[FILE 4.2.5] - - the goldman file / archive - basement files / short stories / shadows

shadows

It started out as something I feared. The whole idea of how it got to be there. Born in the darkness, revealed with the increasing daylight. Not to mention the fact it looked spooky. I couldn’t get the image of a silhouette shifting from shadow to shadow out of my head, unseen, their mark being left along the way. It wasn’t long before it all began to intrigue me. But it was a trip to Rome that made the change for good. No street was left untouched. The living art of the ancient city being juxtaposed to the art of the modern age struck a chord in me. I had never seen so much of it in my life. I didn’t know it at the time, but I had been bitten by the graffiti bug.

I returned from Rome and began practicing my own handstyle, going online to watch videos and look at pictures for possible inspiration. I think it was the combination of anonymity and visibility that appealed to an introvert like me. I could go from being unknown to be seen all over town. I could become a part of people’s daily routines; wake up, brush teeth, drink coffee, pass the formerly clean brick wall outside of the mom and pop dry cleaners on the way to work. And I’d be there. That’d be only one person, too. I was fascinated by this possibility. I felt as if I did what I was told to do my whole life, and the notion of doing something I wasn’t supposed to do in the process of this artform made it all the more seductive. However, I was still a month too young to be able to buy the spray paint myself. I read online that the preferred method of acquiring paint by writers was to “rack” them. After reading a little further it became clear that this meant stealing, which, aside from the occasional pack of gum from the local SaveMart, was not exactly my forté. I figured I should just ask one of my parents to go out and buy some with me. I had a feeling that if I were to propose the possibility of buying spray paint to my mother as a creative outlet, she would agree and I would be one step closer to frequenting the night. It was maybe a Monday or Tuesday when I got home from school and brought the thought up to my mom. I caught her as she was about to carry some laundry up the stairs. 

“Here, let me help you with that basket.”

“Oh, well thank you. Did you end up giving your speech today in French?”

“No, the people that are supposed to go ahead of me took too long, I’ll probably end up going tomorrow. Gives me another night to practice anyway.”

“Yes and maybe you could say it for your father and I some time tonight?”

“I suppose that can be worked out…but I had a question for you actually.” I set the clothesbasket down in the middle of her room like she asked me to. “You remember how I was really interested in all the graffiti when we were in Rome, taking all those pictures and what not?” I started prefacing my actual question by trying to explain the positives of creative outlet. “I feel as if I’m not as involved in the arts as when I was younger. I used to play piano, make drawings, and even paint on occasion, much more than since I became busy with my high school workload.” I waited for a response and found she was waiting for me to continue. “I think it would be good for me to get back into art once again, as something that can take my mind away from the college applications and AP tests. However, I’d like to accomplish that through street art.”

“Yes…”

“And so I was wondering if maybe later this week you could take me to the crafts store so I could get some spray paint. I would only use it in the backyard, and I’d make sure to be real careful to not get any unwanted paint anywhere.”

“Wait a minute Nolan, I’m not sure how I feel promoting this sort of what you call ‘art.’ Isn’t there a more attractive, acceptable, not to mention legal form of art you can get in to?”

“Mom, its only illegal if it’s done on someone else’s property. I just want to have the experience of what it is like to be able to spray paint my name. To be able to express myself in the way I so choose. I can accomplish that right here in the back. It would be in a totally controlled environment.”

“Well, I’m going to have to talk to your father about this first. I can’t make any promises.”

I knew it would be best to just wait until the end of the week until I brought anything up about it again. When Friday came I went through the motions at school, waiting to get home and resume the conversion from earlier in the week. I asked my mom if they were able to come to a decision and was told that they agreed with me about having a creative outlet. 

My dad started down the stairs, meeting us at the base where we were standing.  “Mom would we be able to get the paints this weekend?”

“Sure we can get them. This is all happening under one condition though.”

“What’s that?” 

Before I could get an answer my dad broke his silence. “First thing, how did school go today?”

“Pretty good. I can’t say there were any events worth reporting. And we had a sub in bio so still no information regarding that test.’

“Okay, so if we’re going to do this thing, you have to agree to a couple things. One, you cannot, and I repeat, cannot take this outside of this property. That’s vandalism, and Rydzynski’s are not criminals. None of us has ever been arrested. It’s that simple. Second, we’re going to leave the cans in the garage on my work bench. You may get them as you wish but they’ll stay there at night and when they aren’t in use. Do you understand?” 

“I understand; I’m only going to be using it on the premises, I promise. I would prefer not to go to jail myself.” It seemed they weren’t satisfied with my response, as their faces ceased to make any further movements. “The only way to prove to you that I mean what I say is to let me show you.” My mom turned to my dad for feedback, who was nodding his head. Her guise remained unchanged. I could sense the unspoken resistance, but I was ready to move on with the plan now that I had some sort of green light. “Can I get the paints today? That French presentation did go pretty well this week.”

“Yes, but let’s go now because you know I don’t feel like going out as the day wears on.”

