THUGLIT Issue Ten

by Ed Kurtz

  My dad hesitated for a second. Skunk reached down and grabbed him by the arm. In a surprising feat of strength he pulled my dad to his feet.

  "Go on…I ain’t going to say it again," Skunk whispered.

  "I don't want my boy to see this," was all my dad said.

  Skunk and I went back upstairs to the kitchen. I walked in front of him. He didn't put the gun to my back, but I knew it was there. We sat at the kitchen table. He didn't point the gun at me, letting it dangle at his side.

  Minutes ticked by as we both waited for a sound. I looked at the digital readout on the microwave. 10:57 p.m.

  At 10:59pm I heard the shotgun.

  At 11:00pm my dad came up the stairs with the shotgun in his hands. The wire was still attached to the barrel. The loop that had been around Deputy Mumford's head glistened with blood. He pointed the shotgun at Skunk.

  "Fuck you motherfucker!" he screamed before pulling the trigger.

  A dry click like a tree branch cracking was all that emanated from the gun.

  "Ronnie, did you think I put more than one shell in there? You really do think I'm stupid, don't you?" Skunk said sadly.

  Dad and Skunk buried the deputy in my mother's rose garden. I was locked in my bedroom. I remember sitting on the edge of my bed with my head in my hands. Everything we were died that night right along with Deputy Mumford. Mom and Dad's marriage fell apart.

  I have the feeling she eventually found out about Dad's extracurricular activities. By that time I was in college. I didn't speak to my dad very much after that night. It seemed like there was nothing left to say. He died in 2005. He left the house to me and I sold it before he was in the ground. The last time I saw him he looked…haunted. He was a caricature of his old self—eyes sunken deep in his skull, gray hair thinning like a crowd in a rainstorm.

  Sometimes I wonder why he didn't try to save Deputy Mumford. He could have taken the wire from around his neck. I wonder when the new owners of the house will dig up the rose garden. I wonder whatever happened to my Uncle Skunk. But most of the time I wonder about myself. About the bad blood running through my veins.

  I don't want to be the cobra.

  But I sure as hell hope I'm not the rat…

  Traces of a Name

  by Aaron Fox-Lerner

  I was taking the Q train to meet a client when I saw that I'd been dissed by a dead kid. It was on a spot I'd had for eight years. Eight years. Any time I was riding into Manhattan I'd stare out the window on the right-hand side, waiting to see my name just where I'd left it—on a water tower rising above a Chinatown apartment block. And then all of a sudden his name was there, covering mine.

  My first reaction was just like it used to be when I still wrote graffiti, this weird mix of panic and anger, with my heartbeat suddenly surging. Half of me was feeling rage at the disrespect, while the other half was getting all nervy about having to risk arrest to take the spot back and calculating the best way to react. But the diss wasn't that strange. The strange thing was the name. The dead kid's name.

  Back in the day I used to have beef with this dude who wrote Verx. He picked shit with me because he claimed I was targeting his tags with my throw-ups. He'd hit up a lot of roll-downs on Atlantic with tags, not even outlines, and then I did fill-ins on some of those roll-downs. He got all bitchy about it even though fills over tags is like graffiti rule number one.

  We did the standard thing in this sort of situation. I wrote my name over his, he wrote his name over mine, and we both asked around trying to figure out who the other guy was while claiming that we were gonna beat him up. He took out three of my rooftops in Brooklyn, I capped everything he had running on Canal—even the whiteout tags. Every week became about waiting to see what spots I'd have to take back from him while keeping an eye out for anywhere he'd gotten up so I could get revenge. I didn't even know what he looked like, but I found myself fantasizing about hurting him. Despite my moments of rage, I didn't really want to fight him. I just wanted the trouble to be over. But I figured I'd have to try to get the jump on him at some point because I couldn't see how else the beef was going to end.

