You're Welcome, Universe

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You're Welcome, Universe Page 13

by Whitney Gardner


  “Jeez,——- I thought——————an earthquake or————-. Then I thought…um…well. Yeah.”

  She is crazy. I comb out my hair with my fingers before tucking it under my beanie.

  “So? You ready?” She picks up the duffel bag.

  “I told you, I don’t think I’m ready. I don’t think I can—”

  “Uch, don’t be all like that. Get dressed; we’re going out.” She skips into the hall with her toothbrush.

  Since when is she in charge? I know I can do it; that’s not the point. This whole mess hasn’t given me a second to think. They tag back too fast. Stealing paint, hitting city property, and telling people—it doesn’t feel right. I like to plan, take my time. Be thoughtful, not reckless. It feels messy. YP doesn’t care though, she wants me to see it through. I really don’t know why she cares so much. Not just about this, about everything.

  “Where are we going?” I sign with one hand and swipe my MetroCard with the other.

  “I read——-——place on Google.” I want to tell her you don’t read about anything on Google itself, but whatever.

  It’s freezing this afternoon up on the elevated platform for the 7 train. It hasn’t snowed in a few days, but gray drifts clump to the bases of trash cans and benches. It’s disgusting. The snow over by Finley stays beautiful and clean for weeks. Not this nasty, gritty sludge that coats the entire borough of Queens.

  “You drive long to go F I N L E Y every day, huh?” YP signs.

  “I guess. Didn’t have a choice.”

  “You go to the city a lot?” she asks.

  I want to lie and say, “Of course, I’m always there. Definitely not spending all my free time at McDonald’s and in my basement.” The train pulls up and spares me from answering her. YP sits on her knees facing the window, her finger running across someone’s scratch tag.

  “You like?” she asks.

  “No.” I shake my head, and sit forward.

  “Y?” she signs, using shorthand of her own invention. Sort of like texting, she’ll sign only one letter instead of the word. It’s really wrong, but it’s pretty cute.

  “Trashy. Ugly. Doesn’t mean anything,” I tell her, and she smiles.

  “Come on, it’s our stop.” YP walks to the door before the train stops, like a true New Yorker.

  “Already?” I stand up to follow her, and as soon as I glance out the windows, I know where we’re going.

  —

  It’s 5 Pointz. The Institute of Higher Burnin’. Anyone who’s ever dreamed of bombing a wall in New York knows about 5 Pointz, the giant yellow graffiti Mecca. I’ve never done any writing on those sacred walls. My work is better than ever, but I know I have a ways to go before I can throw up anything worthy there.

  We walk up Jackson Avenue, the building towering over us, colors spilling down every surface. Painted, bombed, muraled, tagged, and painted over and over again. Paradise.

  “I lied.” YP stops walking and looks down at her feet. “I not Google it.”

  “So?”

  “Mr. Katz took a few of us here last year.”

  “You went?” I ask. She nods yes, frowning. “I don’t understand.”

  She takes out her phone and starts texting, even though we’ve been doing great without it today.

  YP: Dont be mad.

  JULIA: ok what

  YP: He took some kids from his class

  JULIA: ok so and?

  YP: I was in his class.

  JULIA: art class?

  YP: yea.

  JULIA: you do art?

  YP: used to. for fun or whatever.

  JULIA: why you think I’m mad?

  YP: It’s your thing.

  JULIA: I dont own all art. katz class is fun.

  YP: I know.

  JULIA: too bad we not in class together.

  YP: yeah. anyway. I thought you should see this place. get inspired

  JULIA: it might be working ;)

  YP puts her phone away and points to a chain-link fence blocking the entrance to the building. We both grip the fence, our fingers curling around the links, and read the official sign posted in front of us.

  NO TRESPASSING:

  VIOLATORS WILL BE PROSECUTED

  COMING SOON:

  THE BALLSTON

  LUXURY LIVING IN THE HEART OF QUEENS.

  “No way,” YP looks back up at the building. “They can’t do that, can they?”

  “Fuck no, they can’t.”