I came back from the crafts store with Krylon paint. I read online before how Krylon had recently changed their cap system to distance themselves from the association of graffiti, which was confirmed with the broad rectangular spray that came out in my first test tag. In the same online thread someone made it known that anyone who uses Krylon as such is the sure sign of a toy, or beginner. This was however, something that could be prevented, and I found a YouTube video that showed me how to get a circular spray by shaving down a plastic protrusion on the front of the nozzle. I tested out my name again: GEEK. I thought I should give people some idea of who they were dealing with, or at least provoke such a thought. Plus there’s no use in trying to tell myself otherwise. It came out looking pretty bad, and definitely looked like the work of a toy, even with the cap improvements I made. I reassured myself that I would only get better with time, and kept writing GEEK. 

Once I finished my practice session for the night my mom greeted me at the back door. As I went to put the cans away in their resting spot, she made me promise that I would not sneak out tonight like I have in the past, especially now with the new possibility that I could potentially be wreaking havoc around the neighborhood. I promised her that I wouldn’t leave the house, but I had already made a promise to myself earlier. I was already coming up with thoughts of how the city would begin to slowly bear witness to the loudest self-proclaimed geek in town. The plan was to go out no sooner than midnight. I didn’t want to think about what would happen if I were to get caught. Not caught by the police either, as I figured I would be able to outrun them if it came to it, but by my parents. I tried to block visions of my parents faces, burdened with disappointment, from creeping into my mind. Disappointment wasn’t something I was used to, nor was I trying to get accustomed to it any time soon. All I could do was try to keep cool, and wait. 

It was about fifteen past ten when my mom finally went up to bed. Not one to stay up, my dad beat my mom upstairs by a solid hour. I kept watching TV as I waited for my mom to fall asleep. Forensic Files was on. Before I started watching this show I didn’t realize how often a husband or wife murdered the other in an effort to claim life insurance. Money had never been that important to me where I would go and take another’s life. I couldn’t think of anything worthwhile I would take someone’s life for off the top of my head. Family I suppose, but then I would be affectively altering the makeup of another family. At that point an overwhelming feeling of sonder came over me. There I was, an extra in the story of someone else’s life, creeping in the background, limiting the glimmer of the streetlights on my profile. We’re all extra’s in another person’s story at one point or another, more often than not even. So many people on earth, so many different possible stories, none two the same. So many people, none are the same. I repeated that thought over, and I couldn’t wrap my mind around it. It was just too imposing. 

I looked at the cable box and the time shown was 11:13. I knew it typically took some time for my mom to fall asleep, but figured she would be out by now. Midnight felt like it was taking too long to come. Out of anxiety, I finally went upstairs and got dressed for the night. Black shirt, black jeans, black sweater, and even a black balaclava to top it all off. I figured the ski mask couldn’t hurt any, not to mention it was in the thirties outside. I grabbed the black and white cans from the garage and snuck out like in the past. Throughout the course of the week I complied a list of all potential spots I could mark around my neighborhood. I hit the street and made my way toward the first target. I wasn’t sure if I felt more nervous from the unknown of the future or more scared from being out at night in a dangerous city, or if it was a combination of the two…or if it was all just the same. In the end it all added to the thrill of it. 

I walked with pace and arrived at the first site several blocks from home, an alley across from the local university. I came up to the wall, hesitated, and then thought how there was no room for hesitation on the streets. Reading all these threads online was really helping, I thought, and got to writing. I stepped away to take a look. Looks pretty bad still. Even though I wasn’t satisfied with my work, I felt insanely alive after writing that first tag. I could feel each individual blood cell rushing through my vessels. I needed more, like an addict, continued on in the night. 

As I moved out of the alley, I felt my phone vibrating in my pocket. Who the hell could that be? Could Max be calling to see if I wanted to play Call of Duty online? I checked who it was and immediately felt as if I were in the midst of plunging to the depths of the earth. My mom was calling. The thrill I had just experienced got sucked out like the air in a pack of vacuum-sealed dry fruit. I knew I had to answer it, let her know I’m okay She asked me where I was, and I tried to play it off as if I was at my friends house around the corner from home. I’ve snuck over there before, so I thought it had a chance. I’ll just walk back home and pretend like nothing ever happened. I was just a block down from my street when I realized I had to put the paint cans back where they belonged! Not only that, but how was I supposed to explain why I was all clad in black? I fucked myself! I didn’t even know what I would tell my mom now. It was inconceivable what sort of punishment would be awaiting me. I threw up right there on the sidewalk and kept going. 

Entering the backyard I could see her outline behind the screen door, waiting for me. She didn’t say anything when I slid the door open. My mind was racing faster than ever. There was no way I could talk myself out of this. I copped to, and the whole time I sat on the couch attempting to explain myself I could feel my life begin to sink into an abyss. How was I supposed to recover from this? I couldn’t believe how dishonest I had been, or how badly I had betrayed my parents trust. This wasn’t me. I didn’t belong out in the streets. I had to clean my act up, or how would I know that this wasn’t liable to happen again? I got up from the couch and passed my mom on my way to the base of the stairs. 

“Nolan, you reek awfully bad.”

I didn’t say anything, but hit the first stair and continued my walk of shame.