  Then one night he walked into a subway tunnel and never walked out. Hit by a train. Not an unheard of way for a graff writer to die. Nineteen years old. Younger than I was at the time. The Daily News made a snarky joke about his death, other media ran a brief line on it, and that was it. Except for those that actually knew him. The "R.I.P. Verx" tags started popping up quickly, followed by a memorial mural and illegal straight-letter tributes.

  I still hadn't taken back those rooftops when he died, and now I never would. Those spots were his. I couldn't go around removing his last traces on Earth. I was obviously never a fan of the guy, but he certainly didn't deserve what happened to him. It was weird, hearing about this guy whom I hated without having met suddenly being wiped out of existence. The tributes slowed down by the end of the next year, but every once in a while I'd see a shout-out to him from one of his old homeys.

  By that time I'd stopped writing. About a year and a half after the whole Verx thing, I got busted painting a construction yard on the LES. I'd been arrested before, but this time Vandal Squad tried to build a case against me. They failed, but the fight was enough to push me out of the graff game. I'd still catch tags in bar bathrooms and maybe paint the occasional safe freight spot way far upstate with some friends, but I wasn't bombing the streets anymore. It didn't help that one of my best friends and main bombing partners moved out of the city after getting his arm broken in a drunken fight.

  My life was changing too. I'd finally gotten to a point where I could support myself as a graphic designer. I found myself putting off nights out bombing because spending a night in lock-up would really fuck with my deadlines. And I moved in with my girlfriend. She always knew that I wrote and tolerated it, but it wasn't something she was super into. She was even less into me sneaking out of our bed at two in the morning. It wasn't a full, sudden decision, but at a certain point I just realized that I had stopped.

  Now I was one of those guys who used to write. I was getting by well enough with design work and the girlfriend had first become the wife and then the pregnant wife. Sometimes I missed writing, but not terribly. I was pretty much okay with not running around at night committing criminal acts anymore.

  And then I saw my shit crossed out. I couldn't figure out what it meant. Verx was dead. He'd been dead for years. Any of our problems ended with that. So who went over me with his name? Was it one of his old friends? Some of them still wrote. They were hardcore bomber types now, the sorts who had to be living criminal lives just to keep up the graff habit as much as they did. People with stable jobs didn't get up that much, at least not in New York. But they hadn't picked any beef with me after Verx passed. Why do this now?

  Another thing about it was that it was ugly. Whoever did this really didn't have much of a visual sense, but then again neither did Verx. He was a bomber, all about the quick and dirty, never stressing the aesthetics much. I'd always found his throw really plain and generic, no real style to it whatsoever. I know that he and his crew likewise lambasted me as an art fag; I had a kind of offbeat cartoony style that could rub more traditional writers the wrong way. Whoever had done the Verx over me on the water tower had painted an ugly straight letter with a crack fill and poor color matching to boot, purple on green that was barely legible.

  The problem for me was that I couldn't just take the spot back. Not because of my situation. I would take the risk to reclaim the spot—it was a goddamn legacy spot, highly visible and one of the last things I still had running. The problem was that I couldn't go over a dead guy's name. If I were to cross out this guy again years after he passed, then I'd have all his old homeys coming after me and I definitely didn't want that. I just needed to find out who dissed me and why before taking any action.

  I hit up every graff writer I knew. The ones who hit me back didn't know anything. Next I hit up the web, searching through Instagram an
d Flickr but not finding much. The graffiti blogs I checked weren't much help either, but I did find out that an old friend of mine was hosting an art show the next week.

  Al and I went back about a decade. He was the kind of guy who knew everyone, so he'd be a good person to ask. He had connections with a bunch of major crews and writers, even though he mostly did street art now. Unlike most street artists, he had roots in the traditional graffiti scene and had a real hand-done unique quality to his stickers and posters that graff writers found more respectable than the mass-produced-looking crap most street artists produced. The show would be useful to go to.

  The next Friday I found myself taking a Pilot marker from my desk as I left home. After I got off the train in Bed Stuy, I started catching tags as I made my way towards the studio where Al's show was. I wanted people to know that I was back. If I couldn't retake the water tower then I'd at least let writers know that I was still around elsewhere.