  We run along the fence looking for a break in the chain link, anywhere we can squeeze through. Turning the first corner, we see the fence is secure. It extends around the entire perimeter, down to the ground and at least six feet up, and is topped with barbed wire. I slow down and walk along it, my fingers brushing the links.

  “Maybe———keep—-——, like artsy condos?” YP suggests, and I give her the most skeptical face I can muster.

  The fence rattles against my hand. We both look down the length of it. There’s a man trying to get over the barbed wire from inside the fence. He’s put his black blazer over the barbs to protect his hands, but his tie snags on the way down. He wildly swipes at his caught tie with one hand, hanging on with the other. I grab YP’s arm as we both run to meet him. I throw her my bag and climb up alongside the man.

  “Go,—-, get—-—-ere!” He swats at me, trying to keep me from helping him.

  “Stop struggling!” I use my voice, and he looks at me, startled. I reach up and pull his suit jacket from the barbs. It comes free cleanly and I toss it down to YP. I climb a little higher to get within reach of his tie. I think he starts talking again, but I don’t look back at him. My gaze is fixed in front of me—past the tie, past the fence, to the wall straight ahead.

  It’s the most beautiful throwie I’ve ever seen. A spray can turns into a tower on fire that turns into a blossoming tree. Little pink flowers bloom from charcoal branches.

  YP shakes the fence, snapping me back to reality. She signs for me to hurry up and I focus on the stranger’s tie, the end of which is splattered with droplets of pink paint. As soon as I unhook him, he jumps down to the pavement and starts running. YP takes off after him, and I follow behind.

  The dude is fast, but YP might be faster, even while carrying his jacket and both of our bags. She’s gaining on him, and I’m struggling to keep up. Run faster! My Doc Martens dig into my ankles and my run turns into more of a skip, which turns into an all-out splat as I turn the corner. Damn ice.

  I can’t see YP or the Suit anymore, but she ditched my bag in the alley. I guess it was weighing her down? The alley branches off onto at least three streets, all bustling with people. I try to read expressions, see if anyone looks shocked or is watching the runners, but everyone is preoccupied with their phones, or work, or whatever.

  I’m not rolling the dice on this one. The odds are stacked against me. YP will head back to 5 Pointz eventually, right? That’s what I would do, I wouldn’t just abandon her. My socks have slipped down from my ankles and only cover my toes; I unlace the boots and hike them up into place before heading back the way I came.

  No point in running. I take my time. I can’t get the image of the stranger in the suit out of my head. The look on his face…He was so angry. I was only trying to help. His dark skin and wild hair, the crinkles around his eyes. Not really old, but older than I would have pegged a bomber brave enough to jump barbed wire, and in the middle of the day. Who does that?

  I know who. I just can’t believe it.

  What’s he doing in Queens? If that’s him, everyone’s got it wrong. I always held out hope that Banksy was a woman. But I’ll take a dude with an Afro in a business suit over an old pasty guy any day. No one would believe me! I barely believe it myself. In fact, I wouldn’t at all if I hadn’t seen his graffiti. There’s imitators of his work, sure, but there’s no faking his style.

  I check my phone. No texts from Pants, no missed calls. I go to open my mail and there’s a tap on my shoulder. I jolt and t
he phone slides from my fingers and smashes into the ground.

  “Fuck!” I yell, pick up my phone, and turn around.

  Don’t. Don’t move. Can you move? Can you breathe? What are you doing? Say something! Hello? Say something! Lift your hands and tell him you know. Don’t just stand there. Are you dreaming? There he is, right there. So close you could…what? Touch him? Do not touch him. When did the sky get so pink? How long have you been standing there? Say something! He smells like aerosol and dynamite. His eyes are black; the grin he cracks is even blacker, devilish and dark.

  What? What? What? I can’t understand him, it’s like he’s speaking another language. The mouth shapes aren’t making sense. He’s talking too fast. My stomach turns over, I’m missing it. He’s talking to me and I’m missing it.

