in the back of your mouth.” As he watched them disappear around the corner Anwar laughed and disconnected his phone, “Get him Maleek!”

Unfortunately for Maleek, he turned around the corner and came to a dead halt like he had run into a wall or something. The alley was empty. No graffiti artist, or anything else. No movement at all. He placed his hands on his knees and breathed deeply, trying to catch breath he never had. After the hammering of his heart had ceased to pound on his brain so much he closed his fingers around his cellphone and called Anwar, “Yo man you see him?”

Anwar went to the window, “All I see is your ass bent over like you waiting for a date. What happened?”

“Motherfucker pulled some ninja shit on me. He was right there one minute and then I turned the corner and he was gone. Gone!”

“You’ll get him next time.”

“I hope so!”

Maleek tossed the bat stump away and sauntered back towards Sharkey’s front door.

After a couple of minutes the shadows in a tiny alcove shifted and the graffiti artist emerged. With a couple of surreptitious glances around to make sure her attacker wasn’t anywhere around Stylez slid the hood back and walked back past her freshest tag. Two steps back gave her a good look and then with practised ease she completed the six strokes needed to wrap up the job.

Three digital photos later she was on her way. There were already other walls, other tags and other irate citizens to worry about.

Her work there was done.

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