FEBRUARY 2009

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Paint
By Erin Rakow, Dec 11, 2008

His wife had been dead for two months, and so far he had told no one at the office. He had been so stunned to lose her that he couldn’t figure out an acceptable speech to deliver to human resources. Took his two personal weeks, and nobody thought to ask him where he had been. If his skin was tan he could have been on vacation or if he was pale he could have found Jesus, for all they cared. But work had become a solace, as he found himself transported by subway, then foot, then elevator, to his desk. The end of the day brought the reverse.

He rode the subway home in a typical stance every night. A newspaper clutched in one hand for company, and a pole clutched for life in the other. This was the routine, as the days and $2.00 fares blended together in his mind. A dampness and the scent of snow puddled around passengers feet and noses on the inexplicably air conditioned car. He was the only one on the train wishing he was headed back to the work where time was easily passed. He couldn’t believe there were people eating dinner. Enjoying happy hour, worrying about their stocks, flirting with married men and women....

The train lurched past stops. 14th St. Brooklyn Bridge. Fulton. Suddenly the streets had names instead of numbers and he realized he forgot to exit more than twenty minutes ago. No one noticed him on the subway, and no one should have reminded him that his destination was miles back. Rather than change direction on a new train, he found himself out on a street with a name he couldn’t have located on a map. He had as much use for himself here as in his own home, where no one was awaiting or expecting his return.

It was cold and dark on the street. He could look for a new coat for warmth. Or deodorant and toilet paper, as his first shopping list reminded. Things like this she had taken care of for him, and he didn’t realize the extent of his shortcomings until she was gone. But thankfully in New York no one cared to question a man buying his toiletries from such a remote neighborhood. He ducked into a small bodega that provided what he considered locals with cigars and beer, lotto tickets and condoms.

He strolled the aisles with interest. These brands had an international lean toward Spanish. Some young boys entered the store, and encountered the grouchy cashier.

“Yo, give me a can of paint,” the tallest requested.

“What you need it for?”

“Bitch, it’s a free country.”

“I’m not selling paint no more.”

“I can see it from here!”

“Buy some food or get out.”

The boy turned to his friends. “Believe this guy, like my cash’s no good.”

“Last time I sold you paint the store wound up tagged with your shit!”

“I didn’t do it! I don’t come around here ever.”

“Then tell me what do you need it for.”

“Why you think? Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

From behind a stack of potato and plantain chips, he listened to the exchange. It was heated in the way that adolescents have of lighting their conversations, full of sour words and frustration. He felt badly for the boy as he walked away, some plan interrupted. It wasn’t fair that he didn’t get what he wanted. But that was life, and the kid had to face it and be thankful that he was saved the trouble of doing something inevitably stupid. Unless.

“May I have a spray paint can?” he asked the cashier.

The cashier looked at him with disdain.

“I’m doing some repairs, those kids reminded me I needed some black paint. It’s for my garage,” he felt ridiculous for laying out the argument. “And a lotto ticket,” thinking it would make his purchase somehow more legitimate.

When he returned outside, there was no trace of the boys. He didn’t know what to do with a can of spray paint or with a lottery ticket and didn’t even have the heart to pretend that this would be his lucky winning moment. That some force would reward him with undeserved prize money for his situation. The idea of things improving still seemed remote with a lotto ticket in hand.

After a few blocks of trying to find the boys he stopped in the outdoor vestibule of a church, feeling homeless in this part of town and needing to figure out how to flag a cab in a neighborhood where no one had enough money to pay for one. For an adventurous habit like taking the subway, there was little difference. Each new day meant different faces ignoring each other. He had missed his subway stop, and tonight it felt like an opportunity.

He missed her sense of direction. They were never lost together. They were never late. They were matched so well and so evenly. A slip of the brake and now he would never feel home again. He had nothing but a simple, useless, stupid blame and a can of spray paint.

He would show them. If anyone thought he’d never find a way to deal with his grief or didn’t have it in him to even try. He reached out and uncapped his aerosol can, spraying a gigantic word, the first that came to mind. F-U-C-K now spelled out sloppily, in some sort of hybrid handwriting between script and print, on the church wall. It was messy but proud, like his attitude as he stood admiring his handiwork before retreating to the shadows to see how it was received by his audience, the world. It was written for everyone. For friends he didn’t have and a wife who was dead and co-workers who cared about no one.

Fuck. There were so many deliciously crude interpretations. It could literally mean fuck as in sex, which was a vulgar thing to put on a church. Fuck the world. It could mean something was fucked up, or fuck as in exasperation. People would wonder if he meant to write just fuck someone, or fuck something but was cut off. Fuck. There was a story behind it, his piece, like the best artwork in the world. Or of course, it could simply mean fuck you to the person who happened to gaze at the wrong wall. She didn’t exist right now but he did, he felt so sure.

A thirty-six-year-old man in his work suit and trench coat, graffiting the side of a church. It didn’t make perfect sense but it gave him a chuckle, his first in weeks.

He reached his cold hands into his pocket, and remembered the lotto ticket. Might as well not let it go to waste. These have a rapid expiration. Scratched a few numbers, to nothing promising as his heartbeat remained constant. He did not win, but was not lost.