  He smiles again and leans in. He places a hand on my shoulder and whispers in my ear. I can feel the hum of his voice, his warm breath snakes in and tickles a spot in me I didn’t know was there. He steps back and all I can do is shake my head. I don’t break eye contact. YP turns a corner, a block behind him, and stops in her tracks.

  The Suit’s smile vanishes. He points to his ear and raises one perfect eyebrow. I nod my head, raise my arms. Oh, fucking well. He reaches out and puts his thumb in the dimple on my chin. Then, he stands straight up and he signs:

  That’s it. He straightens his tie and walks off.

  —

  “What—-—say?!” YP huffs, on our way back to the 7 train.

  “I don’t know,” I sign. “I couldn’t understand him.” She looks disappointed. She has only her bag now; she must’ve ditched his coat in the chase. “It’s not my fault! He was talking too fast or something.”

  “He had an A C C E N T,” she clarifies, and bites one of her polished pink nails.

  “Shit.”

  “Yeah. Shit,” YP signs, and starts walking in front of me.

  “You’re mad at me?!” I turn her to face me.

  “You let him go!” she yells, hands in her pockets.

  “What do you care?”

  “You not know, who that?!” Her signs are sharp and angry.

  “Yes!” I shake my fist. “I didn’t want to let him—”

  “You could have stopped—”

  “Wait.” I cut her off. “You know him?” I see her searching for the words, her fingers curl and uncurl by her sides.

  “Whole world knows him.” She boards the train.

  I ignore her by sketching a few more signs in the sketchbook I’m making for Katz. But somewhere between Bliss Street and Jackson Heights we both calm down and exchange apologies.

  “Why paint there now?” she asks. “It’s not gonna last.”

  “Maybe it will. Maybe someone will want to save it.”

  “Like Mr. Katz?” She elbows my side and giggles.

  “He’s trying to save his own ass. Banksy wants to save us all.” We get off the train and wander back to where I parked Lee. YP puts her bag in the backseat next to mine before sitting backward in the passenger seat.

  “What you mean, save ass?” YP asks, leaning against the glove box. When we sit like this, I don’t have to keep looking over while I drive.

  “You mean with Katz?” I sign one-handed. “He’s trying to save his own graff. It’s so…” I bring my hands up to my head and pull them away. “Big-headed, you know?”

  “He’s saving your work,” she says.

  “And his!”

  “You mean, you think?”

  “Totally.”

  “Wow!” She shakes her hand. “That’s pretty cool, right?” Her signs keep getting better. If I drove her somewhere a month ago, we’d look out the window and not say a word. Now we’re hanging out on the weekends and chasing down Banksy.

  “Not really,” I tell her. “He should do his own work, he doesn’t have to school me on the street.”

  “But and…um…don’t take———-wrong way—don’t you think it looks good?”

  “Psh! Yeah. I do. That’s the problem. He isn’t some sort of co-conspirator.” (I spell it out for her.) “He’s competition.”

  “But why?” She deflates. She always wants to be friends with everyone. Even if it means being sick to keep them. Not everyone has to be your friend, some people are just enemies. I sigh, and put both hands on the wheel. How do I explain the rules of a game that has no rules? He could have asked first, could have let me know some other way. He didn’t have to goad me on with personal Post-its and one-ups. He obviously knows it’s me and doesn’t care. It’s insulting.

  “I don’t know,” I tell her as we drive up to her house. She reaches over the seat and grabs her stuff before getting out of the car.

  “When?” she signs through the window.

  “When I get paint.”

  “Paint?” she signs, shocked. “No no no, W H E A T P A S T E.”

  Wheatpaste has always seemed like cheating to me. It takes a lot of the fun out of writing, since there’s so much less risk involved. Yeah, it’s still putting art up on a wall for the world to see, but it’s too easy.

  All I would have to do is mix up some flour and water, easy enough to sneak past my parents, and I’d have some pretty impenetrable glue. I could spend hours on the art itself, spread out on papers across the basement floor, and just tell my folks it’s for class. Pack it up if they do catch on, but I could always pull it out and work on it some more. Then, I’d take the papers, and the glue, and a big-ass brush down to Greenlawn. It’d be up on that water tower in what—a minute?

