Tagged

by Diane C. Mullen

  “Looks like a lake.” City lake in Minneapolis. Minus the people, tall buildings, and thumping tunes.

  We walk. The path winds along the harbor. I hold Bowzer’s leash.

  “Tell me about your family, Liam.”

  “Not much to tell. Me, Mom, Kieran, Patrick, Fiona, Declan.”

  “Wow. Five kids?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Dad?”

  “Nope. Haven’t seen him since I was seven.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m not.”

  We walk past row after row of docked boats. Bowzer barks at two ducks. Tighten my grip on the leash.

  “So, what about your family?”

  “Me, Bowzer.” She bends down. Rubs his head. “Mom and Dad.”

  “No brothers or sisters?”

  “Just me.”

  “Should I say sorry?”

  “Yes. I always wanted brothers and sisters. My parents pay too much attention to me.”

  “So?”

  “So they already have my whole life planned out for me. I’ll graduate from Lakeshore High School with honors, get my undergraduate degree in pre-law from the University of Michigan, then go on to Harvard Law.”

  “That’s bad?”

  “Horrible,” she says. “I want to be a Coastie.”

  Coastie? “Why not a lawyer?”

  “Because I want to do something completely different.”

  Pause. Don’t want to sound stupid but have to ask. “What’s a Coastie?”

  “I want to join the coast guard.” She smiles.

  “So tell them that’s what you want.” Right. Like it’s that easy.

  “I’ve tried. They won’t talk about it.”

  “You’re going to be a sophomore right?” Another thing we have in common.

  “Yep.”

  “Then you’ve got lots of time to convince them.”

  “My parents don’t look at it that way. They keep telling me I only have three years to get my life in order. I need to be preparing now to get into U of M.”

  We stop. At a gate in front of white-and-red buildings. Big sign reads: United States Coast Guard. Lakeshore Station.

  “This is my something completely different.” She points.

  “Very cool.”

  “What do you want to be, Liam?”

  “I haven’t really thought about it that much.” Famous graffiti writer? “Maybe an artist.”

  Approaching three guys

  They’re standing in front of the pizza place. Wearing beaters. Baggie khakis. Red bandannas. Checking out St. B tagged on the bench. My handstyle looks impressive.

  Are they Bloods? Definitely wearing colors.

  Sara squints. “Did they tag that bench?”

  “What do you mean?” Can’t tell her it’s mine. She sounds angry.

  “Yo.” One of them takes a step toward us.

  I lift my chin. City way of acknowledging someone. “What’s good?”

  “You here for the summer, man?” one of them says. He’s wearing a red Yankees cap. The bill’s tilted to the left. Meaning he bangs.

  “Yeah.”

  “You from Chicago?”

  Chicago? “Minneapolis.”

  “You live in the city, cuz?”

  What the … ? “Yeah.”

  “Decent. Know anything about this, man?” He throws up a lame version of the hand sign for Bloods.

  Gang wannabes. “Yeah. Some.” I try to keep from laughing out loud at these fools. “But I don’t bang.”

  “Why, are you chicken shit?” They high-five each other.

  Got no time for these poseurs. Walk away.

  “See this, homeboy?” Guy with the Yankees hat points to my tag. “STB, baby. Submit to Bloods. Don’t you forget it, man.”

  “Knock it off, guys.” Sara rolls her eyes. “We don’t live in the hood.”

  Want to tell her that I do. But maybe she won’t want to hang out with me. Keep walking.

  Then I stop. Turn around. “Hey!” I throw down the sign for Bloods. Showing disrespect.

  They just stare. Stupid looks on their faces. “I thought so.” I smirk and turn around. STB? Yeah, right.

  I jog. Need to catch up to Sara.

  Wanting more information

  Been awake since about four this morning. Can’t stop thinking about everything. So many things in my head. Sara. Basquiat. Picasso. Sara.

  After breakfast I take the back way to the library. Past the harbor. Huge sailboats tied to docks. Tall masts stand like skeletons. Some boats are anchored farther out in the water. Sara said people use small dinghies to get to shore. Living on a sailboat would be very cool.

