“Uh-huh.”
We carry the bucket and tools outside to the residents’ garden. It’s not a bad place, for an old people’s jail. There’s lots of plants and pathways and a big patio area covered by a wooden pergola with some chairs and tables underneath. Most of the flowers look like they’ve finished blooming and have been trimmed back. There are still some purple ones, though. They look like daisies, but not quite. The fence is along the back, separating it from the bike path that runs along the river.
Marty is dressed in a red plaid flannel jacket, and I’m wearing his blue coveralls. We walk around to the back of the fence, the part that’s facing away from the building. He sets the bucket down on the lawn, and stands, arms crossed, looking.
“Ain’t going to come off by washing,” he says.
“No shit,” I murmur, just loud enough that he can hear.
Marty still stands there, looking at the fence.
“What kind of paint did you use?”
Was this guy for real? “SPRAY paint.”
“Not very good quality.”
I know that now. It was cheap shit that dripped and didn’t cover like I wanted it to. I sit down at the picnic table without answering. I have all the time in the world for his questions.
“Didn’t finish?”
“What?”
“You know . . . you didn’t finish it?”
I look at my work. Marty’s right, it isn’t quite finished. “Nah. Someone must have called the cops, so we . . . I split.”
It was the first time I’d done a piece this big. I wanted to prove to them that I was good enough to be part of their crew, and this was the only way. I did it on my own, but Derrick came along. He was supposed to be looking out for me, making sure I didn’t get caught.
I’d met them at a party Derrick took me to. We were sitting around the kitchen table and I was sketching on the top of an empty pizza box, and one of them started watching me. I’d drawn the same thing so many times, over and over and over so it just flowed, and I was barely thinking about what I was doing. I don’t know why that one, that picture, but it was always one of my favorites, and I liked to play around with it, change it, make it mine while keeping it somehow still the same. When I saw him looking at the picture, I covered it up with my hand and tried to slide the box away. But he stopped me. He took hold of the pizza box and studied it. He said it was good, real good, and asked me if I’d ever thought of making it big, seeing it up on a wall. I didn’t really know what he was talking about. Derrick told me later who he was, that he was part of a graffiti crew. He pointed out some of their pieces around town, and they were fucking amazing.
We ran into them again a few weeks later, and after we’d all had a few beers they invited Derrick and me to go with them to the rail yards. I like to think that it was because they liked my drawing, but I know they never would have asked if it wasn’t for Derrick. I didn’t give a shit either way; I was just glad to be included. I watched, creeping along with them beside the train near the abandoned grain elevators, my heart racing, my palms sweaty. God, it was such a thrill. To pour your soul onto a wall or a rail car and be able to step back and see your fears and your hopes and your dreams and your flaws. And to be able to walk through the city, to have other people walk through the city, and there’s proof that you were there, that you were alive. I wanted to be part of that. I stole some paint from Canadian Tire, started working on my own tag, thinking about my piece, doing small things here and there. It fucking made me feel like Banksy.
Marty’s staring at the fence like he’s in some art gallery. I wait.
“Huh,” is all he says.
Except for where I was working, the paint has started to peel. It was a stupid place to write, I know that now. Marty walks up to the fence, picks at a flake with his fingernail, and lets it drop to the ground. It looks like it needed a new coat long before I ever came near it with my spray-paint cans.
“Will have to scrape it first.” He hands me a scraper. “Both sides. Then wash it with a wire brush.”
He turns and walks back to the entrance, whistling.
*
Derrick bought me an iPod and earbuds. He’s always buying me things. Well, maybe not always. But sometimes out of nowhere, he just shows up and casually says, “Hey, I got you something.” And everything’s great. We’re great. Other times, I don’t hear from him for days and I wonder what the hell I’ve done. I don’t care about the stuff. It’s nice, but I really don’t give a shit.
With my music on, time passes quickly. After a few hours of scraping, the fence looks like a disaster. The places that weren’t touched by my bright colors peel off easily and soon the ground and gardens are littered with bits of white and purple and blue.
Marty finally comes back. I haven’t seen him since he left me here with the scraper, but I’m not fooled. I know he watched me the whole time. I’m sure Anne Campbell, RN, Executive Director, was peering through one of the windows at me, too.
“It’s a start,” is all Marty says.
He picks up the bucket, tossing the water onto a shrub, and heads back inside, so I follow him, carrying the other tools. I peel off the coveralls and hang them up. My boots are covered with flakes of paint.
“You might want to wear different shoes next time.” Marty has his back to me, hanging up his plaid jacket on the hook next to the coveralls. Without turning around to look at me, he adds, “See you Thursday.”
Fucking waste of time.
5
Elizabeth
I asked one of the support workers to push me outside in a wheelchair. The day is much too beautiful to spend trapped behind concrete walls, the sunlight filtered through glass. I need the fresh air and sunshine to fill my frail body, to sustain me through the long winter months ahead.
I suppose I could have come out here on my own using my walker, but it is becoming more and more difficult as my vision fades to shadowy images that dance in front of me like spirits, refusing to settle into shapes and forms with finite edges. I am dressed for the cold in a warm fleece jacket and have a woolen blanket tucked snugly around my legs. I am wearing the sunglasses Marty gave me in the summer. My eyes are sensitive now, to wind, and to light. It is ironic.
“How is this, Miss Livingstone?” the aide asks, after pushing me beneath the pergola. She is young. I recognize her voice, but she is new and I can’t match it to the image of a face stored away in memory. I don’t need much help, but when I do, it’s nice to know it’s here for the asking.