  Shit. She’s right. Again. Wheatpaste might seem like cheating under normal circumstances, but these circumstances are far from normal. Everything else is a huge risk, so why not make it easier on myself? I don’t even have to get my hands on spray paint. I can do it all with markers.

  —

  The light above my workstation blinks and I shake the excess oil off of the finished fries. School’s out, but Mickey D’s never closes. Come on down and get some fries at 4:30 a.m. You can be sure someone will be here to shake, salt, and sack ’em up for you.

  Thankfully, I never have to work those weird night-owl shifts. It’s only 10:00 p.m., and I’ll be out soon enough. I put in the next frozen batch and the oil bubbles up as they’re submerged. Maybe this isn’t what I want to say on my tower piece. I thought I wanted to write about this place, this bit of my life. But that was before. Before 5 Pointz, before the barbed wire, before Banksy. Now I’m in the after.

  Two days A.B. and fryer oil–styled letters leave a bitter aftertaste in my mouth. It’s not big enough. It has to be huge. Enormous. Fat. Grande. Plus-sized. Supersized. The lights blink again, and I shuffle more fries into their boxes and bags.

  Donovan turns around and wipes his forehead with his arm, exhaling deeply. I expect him to wink and flash one of his smiles, but instead, he walks to the locker room without a glance in my direction. Any swag he ever had has been sapped away. It wasn’t even a busy shift. Who broke his crayons? Jordyn isn’t on the schedule today, so neither of us has to work under a microscope. It’s refreshing. I don’t need any more lectures from her about my choice of boys or friends or “pastimes.” I let him sulk in the drive-thru and go back to my fries.

  It’s nice having a monotonous job on days when my brain is full. I could handle the station one-handed—heck, one-legged. Sometimes I think my manager invented the position for me so he can say he hired a disabled person. Clearly he’s obeying whatever laws he needs to obey. Invented position or not, I still get paid for doing hardly more than sweating ten gallons a shift. Not too bad.

  Two days A.B. and I know it’s time to aim higher, cut deeper. Make a fucking statement. I feel my phone buzz in my pocket. I want to check it, but I’ve been busted checking it before. I wonder how many warnings I get before they fire me over it. I check my 6 and it’s clear. The place is dead; only one lonely old man sits in a booth toward the front. He comes in a lot. He likes to nibble at a no. 4 while people-watching for hours. I risk it and s
lide my cell out of my pocket just enough to read the text.

  555-8920: Can we talk?

  Should I know this number? I’ve never plugged it in. Then again, I don’t really take the time to add contacts when I meet people. I have about six people on my phone. Before I can ask who it is, he texts again.

  555-8920: Ill wait.

  The last hour of my shift trudges on. The chick with the glasses clocks in, and there’s no way I’m texting back with her around. Rumor has it she’s a tattle, and she loves to stare whenever Jordyn and I sign. Tonight, she has nothing better to do than watch me like I’m some sort of unicorn, because we only get four more customers. I can’t distract myself with my blinking alarm or bagging fries, because no one’s buying.

  My phone burns a hole in my pocket. I keep wrapping my fingers around it, running my fingertips along the cracks in the screen. I’ll never have the cash to fix it. It’s not on my priority list right now. I want him to text again. Gimme a little help here. I pace back and forth in front of my station, waiting for another message or customer or grease fire to break out, anything. Screw it. It’s only five minutes early. I pull the baskets out of the oil and head through the kitchen. Glasses waves her arms at me.

  “What?” I express with a sharp gesture rather than words. She sternly points to the clock, eyebrows arched so high they may fly off her head. I grandly present to her, with a sweep of my arm and bend of my knees, one empty chain restaurant. I wiggle my fingers as I wave good-bye.

  —

  Donovan sits hunched over on the bench in the locker room, head in his hands. I’ve never seen him like this, defeated. Did he not hear me come in? I stomp my foot and he jolts around to face me.

  “You?” I hold up my phone.

  “Me.” He points to himself. I text him back.

 

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