Voices

  I press on my temples as hard as I can. “Will you both shut up for just one night?”

  “Whatever do you mean?” asks Bouncer.

  “You’re not funny!” I yell.

  “Please, Reizo,” says Honesti. “Don’t shout at us.”

  “Eat dirt, brother man,” says Bouncer and laughs. “You could use the fiber.”

  “Here she comes,” says Honesti.

  Aimee is wearing a long black coat, as if the night air is below freezing. Her outfit is serious overkill for this particular summer night, but she looks amazing in black.

  “Did you say something?” Aimee asks. “I thought I heard you shouting.”

  I adjust my backpack and grip the wire handle of two empty five-gallon buckets and jog to her. “Nope. You ready?”

  “I think so,” she says with a slight hesitation.

  “Good. Let’s get moving.”

  I walk faster, but not quite a jog. Aimee easily keeps up.

  “That’s right, move fast. But don’t trip,” says Honesti.

  “It’d be classic if he did,” says Bouncer.

  I want to grab my ears and shout back again, but I focus on Aimee and periodically glance at her as we fast walk down the sidewalk.

  Suddenly, a black Dodge Challenger screeches around a corner and hits its brakes, stopping along side of us. “What’s in the buckets, Crazy Kid?” Zeke Sarov shouts out the passenger side window.

  His buddy Josh sits behind the steering wheel and spits out the window.

  “I don’t trust those boys,” says Honesti. “One looks sort of like a chess master meets stoner kid.”

  I stop walking and glare at Zeke. Of all nights, why does he have to show up tonight? Bastard.

  “Come on,” Aimee says. “Just ignore them.”

  I shake out my hands and let Aimee pull me away.

  “Watch it!” Bouncer yells so loud it causes my eyes to water. “He’ll kick your ass for sure!”

  “Hey!” Zeke shouts. “What’s the rush, Rush? Haha! Get it?”

  Josh and Zeke laugh as if they took a shot of laughing gas.

  “Who knew? I didn’t think Crazy Kid talked to real people.”

  “Oh, man. I’d kick his ass for that!” Bouncer shouts.

  “Just keep walking,” says Honesti.

  The black car slowly drives next to us in the quiet suburban neighborhood as we continue walking in front of a driveway.

  Josh accelerates and takes a sharp right up the driveway in front of us and screeches to a stop, blocking the sidewalk. Zeke jumps out of the car.

  “Don’t you have something important to do?” I ask. “Like counting your drug money or selling some pot?”

  “Hey—!” Josh shouts, and then starts to get out of the car, but stops when Zeke holds up his hand.

  Zeke lowers his voice. “You’re a real comedian, Crazy Kid. I’m just glad I’m not wearing a grizzly outfit, I might be in trouble.” Zeke laughs.

  Josh laughs too.

  “I don’t like this,” says Honesti. “Please, Reiz. Just walk away.”

  I growl and take a lunge forward, then step back. “You don’t need to look like a bear for me to kick your punk ass.”

  Bouncer snickers. “Good one. You could probably take chess kid, Skippy. But maybe not his large football-playing friend.”

  Aimee grabs me by the arm and pulls me up the driveway. “Come on.”

  I don’t resist.

  We walk around the car, but I keep my eyes on Zeke.

  “Listen to her, Reizo,” says Honesti.

  “Weed, huh? I sell a lot more than weed.” Zeke lets out a loud laugh and shakes his head. “Have fun washing cars or whatever you’re planning to do with those buckets.”

  He makes a loud kissing sound. “Crazy Kid and smiling Aimee, you make such an odd couple.”

  Josh whistles. “Yeah baby.”

  “This is getting boring.” Zeke climbs back into the black car and turns to Josh. “Get me out of here.”

  The car screeches in reverse and then takes off in the opposite direction.

  A porch light comes on across the street and someone yells, “Are you kidding me? Do you know what time it is?”

  “That was fun,” says Bouncer. “Good thing your girlfriend saved your ass.”

  “This is starting off, um, fun. I guess,” Aimee says softly. She grins when I glance at her.

  It takes a block before I breathe normally again. “Do you mind if we pick up the pace?”