  I climb up the grassy hill to the library. Woman unlocks the front door.

  “Good morning.” She holds the door open. Her name tag says Librarian.

  “Morning.”

  Help and reference desk. Best place to start my research. Three middle-aged men walk past, over to the computer stations along the wall.

  “May I help you?” Librarian says.

  “Do you have an art section?”

  “Yes. Are you looking for something specific?”

  “Well, anything about Pablo Picasso. And Jean-Michel Basquiat.”

  “Biographies or examples of their work?”

  “Both?”

  “Picasso, yes. Basquiat, maybe. Let’s head over to the art section. I’ll show you what we have.”

  Past the teen section. The Chocolate War propped on the top shelf. Never finished that at Saint Al’s.

  We get to the art section. She hands me two books. Picasso: Art as Autobiography and Picasso and American Art.

  “This second book is great because it talks about Picasso’s influence on contemporary American artists.”

  “Good.”

  “Now Basquiat. Here we are.” She holds up Basquiat: A Quick Killing in Art.

  “Thank you.”

  “Happy to help.” She smiles. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

  Sit at the table closest to the window. That way I can look at the sailboats. Open the book about Basquiat.

  Jean-Michel Basquiat said that his father was abusive.

  Basquiat’s teachers remembered him as uncommonly talented but very angry.

  Basquiat ran away from home at fifteen.

  Basquiat’s work reflected his urban surroundings.

  Nobody could ignore Jean-Michel Basquiat.

  Heading back to the house

  In a hurry. Grocery bag filled with books about Basquiat, Picasso, NYC graffiti artists. Got The Chocolate War, too. Pass a small house completely covered by huge rosebushes. Elderly man with a long silver pole in one hand. Cane in the other. It’s Mr. Philosopher. Looks right at me.

  “Give me a hand, will ya?”

  Not again. “Sure.”

  “Liam, right?”

  “Yeah. Clarence?”

  “Most folks call me Hank.”

  “Right.”

  “I’m trying to trim these rosebushes, but I can’t reach up high enough.” He drops the long pole. Picks up something that looks like huge scissors. “Take these clippers and give it a try.” Hands them to me. “You’re a lot taller than I am.”

  Great. Never done this before. Put my bag of books down.

  “Now, look above you. See that tangled branch?”

  “I think so.” What if I screw up?

  “Use the lower end of the clippers and cut straight through.”

  Careful to only get one branch. “Here?” I say.

  “That’s it. Cut it clean now.”

  Wood’s thick. Not easy to cut.

  “I’m going to have to really crank on this, Hank.”

  “Go ahead. Just take your time.”

  “Okay.” Do this right. Push hard. CRRRAAACK. Branch lands next to my feet. “How’s that?”

  “Good job.” He picks up the fallen branch. “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  He cuts
a few red roses off. “Smell that beauty.” Holds one out toward me.

  “Okay.” Reminds me of my third-grade teacher who always smelled like this. She hung my drawings on the class bulletin board. “Yeah, it’s nice.” Petals look like red velvet. A miniature painting.

  “My wife—God rest her soul—loved roses. All kinds. But this one here, this was her favorite.”

  Nod. Hank was married.

  “The things just keep growing, so I’ve gotta keep them trimmed. When these things get too wild, you can’t see their beauty anymore.”

  I nod. He keeps talking.

  “We planted this one the day after we moved into this house. Forty-two years ago.”

  “Really?” Forty-two years in Lakeshore?

  “Yessir. Moved up here from Detroit. Couldn’t take the crime in the city anymore.”

  “Oh.” Don’t know what else to say. “I’ve got to get going, Hank.”

  “What’s your hurry? Sit down and take a load off. You want some lemonade?”

  “I’ve got to get back to Kat’s.”

  “Okay, then. Thanks for your help.”

  “No big deal.” Start walking.

  “Wait.” He lifts my bag. “You forgot your groceries.”