  I'd almost reached the show when a cruiser started following me, rolling slowly down the street in my wake. I thought I was being careful, only catching tags when I didn't think anyone could see, but it was possible someone had still spotted me. Or it was possible that the cops were just following me because I was a guy walking down their street.

  They caught up to me at the corner, where they pulled in front of me slowly without stopping. After eyeballing my pale skin and dark framed glasses they rolled on, never accelerating or gaining much speed. I walked onwards to the show, keeping my marker in my pocket.

  It was crowded and hazy inside. There were a lot of kids hanging around, smoking cigarettes or weed and drinking PBRs sold out of a blue plastic bucket for two bucks a can. A few held their own forties or bottles of liquor. It was crowded. I couldn't spot any obvious plainclothes cops. Like anything having to do with graff, it was also a total sausage fest. Not that much had changed since I last went to one of these things. Even the music was the same; I could hear Biggie playing in the back of the room on shitty speakers.

  I pushed through the crowd while checking out the work on the walls. Al's stuff was looking nice, most of the other things were too slick, cheesy, or poorly done for my taste. I found Al around the corner in a kitchen kicking it with a girl with full sleeve tattoos.

  At first he didn't recognize me, then he practically jumped up right where he was standing when he realized who it was. We caught up for a bit and then he brought up the water tower. I asked him if he knew anything about it, but he didn't. He'd seen it and had no idea what the deal was. He said he'd try to get in touch with some of Verx's boys from back in the day, see if they knew what was up with it.

  We kept chatting and drinking and he introduced me to some friends of his, a pair of college kids from the west coast. At some point I decided it would be a good idea to go out bombing with them. Al wasn't having it, he had to shut down the show and go back home with his girlfriend.

  So I hit up the streets with the two guys. They were more cautious than I expected them to be, which was good. Not many street tags, nothing if anyone was around. There were a couple lots they wanted to hit up. They'd lent me the paint, just a couple cans black and silver. It was flattering, I could tell they were hyped to be putting their names next to mine. Even when we hit up the first yard they were giving deference to my name, saying that my tag, Admrl, could go up front—closest to the street. They'd throw up their own names, Ixnay and Rien, further down on the wall.

  Afterward, walking back to the subway. I noticed there were a lot of cops cruising down the major streets, and I felt energized by every one of them I saw. They had no idea what I'd done. They hadn't stopped me after all. I still got in under their noses.

  I was feeling pretty good until I walked in the door and there she was, waiting for me.

  "Nadia," I said, still a bit of a dumb grin on my face.

  "What the fuck! You said you were just going to go to your friend's show. Do you know what time it is?"

  "I did go. I was just out late, okay?"

  "No, not fucking okay. I can see the paint on your fingers, you know."

  "Look, I just hit up one spot."

  "Until three in the morning?"

  "Yeah, I stayed out late and hit up one spot. It's not such a big deal."

  "Yes. It is such a big deal. Is this because of that rooftop you were telling me about? The one where you got crossed out? Because you know you should let that shit go. Paint fades anyway."

  "But I have to find out what the deal is. I mean, that water tower ran for years before it got crossed. By a fucking dead kid I used to have beef with. How could I not try to figure out what the deal is there?"

  "So you went out painting a new neighborhood? Yeah, I'll bet that really solved the mystery. Look, when we were going out did I ever give you shit for bombing? No. Did I ever tell you that you couldn't go out and paint at ridiculous hours of the night? No. I knew it was something you were passionate about and I liked the stuff you did. But we're not going out anymore. We're fucking married. And when I married you, you weren't doing this shit anymore. I've got a baby inside of me, in case you haven't noticed. I don't want to worry about her father being in jail. I'm know you're anxious about this whole next step for us and this cross-out thing brought back the past for you, but everything's changed. You can't just go back to ten years ago."