  “Not at all,” Aimee replies. “Let me carry a bucket.”

  I hand her one and we start to jog. “Thanks.”

  “What do you have in the backpack?” she asks, slightly out of breath. “It looks heavy.”

  “Supplies. The piece I’m planning for tonight is going to be epic. I hope you’re ready to get your sparkly nails dirty.”

  She looks at her pinky fingernails with sparkle polish and smiles. “You noticed.”

  I shrug as if I could care less. “Tell me if you need to stop to catch your breath.”

  “I’m okay. So what epic piece do you have planned?”

  “You’ll see.”

  It doesn't take long before we arrive at Fro-Yo Gurt, which used to be Franklinville’s bankrupted music store. Now that’s been converted into the largest yogurt shop in Franklin County—a one-story white building with a window storefront framed by four-foot wide gray cinder block walls. The building is a secluded storefront at the end of an outdoor mall with a five-foot high hedge that blocks the street view.

  I drop my backpack and unzip it. In less than a minute, I’ve set up twenty spray-paint cans, from light colors to dark colors, and taken out: stencils, paper, brushes, chalk, three plastic bowls, two masks, and gloves. I pile up the stencil papers and cutouts and then organize the caps and plastic bowls.

  “No wonder your backpack looked heavy.” Aimee frowns as she nervously scans the area. “Won’t someone see us?”

  “Hell yes, someone will see you,” says Bouncer, laughing. “You’re the worst painter ever.”

  “Shut up,” I say.

  Aimee frowns. “What?”

  “Sorry, um, I was just—never mind. We’ll be fine. Picking the yogurt shop for tonight’s piece isn’t just for artistic reasons. Logistics is my biggest motivation.”

  “Logistics, huh?” Aimee takes a quick look around and appears to relax. She peers at the storefront with her hands on her hips. “You’re going to need a ladder.”

  I nod toward the empty five-gallon buckets. “I have something better.”

  “Aren’t you going to kill their business?”

  “I figure we’re doing them a public service. You’ll see my vision soon.”

  “Right.” She rolls her eyes. “A public service?”

  I hand her a painting mask with filters sticking out on both sides. “Put the straps over your head and make sure it covers your nose and mouth.”

  I put on my mask.

  “No way!” shouts Bouncer. “I thought it was impossible for you to look uglier. Guess not. You look like a bugman!” He roars as if he just told the funniest joke ever told.

  Jerk.

  “He does sort of look like a bug,” says Honesti.

  “You’re the one painting, why do I need a mask?” asks Aimee. She takes off her coat, twists her hair into a ponytail, and ties it back with an elastic band from her pocket.

  For a moment, I think about Mom. She wears her hair in a ponytail too when she’s working. I cringe when I picture her cleaning toilets and scrubbing floors day and night, but shake the thought away and refocus on the spray paint cans.

  “Safety,” I mutter from under the mask. “I don’t want the spray to kill any of your brain cells. Put on the gloves too, unless you want paint all over your pretty hands.”

  “Paint? On my hands?”

  “She’s gonna mess up her nails,” Bouncer says, exaggerating each word.

  “Shush,” says Honesti.


  “Yep, paint. You’re going to help me spray the sidewalk in front of the door.”

  Aimee glances over her shoulder toward the hedges.

  “Relax. Security doesn’t drive-by until 4 a.m.”

  “If you’re lucky,” says Bouncer.

  Aimee frowns as she puts on the gloves. “Are you sure?”

  I nod and help Aimee adjust the breathing filter over her face. I adjust the caps on the spray-paint cans and set down two. Then I take out duct tape and turn over both of the empty five-gallon buckets, step on one bucket, tape it to a foot, then step up onto the other bucket and tape it to my other foot.

  She smiles. “Stilts? You should play basketball.”

  “Can you hand me those two cans?”

  Aimee picks up the spray paint cans and holds them close to her. “Say please—”

  “Please.”

  She hands them to me.

  “Thanks.”

  I drag my duct-taped feet until I’m standing in front of the far white wall, then reach up as far as I can and spray.

  “Can you hand me the stencil on the top and the small bowl?”