  Spending time with Sara

  Hanging out. In her backyard. Goofing around with Bowzer. He walks over to a huge maple tree. Lies in the shade.

  “It’s muggy out here. You want to watch TV?” Sara says.

  “Sure.” Thank you, God. “I haven’t watched TV in almost a month. Kat doesn’t have one.”

  “Come on, it’s in the family room.” She walks in the back door.

  “You heard the woman. Let’s go, Bowzer.”

  A room that’s almost as big as our whole apartment in Minneapolis. Big-screen TV on one side. Pool table on the other.

  “Nice place.”

  “My dad likes his toys. He likes to unwind after a long day in the OR.”

  “OR?”

  “Operating room. He’s a surgeon,” she says.

  “Hmmm.” She’s rich. Doesn’t act like it, though.

  “You want to play pool instead?”

  “Okay. But I have to warn you, I’m pretty good.” Tyrell, Sean, and I use the table covered with wads of gum and spilled pop at the community building. Should probably take it easy on her. Be a gentleman. No reason to make her feel bad. Even if her dad’s a polo-wearing boojie.

  Sara wins every game.

  “You shouldn’t have tried to let me win.” She pokes my arm.

  “I didn’t.” I was trying.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, only in the beginning.”

  “A gentleman, right?”

  I laugh. “Yeah, or something like that.”

  “Let’s watch TV.” She tosses me the remote.

  “If you insist.”

  Approaching the stop sign

  Thick black letters cover the letters S-T-O-P. Can’t stop St. B.

  Did another tag a few days ago. Hope everyone notices I changed up my handstyle. Again. Bubble design. This one looks like it’s made of balloons that were blown up and tied at the bottom. My favorite. So far.

  Group of people gathered nearby. They don’t look happy. Staring at my work. Have to pass them to get back to Kat’s house. Keep walking. Try to look like I belong here.

  “STB? What’s STB?” Man wearing plaid trousers.

  The signature of a graffiti writer can’t be ignored. Still. I look down at the sidewalk to ignore them.

  “It’s spray paint. Looks like graffiti.”

  “What does it mean? What’s STB?”

  Why does everyone think its STB?

  “I’ve seen this kind of vandalism on CNN. Looks like gang stuff to me.”

  Gang stuff? I look up. Can’t help it.

  “Gangs?” Woman slaps her hands against her face. “In Lakeshore? I’m going to call town hall and find out what’s going on.”

  Not again. It’s only a tag.

  “This garbage is an eyesore.”

  It’s street art.

  “This kind of stuff will scare the tourists away. The police need to take care of this.”

  I go around them. Can feel their eyes bearing down on me.

  Someone whispers, “Do you know him?”

  “No, but summer people are arriving.”

  “I think he’s staying with the Lady Artist.”

  Shite.

  Observing my surroundings

  Headed up and down Main Street with the rest of the summer people.

  Think about Basquiat. The way he wrote things on walls in Brooklyn. Painted what he saw. Responded to his life. Made people know what was on his mind. Street artist. Tagged as SAMO©. For same ol’ shit.

  Created statements that forced people to think. Was a master of conceptual graffiti, which means the words he wrote were more important than what his tags looked like. Basquiat sprayed:

  – Jimmy best on his back to the suckerpunch of his childhood files.

  – We have decided the bullet must have been going very fast.

  – A lot of bowery bums used to be executives.

  – Plush safe he think.

  Very cool. I could do something like Basquiat.

  What have I seen in Lakeshore? White sun. White clouds. White skin. White clothes. White beach toys. White fudge. White buildings. SAMO©. SAMO©. SAMO©.

  Wait.

  White buildings mean white walls. Fresh canvases for a street artist. Like Basquiat. A way to tell people what’s on my mind. Right, Jean-Michel? I feel that adrenaline thing. Run. Back to Kat’s as fast as I can. Need my blackbook. Want to force these people to think.

  I’ll give them something more involved than a tag. More artistic. Make them see what I’m trying to say.

