This is the first half of the final story that I wrote for the fiction writing class I took last year. I'll post the other half some time next week.
Andy is cornered in a train yard, trapped by a cop between the rows of boxcars and a brick wall. He has his camera in his hands, and is standing in a pool of bright white light. “Drop the camera!” a stern voice says. “You’re kidding right!? Do you have any idea how much this thing costs?” He can’t believe what is happening to them. He can’t believe they got caught, not here, not now.
* * * * * * * *
Andy is in the streets. His lanky frame is dressed in all black. His Canon Rebel K2 35mm hangs around his neck and sways as he darts into a dark alley. It is nighttime and the streets are that eerie kind of quiet that isn’t quiet at all. The kind that makes it seem like every thing is alive, like everything is dangerous.
Andy works freelance for The Sun, the Baltimore newspaper, shooting whatever spot-news he comes across, getting a few bucks here and there whenever he gets an especially great photo. But what he really loves is to shoot the city, the people in the streets and the art on the walls. His passion lies in his art, just like those taggers. Sometimes he will sneak out late at night, following them, hiding with them in the shadows, and photographing their fresh works.
Andy is working with a girl who goes by the name Lady Byrd. Always work in teams; always have a lookout. That’s what Andy read in some graffiti book once. So Andy is here, being Byrd’s lookout.
Lady Byrd is a short, solid girl, covered in tattoos. A deep-orange octopus fighting a pirate ship covers her left arm, from shoulder to wrist. Three of the tentacles spread across her body, twisting themselves around the skull and swords on her chest. Her other arm is Japanese themed, a geisha smiling and holding the severed head of a samurai, standing over a koi pond, which spills onto her hand. A branch of cherry blossoms spreads across her back and onto her right shoulder, dropping their pedals onto the smiling geisha. Andy assumes the rest of her body is covered, but he wouldn’t know and is almost too afraid to ask.
But Byrd’s tattoos are all covered now; they make her easy to recognize. She is wearing a black hoodie and dark cargo pants with lots of bulging pockets. She is carrying a small duffle bag full of paint, stencils, brushes, markers and whatever other tools she may need for her trade. She is quick and quiet, and loses Andy several times as they slink through the alleyways.
Andy is crouching in front of a dumpster in a dark alleyway, after losing Byrd for the third time that night. “Byrd!” he whispers nervously, “where the fuck did you go?” “Shut up and get down!” she whispers back as he feels her hands on the back of his shirt, pulling him behind a dumpster. He tumbles into a pile of cardboard boxes. She giggles and helps him back to his feet.
“You need to learn some stealth, man,” she says as she turns towards a blank spot on the brick wall next to the dumpster. “This is it,” she says. “Where are we? Is that Pearl Street?” he asks, pointing to the north end of the alley. “No, it’s Paca. There’s a gallery entrance just over there, everyone will see it.” She sets her bag down with a light clinking thud and pulls out a paint can and roller. Andy watches as she starts working. She rolls out the bright yellow base and then pulls out her spray cans. She starts sketching the line work for a blue bird when a faint crashing sound comes from around the corner.
Byrd’s hands freeze as she turns to look at Andy. His shock is mirrored in her eyes. “What the fuck man? You’re supposed to be lookout!” Byrd says, throwing her stuff in the bag and shoving it behind the dumpster.
She pulls Andy by his shirt collar to the other side of the dumpster. “What are you doing!?” he whispers franticly.
“Shut up and follow my lead.”
She pushes him against the wall and wraps her arms around his neck as a man in a black hoodie enters the alley. He pauses when he sees them. “Can I help you?” Byrd asks in a voice that mimics that of a snotty valley girl. The man laughs. “No need for the show, I’m no rat.” He starts to walk away then pauses and turns towards them. “By the way, the paint on your hands is a dead give away, try wearing gloves next time.” As he walks down the alley, Byrd notices he is wearing a rather full backpack that makes a familiar faint clinking sound with every step.
Byrd smiles and turns back to her work. Andy snaps pictures as she adds great flourished wings to the bird. Her hands are surprisingly steady for the speed at which she works, creating swirls and textures that collapse into each other and reemerge like a sea of blue feathers. She stands back to look at her work. The large, feathery wings are a stark contrast to the sleek, sculpted cobalt lines of the body. She nods in approval and pulls a marker out of her bag. She scrawls “LByrd” in large, loopy letters near the left wing. She ends the tail of her “y” with an arrow, like the tail of a devil. She smiles and slings her bag over her shoulder. It makes a faint clinking sound as it comes to a rest at her side. Andy snaps another photo and the two slip off into the darkness.
