For Innocence Lost

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Bryan wanted to bomb a train.

It was so long since he destroyed one. He'd almost forgotten the feeling on his skin, the intense smell, the dangers. He'd grown to miss it. So, as all artists do before they express their sadness, he took stock of his inventory.

Five fat caps, six slim caps. Three purples, three greens, four blacks, four whites. Mask, gloves, pepper spray.

He was ready.

He knew it to be so as soon as his fingers started itching. He hopped over chain fences and slid under train cars. His backpack clanked, his sneakers squeaked, his body tensed. Under and over, over and under. He couldn't help but feel that same rush from when he first decided to bomb. He still had the thrill, аll these years later...

Plus, his fingers itched. There's only one remedy for that.

He picked a car and set down his backpack. It was an old train, probably out of use but he didn't care. The days of chasing notoriety were behind him. He just wanted to relax, let loose, remember a time when the most important thing was getting your Blackbook tagged. Those were the days. He exhaled the nostalgia as he got out his equipment.

He started and heard Mike's teaching. Listen, Shorthands. You always begin with the outline, right? Bryan got one of the purple cans and fat caps started haphazardly spraying. Just, play around, right? You don't care, you just focus on the outline and what it represents. Rough strokes, right? Bryan got the green. Now you can do some small embellishments. He did several quick strokes - right, down, down, left, up, right, up, left - his hand moving with no regard for anything. And don't forget to patch any holes before you start your contour. He got out the purple again and started doing several quick puffs.

As he worked, his tension melted like overdone ink spots. The air was fresh and the locale was known. The only thing missing was the voices. He heard them all the same: Mikey, Josh, Jenny, Kyle, Issac, Brenda. His old crew. His friends. They critiqued and joked and laughed. Blissfully ignorant that they might get caught at any time. They didn't care. They didn't know any better. They were young, they were creative, and they were free.

Most of all, they were artists. Bryan listened to those voices and smiled through forming tiers. Not for the friends, he'd forgotten, but for the innocence they lost.

He got out the white and a slim cap started working on his inner contour. The trick is to see it finished, right? You see it finished, and you work towards that. Don't just draw for drawing's sake. Bryan did just that. Sorry, Mikey. He needed to let the art guide him, as he wasn't confident in his ability to guide it. A corporate job would do that to you. A corporate wife? Well... you just might sneak out in the middle of the night to graffiti bomb some used trains.

To each his own. His thoughts joined the growing coalition of master artists. His strokes -

Someone kicked something metal - and the voices changed into harsh whispers and intense warnings. Wide eyes and trembling lips.

It was all fun and games until the pigs arrived.

Bryan dropped his can and slid under the train car, leaving his equipment behind. He heard footsteps and couldn't determine where they were coming from. He got up and made for another car. But first a stack of boxes. Under and over. Over and under. Flashlights and shouting, curses and taunting.

The absurdity hit him the same time as the adrenaline. His net worth was probably higher than all those pigs combined. He had a happy family in an impressive home. But right now, as he nearly tripped over some pebbles, he was the happiest he'd been in years.

Plop. He landed on the other side of a water tankard. The pipe is close. And it was, breaking down and bleeding color, but it was there. He got inside, stepping in mushy water. It wasn't dirty - just processed. He reached the fork and turned left, towards a dead end. Except it was a plate of metal that he put back as he passed.

In a different life, they would use this pipe when things got really sticky. The pursuers would always turn right because of the metal plate blocking their path. Bryan entered the chase-breaker by instinct, but it was a good decision all the same, he was nearly out. Better safe than sorry. And his itch was gone,

Martha would probably chew his ear out. But it was more than worth it. He felt alive once more, as the virgin sun rose -

And the submachine gun barrel kissed his forehead. "You thought you got away, right?"

"Heh. That I did." Bryan put his hands up. "Gotta admit. No one knew about this exit. I'm impressed."

"They still don't." The cop was helmeted, the dim sunlight glinting softly off his weapon.

"They don't?"

"I came to see the millionaire philanthropist who would risk it all on some graffiti."

"Yeah right. What's with the drama? I'll pay my fee and maybe suffer some public backlash. Might even be good for my image." The man said nothing. "What's with the gun and the threats, anyway? You guys care that much about some used trains?"

"Still a smart ass, right?" The cop poked him with the bud of his weapon. "I saw your piece, looked like shit."

That tone, those words. It can't be...

"Mike?"

He threw the weapon aside as he took off his helmet. "Hey, Shorthands."

They embraced. And for a moment the world was still.

The moment passed. "You became a pig?"

"Phaw." Mikey waved the comment away as if it were an upfront to his dignity. Which it was. And he knew it. "Don't start. Man's gotta eat somehow right?"

"Aha..."

"Hey!" He pointed a finger in Bryan's face. "I had opportunities, I followed them. You did the same, right?"

"Yeah..." Bryan put his arm over Mikey's shoulder. "You're friends aren't coming?"

"Heh. They are still searching the right tunnel." Mike said with his characteristic grin. "I told them i was waiting at the entrance."

"You can do that? Lie to your colleagues, I mean."

"Well, no... But then again. I never said which entrance, did I?"

"Shit, Mikey. I - I missed you man. I missed all of you..."

"Wouldn't know about it."

"I know, I know." Bryan sighed. "I've... most of the stuff I've loved, I've ruined."

"Cost of getting the bag, right?" Bryan couldn't meet his eyes, but he nodded. "That way you came to our old stomping grounds?"

"Yeah... Speaking of which. Why did you guys swarm me? I wasn't tagging the Empire State Building or something."

"Ah, well. Long story. That area is zoned odd. If you decide to continue your vigilante ways, you'll have to find another yard."

"If I continue?"

"You think I'd take away water from a man dying of thirst?" Mikey clapped his shoulder. "I might be a pig. But I don't roll in shit, B. You should know that."

"Thanks, Mike..."

"Now get outta here before you cause problems for me."

"Brunch. Sunday at noon. At old Embers. No excuses, you hear? We gotta catch up."

"I'll be there." Mikey winked. "Probably."

"See ya, Mike."

As he ascended a small slope, Bryan still struggled to wrap his head around the night he had. He was thrilled beyond believing. Giddy. Yet... sad. With every step, he felt his new life returning. He wasn't scared of the law, or his wife, or any sanctions.

He was scared of remaining the man he'd become.

That man was always sad. Well almost always. For sometimes at night when the mood took him, he would dream of trains and walls. Of friends made and lost. Of painted fingernails and congested lungs. Joy and unhindered ambition to paint the entire world. He would dream of times forgotten.

And he was happy.

Obligatory shout-out to the 🍕PIZZA🍕 gang, 🤙 gang. 🤙

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Image source.

Peace and have a great weekend. 🙂