  Visualizing my voice

  On the pages of my blackbook. Working on something important. Much more involved than St. B or the Irish Mafia shamrock. Experimenting with ideas for a masterpiece. Has to be big. And Kat’s book about Basquiat said that it has to have at least three colors for the design to be considered a piece. Sizes. Letter styles. Practice until they’re exactly right. Clear. Purposeful. Intentional.

  Time to move up to something more complicated. Don’t want to stay a tagger my whole life. Can’t do anything like that amazing phoenix piece. Not yet. But I could probably do a conceptual graffiti piece like Basquiat. He used words to show where he came from. I’ll create a piece to make a statement about me. About my life. Colorful conceptual graffiti.

  Everyone will see what I have to say.

  They’ll know where I’m coming from.

  Jogging over to Hank’s

  Going to help him paint his garage.

  See a kid and his dad playing baseball at the playground.

  Got a couple of minutes to watch this.

  They’re just throwing the ball back and forth. The dad gives pointers to his son. Laughing. Having a good time. How nice.

  Yeah, right.

  Who gives a crap? Basquiat never played catch with his dad, either.

  Wrapping a T-shirt around each spray can

  So they don’t clang together in my backpack. Dying to spray my first masterpiece. Wanted to do this two nights ago, but I was too tired from painting at Hank’s. Fully rested now. Tonight’s the night.

  Pull on my black hoodie. Need to blend in with the dark. Walk barefoot through the living room. Don’t wake Kat up. Clock on the mantel bongs twelve.

  Quietly close the door.

  Showtime.

  Screaming what Lakeshore needs to see

  Find a spot on the large wall of the bathhouse. It’s the entrance to the public beach. Biggest empty space I could find. Light from the front of the building is just bright enough to see what I’m doing.

  Bandanna around my mouth and nose. Hood over my head. Look all around. Can of Midnight Black out of my backpack. Whole outline will be black. Remember to spray like the can is an extension of my hand.

&nbs
p; CLIKCLAKCLIKCLAKCLIKCLAK. Plastic cap off. Remember to stay close to the wall. Move quick for a clean outline. Just like Basquiat. Look again. Now. Press down on the nozzle.

  PSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSST. Love this sound.

  So far so good. Hardly any drips. See headlights. Hide. Crawl to other side of the bathhouse. Waiting for the dark to return, so I can get the outline done soon. Brightness turns the corner. Disappears.

  Need to have time to fill in the letters with a second color. Relax. Work quickly but carefully. This needs to be perfect. Don’t screw it up by going too fast.

  Done. Midnight Black in. Shock Blue out. Fill color.

  CLIKCLAKCLIKCLAKCLIKCLAK. Start again.

  PSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSST. Very cool. Even better than the sketch in my blackbook. Shock Blue is perfect. Great color. Careful not to let the paint drip down onto the outline.

  Bright flash. Headlights again? Another car. Drop to the ground. What the … ? The car stops. Heart’s racing. Door opens. Spotlight. Lie still. Footsteps. Don’t move.

  Not one muscle.

  Walking this way? Don’t even breathe.

  “Base? This is one-five-two. Over.”

  A cop? Crap.

  “I’m at the site.” Beam from her spotlight swings all over. “It’s empty. Nothing going on.”

  She didn’t see me? Didn’t see my piece? Spotlight must’ve shined everywhere but on my piece.

  “Roger that.”

  Car door slams. Cop drives away.

  Wait. Don’t be stupid. Stay still. Everything’s quiet. Ha. Luck of the Irish. Looking around. Hang on.

  Now. Get this piece done. Get out of here.

  Finishing the Shock Blue fill.

  Only the glow left. Blue in. Tornado Red out.

  CLIKCLAKCLIKCLAKCLIKCLAK. Start at the top left-hand corner of the piece.

  PSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSST. Follow the letters all the way back around to the starting point. Red because it demands attention.

  Done.

  Step back to take another look.

  STREET ART: LIVE FROM THE HOOD

  Just like in my blackbook. Amazing. More like something Basquiat would’ve done. Artistic lettering style. Beautiful.