  She hands me both items.

  I take the stencil and bowl from her and place the bowl against the wall. “This is where it gets fun.”

  “What’s the small bowl for anyway?” I ask.

  “You’ll see,” Reizo says.

  I’m starting to have second thoughts. It’s dark and Reizo is totally defacing the front of the building. He looks like a dork, standing on paint buckets with an air filter mask strapped to his face. When I see myself spraying the sidewalk with primer as a reflection in the window, I realize I’m doing the same thing and looking just as dorky.

  I’m tempted to leave, but I’m captivated by how fast Reizo moves. He appears to know exactly what needs to be painted and with what color. He’s like a human laser printer.

  I have to admit, I feel nervous and excited all rolled up. “Experience life,” Grams told me. I bite my lower lip and decide to stay.

  At first, it looks as if he’s painting lines. Then he adds in shading. His passion mixes with my excitement.

  “Can you please hand me the next paper template?” His voice is soft, but edgy. “Take these and hand me blue and green.”

  I hesitate.

  “It’ll be cool. Trust me.”

  The faster he moves, the faster I move—priming the sidewalk, handing him paint cans, stencils, and an occasional bowl.

  Reizo’s movements are deliberate. No move is wasted. He pulls off the duct tape from his feet and paints the bottom half of both walls without standing on the buckets.

  The walls are coming alive. I see a 3D candy forest. Towering red and white canes, hard candies, twisted red licorice sticks, green trees full of candy apples. He’s even blended the colors and shading. The light is bad, but from my view, the image makes it look like a customer could walk right into his painting.

  Reizo is fast and impressive. After an hour, he’s finished both of the walls, and a gold brick walkway on the glass door appears to continue to the back of the store. I see what he means now. The painted walls will definitely attract attention for the yogurt business.

  “Let’s finish the sidewalk. We don’t have much time. Use the gold paint for the bridge. I’ll work on the waterfall.”

  “What bridge?”

  “I’ll show you.” In less than two minutes, he’s painted a brown outline of a wooden bridge, winding like a snake from the parking lot to the front door.

  “Spray the cardboard piece when you’re done, then use a brush to paint the bridge.”

  I get what he’s saying. I’ll use a paintbrush to fill in the bricks with gold paint. It actually looks like a real solid gold brick.

  “Hurry,” he says. “It’s going to be close. We’re about out of time.”

  A few minutes later, we’re done.

  I remove the mask from my face and step back. I notice he’s watching me. Not in a scary way, more like he’s proud of the piece and wants to know how I feel.

  I back up slowly so I can take in the entire image for the first time. There’s only one word to describe it: incredible.

  A golden bridge stretches across the sidewalk in front of the store, with massive waterfalls painted on both sides. The bridge leads to a beautiful 3D candy land. It’s probably the most amazing piece of artwork ever.

  At first, I don’t know what to say, and he’s not talking either.

  “Too bad the store is closed,” I whisper. “I could use a yogurt.”

  Reizo smiles and looks at his wristwatch. “We better load up and get moving. Time is up.”

  Just as he finishes packing and zips up his backpack, headlights shine about a hundred yards away. A car enters the parking lot.

  “Damn,” he says. “Security patrol is early tonight. Time to go.”

  He leaves the buckets and we run.

  “Stop where you are. Don’t move!” The amplified voice blasts from the vehicle behind the headlights.

  “Hang on a second,” Reizo says and gently grabs my arm.

  We both stop.

  “Do you mind if we split up?” he asks.

  “What?”

  “I’ll distract them so you can get out of here.” Reizo points. “You go that way. It’s a short cut.” He points again, but in the opposite direction. “I’ll get them to chase me away from you.”

  I see a path that goes in a direction away from the road, through an open gate, and onto a side street, exiting the strip mall.

  He continues. “But only go if you’re okay with it. We have a better chance splitting up. Honestly, if it weren’t safe, I wouldn’t let you go that way alone. But if I go with you, they’ll be all over us.” He glances at the patrol car that’s getting closer. “We don’t have much time.”

  “Okay, I guess.”

  More sirens are getting closer.