  She was, objectively speaking, right. I couldn't argue with this. I knew it was stupid. I promised her I'd stop. But the situation gnawed at me. And it had been a rush to go out again, to catch that kind of attention. The very next day after I went out bombing, I saw that flicks of the stuff I did with Rien and Ixnay were already up on the Instagram and Flickr of a pretty popular New York graff photographer. Over 60 favorites on Flickr, more than two hundred likes on Instagram. Just for a pair of throws.

  I was checking Instagram again to see if anyone had left any comments when Al called.

  "Yo, dude. That kid Ixnay helped me get in touch with DGAF. He wants to talk to you."

  DGAF was one of Verx's friends. Currently tearing up the city. Big rough throw-ups with a punchy style.

  "Is he the one who dissed my spot?"

  "I dunno, he just said he wanted to talk to you, that's it."

  "Did he sound angry?"

  "Man, he always sounds angry. You want his number?"

  I gave DGAF a call later that day, when Nadia wasn't around.

  "Yeah?'

  "Hey, is this DGAF? It's uh, Admrl."

  "Not over the phone. Can you meet tonight?"

  "Sure, I think so. Yeah."

  I sent a text to Nadia telling her I was going out to settle the whole Verx situation. I didn't get any response. I'd agreed to meet DGAF at a bar in Bushwick. About five minutes after I arrived, a tall skinny guy with gaunt cheeks showed up and stopped at the bar for a bottle of Yuengling before walking over to my table. He looked down at me while I glanced up at him. He was about my age, wearing a gray cap and a North Face jacket.

  "You're Admrl."

  "Yeah."

  He sat down and took a swig of his beer. "Shit."

  "So you got problems with me or what?" I asked him.

  "Nah," he said, seemingly taken aback, "I got no problems with you. That beef you had with Verx is in the past. And you handled it right once he passed. I hit you up because I figured you'd have a stake in the whole fake Verx thing."

  "Fake Verx?"

  "Yeah, I saw he went over you on that water tower in Chinatown. That shit's a legacy spot. Figured you'd be pissed."

  "I am."

  "Well then take a ride with me. We're gonna go to Queens. There's someone you should meet."

  "Look, I'm not…"

  "Naw, don't worry. Trust me, you're gonna want to see this."

  He drove a silver Accord, which was parked down the street. The inside was surprisingly empty and clean.

  "Uh, nice ride," I said as we pulled onto the BQE.

  "Thanks. Not mine. Just borrowing a friend's car. Not even supposed to
be driving it, I think. Probably a probation violation or some shit."

  "So they get you that hard for graff?"

  "They been trying. The main shit now's not even graff related. Caught me with some cartons of racked cigarettes cause some cocksucker bodega owner I was selling to snitched on me. But I got my lawyer, he's tying shit up now. You gotta have one now, you know? A fucking lawyer."

  "You seriously think graff writers need lawyers?"

  "In New York fucking City they do. Goddamn police state. Shit, I'd probably be locked up now if I had a solid address. I mean, maybe not everyone. You catch your first offense or whatever? Okay, fine no big deal. But me? The number of arrests just for graff under my belt? Shit."

  "Yeah, that was the last time I got busted. Vandal Squad came to my door."

  "When was that? A while back, right? About when you stopped painting?"

  "Uh, yeah, basically. Like six years ago?"

  "Back in the day I respected them more. Like they were all these weird old cops, you know? Fucking crazy old Italian dudes who joined Vandal Squad to ride out their terms before retirement, fucking rolling around with "Sabotage"-style mustaches and sunglasses, but for real, no fucking irony at all, naw mean? Nowadays it's just some big-ass jock douchebags, the same kind of ex-football player meatheads that turn into cops in every small town. Who the fuck can respect getting busted by someone like that? Trust me, you're lucky not to be doing this shit anymore."

  "Yeah, well, I—"

  "Yo, hold up. I think this is it."

  We were on a quiet residential street in Elmont, the houses just too small to really qualify as suburban. I felt like I was in another city.

  "So this fake Verx kid," DGAF was telling me, "he's just some neighborhood toy. Gets up way out around here, it's no wonder we never seen his shit til recently. That shit he did over you, must've been some special night he traveled into the city."