* * * * * * * *
Byrd enters Germ’s worn-down house. It is a small, off-white building, packed between two identical houses. The railing is missing from the front step and the siding is turning gray with dirt. She is here to check up on him. It’s been awhile since she has seen any new work from him on the streets, and she wants to make sure he is ok. They have been partners since the beginning of both their careers. They have to look out for each other.
Germ is an artist. If you asked him, he would probably deny it. He would tell you he is a tagger, a poster bomber, a stencil maker, not an artist. But he is. He throws up huge pieces that defy gravity. He is stealthy and fast and patient. He is tall but limber. He can slip in and out of alleys and hop any fence. He always wears a mask, usually a black bandana covering his nose and mouth, and a baseball cap or beanie over his head. All she can see are his intense, pale blue eyes and occasionally a curl of his reddish-brown hair poking out from under his cap. Byrd used to think the mask was to keep out the fumes, but he wears it even when he isn’t painting. This used to make her uneasy, but it is a trait that she has gotten used to now. In fact, she doesn’t think she would even recognize him without it. Germ is a master of an underappreciated and deviantised art form. Germ is a graffiti artist, a king of the streets.
But right now, Germ is in the basement. The only light in the room is the desk lamp that hovers above the old, beat-up drawing table. Germ is sitting at the table, a dust mask covering his nose and mouth. A sharp, chemical, burning smell stings Byrd’s nose as she walks closer. She coughs and Germ wheels around to look at her. She notices he has drawn sharp, pointed teeth on the front of the mask with a sharpie. She doubles over with laughter. He gives her a look of annoyance, the kind that you give to your little sister who wont leave you alone, and turns back to his work. He is using a wood burner to melt designs into a thin sheet of plastic. The plastic makes the stencils easier to carry and reuse. You can roll them up and shove them in a bag instead of carrying around huge pieces of cardboard. He is cutting two large music notes. Byrd doesn’t bother to ask what they are for; she knows Germ wouldn’t tell her anyway. He is secretive about his work, even around her. She doesn’t know why, but this fact bothers her a little.
* * * * * * * *
Andy is hunched over a sink in the dark room in his basement. An eerie red light highlights a series of photos hanging from a cable that is strung across the room. They show the silhouette of a woman leaning on wall, smoking a cigarette; a group of middle school boys, sitting on the stoop of a brick building, stern looks on their faces as they squint into the sun; an old man in too many layers pushing a shopping cart through a damp alley. A lock of Andy’s wavy, auburn hair falls into his face as he submerges a piece of paper into a tub filled with fixer. He lets the paper soak for a minute before pulling it out and squinting at it as he holds it to the light. He smiles and clips it to the cable. The figure of a short, solidly built girl is visible on the print. She is standing near a brick wall, one arm raised above her head, holding something flat to the wall, the other is poised in front of it, with a spray can in hand.
* * * * * * * *
Germ is standing in a dark alley near the entrance to Expression Art gallery on Paca St. He is looking at a big blue bird with flourished wings sprayed on the wall near the dumpster. Byrd’s piece. He pulls a stencil and some black latex gloves out of his backpack. He puts on the gloves and sprays two red music notes by the bird’s beak. He over sprays them, letting the paint drip down the brick wall. Above the bird he writes, “creatures in cages still have wings and songs” in a tight, rounded font that flows with the swirls in the bird’s wings. Next he pulls out a marker and writes “GERM” in angular red letters next to Byrd’s tag. The marker is filled with a special kind of wet ink that drips and runs in ways that mimic the over sprayed notes. He stands back to admire his work. He stares at it for a moment then smirks and walks away.
* * * * * * * *
“What the fuck did you do to my piece?” Byrd screams as she descends the stairs into Germ’s basement.
He smiles as he crosses the room to pick up a can of paint. “I gave it a message,” he says.
“You should have asked me first.”
Germ laughs. “Would you have told me not to do it?”
Byrd pauses, caught off guard by his question. “Well… no.”
“Then what does it matter?” Germ says, walking towards his drawing table.
“That’s not the point.”
“No, the point is your stuff is pretty but has no force behind it.”
“What!?” she yells, her voice rising with disbelief.
“You have things to say. I know it. You don’t shut up about your ideals, so why not use them in your art?”
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