  “Meet you at the pond tomorrow,” he says with a smile. “Okay?”

  I nod.

  “Oh, and nice job on the bridge.” His energy is calm and level. “You're a pretty hot street artist.”

  I chuckle nervously. “Thanks.”

  “You better get moving. I’ll get their attention.”

  A cop car’s siren wails and flashing red, blue, and white lights cut through the darkness.

  “Go,” he says.

  I take off running and glance back to see what he’s doing.

  Reizo is just waiting and watching me. He gives me a half-wave and points for me to hurry.

  Once I make it about a hundred yards away, I glance back again and see him running straight towards the patrol car. I turn away and run faster.

  “Freeze!” the amplified voice booms near Reizo.

  I stay in plain sight and wait. Jeez, the cops are slow bastards.

  “Stupid strategy,” says Bouncer. “You’re screwed.”

  “They’re getting closer!” shouts Honesti.

  I hear a helicopter approaching. Clearly, the police chief is determined to catch me. Probably because I embarrass the mayor with every tag I do and the media is all over him about it. Two new cop cars join the security patrol. Finally they see me.

  Squealing tires and blaring sirens, all the cars speed toward me. A spot beam lights me up. I check once more and confirm Aimee is safely gone. Time to get the hell out of here.

  I take off in a sprint through a backyard, over a fence, and through another back yard into Franklin Park. There’s no way I can out run them with my backpack on. I stash it out of sight under an overgrown hedge.

  A few blocks away, the whirl of helicopter blades motivates me to change course. Backup plan. Instead of going through the park like I’d originally planned, I jump another fence, avoid a barking dog, and continue over a brick wall to my alternate escape route: the Main Street storm drain.

  “Faster!” shouts Honesti.

  “Yo, brother man will never make it,” says Bouncer.

  “He
’s really fast,” says Honesti.

  Sprinting and sweating, my lungs burn, but there’s no way I will get caught tonight.

  Honesti and Bouncer give me conflicting directions as usual, but I ignore their annoying noise. I’d planned the escape route and this alternate route a couple months ago, even practiced it a hundred times. It’d be ridiculous to try something different in the heat of the moment. I stay with my alternate plan and run through an open metal gate into the five-foot-high underground storm drain.

  My running slows to a jog as water soaks through my shoes. Wet shoes are gross, but the drain is safe.

  Touching the side of the drain with my right hand to guide me, I carefully step through the dark drainpipe. A minute later, I’m two blocks away exiting the drain.

  I peer outward, then upward. A far away spotlight shines down from the police helicopter over the park. Police car lights and sirens are moving away from my position.

  Made it.

  chapter nineteen

  Reizo was right.

  The media went nuts over the yogurt store’s graffiti on the morning news. Lines of customers extended around the block, even before the shop opened. People were waiting their turn to walk the golden path, up and over the 3D bridge with the waterfalls, and on into the store. Most people took selfies while they waited in line.

  When a morning news reporter asked the manager about pressing charges if the cops caught the tagger, the young guy just smiled and said, “No way. I’d love to meet the artist so I could thank him. Business has never been better.”

  I gaze out over the pond, another beautiful day in paradise.

  My chest feels tight and my stomach twists. The morning news also reported the police didn’t catch the tagger. Thank God. Another reporter interviewed a police officer. “Regardless of the artistic value,” the officer said, “graffiti in the city of Franklinville is still considered vandalism. We will find the artist and press charges to the fullest extent of the law.”

  The same report had shown Franklinville’s mayor holding a press conference a day earlier. “Graffiti has a corrosive effect on the city’s essence. Glorifying graffiti is a sign that our city is out of control, an appropriation of a public space without permission. We will track the vandals down and put them behind bars, where they belong. Regaining control of our city spaces is priority one. I stake my reputation on it.”

  I turn up the Chopin piano music playing on my cell, Waltz No 1 E-flat, Op 18. My paintbrush moves to the rhythm as I imagine playing the piano. I have no clue why I’m so obsessed with Bach and Chopin, especially when I’m stressed. Rap? Pop? Heavy Metal? Country? Nope. Classical. Thanks Grams.