“You rolled it too tight.”

I hand Anthony back his crooked joint, my throat parched.

“You roll it next time,” he says.

We pass bums who don’t bother asking us for money. Smoke trails from our lips while the cans in our backpacks rattle. Richard is behind us; virgin lungs making him cough and spit. I stare at his acne ruined face and shake my head before I turn back to the street. My eyes dart to empty walls like they were pretty girls, head turned and imagination wild.

There’s a barbed wire fence and lamp posts casting crooked shadows on the gravel. We climb it carefully while Richard looks every few seconds behind us.

“You sure it’s good here?” Anthony asks.

“Grow some balls, it’s good.”

He stares at his brand new white sneakers on the rocks.

“Yeah, this ain’t a thing.”

“Now you see the real shit,” I say.

“Alright, King,” Anthony looks up with a smirk, “show us toys the real shit.”

It’s a minute before our eyes adjust to the black train yard. With its history we ignored in class, it would now define us. The box cars are in perfect rows, motionless in their tracks, aisles of steel hauling our galleries across the country. Their sides destroyed by a war of blossoming colors. Golden glows around indistinguishable letters. Letters filled by blues, magentas, a whole spectrum that belonged nowhere else. Arrows, curves, arcs, drips, splatters, faces, and I have to force myself to keep walking. Now nothing is worth that second jerk of the head.

Anthony wants to prove something. Backpack at his feet, zipper open to reveal reds and whites. He shakes a can and starts to outline his name in large blocks. Richard is just setting his backpack down, his face pale.

My fingers tremble. Night after night, routine hasn’t brought reassurance like I thought it would. Don’t think, don’t let these cats show you up. I shake my can and lift it. The smell of chemicals soothes me. Purple letters… No, a green S. A black outline. An orange glow. I angle the can to fade the purple to the green and splatter the orange by covering the nozzle with my forefinger. Head clouded, plans shifting, becoming something else. I’m promiscuous with my muses.

In a few minutes the train car is covered by a rabble of colors. I know what I’m doing for once. My heart, head, and hands are all in unison.

I move my eyes to the shuffle of gravel. Footsteps. My can of orange drops.

Pigs.

Just yards away. Nothing more than silhouettes, balding heads bob up and down, light gleaming off their badges.

“Freeze,” one of them shouts. We bolt down the tracks. Anthony and Richard are ahead of me. At the end hulking bodies form. They tackle them into the gravel.

Shit. Not them. I dive beneath the car. Bang my shin against the track. Shred my palm on the stones. The cops are on their knees. One snatches my leg. I react with a kick that leaves his nose a bloody heap. I want to stop just to see his expression but I’m already running.

They’re quick too, kicking up gravel with their boots. My eyes wander to other pieces as we weave through the cars. Lightning blue and turquoise. I’ll try to remember. I hop the fence, the barbs snagging my clothes and skin. A wet dribble warms my belly and forearms. One of my hands is ruined but at least it’s not my drawing hand. My head is stuck on Anthony and Richard.

They’re going to snitch. I know it. I need a cigarette. Fuck. I need a drink. Their parents know me. They’ll force them to talk. I was the only kid that hung out with those faggots. I’ll be in handcuffs tomorrow. And my piece. I just need to finish my outline. Cops couldn’t have waited another minute?

I dart past the same bums, knocking their hard earned change over. They start to shout but pause when they notice the drops of blood trailing me. Two blocks away, my breath failing to catch up. I slow down, gripping road signs and poles to keep balance, leaving red hand prints across the neighborhood.

There’s a distant crash of noises far off. I turn a corner and it’s a sultry red and the large crowd draws me.

People choke the sidewalks staring into gold and red silk. They stand watching, cheering waving banners. The air is thick with gun powder and sweat. Fireworks bursting in a gray haze while neon signs float above. Chinese New Year’s. Giant dragons dance while kung fu students maneuver beneath them. Gongs crash at their tails. Money is tossed. I rub my hands together to remove the paint and caked blood. Everything is just a bright plume of smoke, light trickling through its gloom.

I force myself through the crowd trying to find people I may know. Maybe they’ll have a cigarette, maybe there will be an after party where I can relax.

There’s a tug on my sleeve that almost topples me. Fists form. I imagine the face I have to look up to, lumpy, wrinkled, and with a police badge beneath it. Instead it’s young and painted white and red. Her voice is piercing, loud even with the fire crackers.

“Nick? Is that you?” Her voice is a question in itself – I can’t recognize it.

“What?”

“It’s me, Patricia! I know I probably don’t look too good right now,” her red lips part. Some things shouldn’t be covered with a layer of paint.

“Oh. I didn’t recognize you… what are you-”

She interrupts me with a chime, “I’m so glad you made it Nick. I thought you forgot about my performance. How was I? I think I messed up near the end… but… but… I didn’t see you in the crowd.”

“Well,” I pause looking around, not wanting to be seen with this painted thing, “I was in the back but I saw everything. You were great.”

“Thank you! You’ve no idea what that means to me… did you see me trip? I am so embarrassed. I can’t beli- what happened to you?” She finally looks at the rest of me, at the tears in my clothes and skin, at the lines of dried blood leading down into my palms.

“I tried to steal some gold from some of those kung fu dragons.”

She grabs my arm, “Nicholas. These are cuts. Tell me.”

My eyes trace the fragments of old wrinkled faces and the fresh young ones in the crowd, before I whisper, “Not here, it’s not safe here.”

She grips my crimson hand, “I live close. Don’t worry.”

The paint wrinkles on her face. I notice her every pore, all paper white.

***

Patricia is in the shower, the steam rising from the crack in the door. I’m somewhat anxious to see her face. I don’t remember at all what she looks like.

She calls me from over the howl of water, “Are you hungry? Go help yourself if you want anything. You can change your clothes…” The rest of her shouting is drowned out by the ringing of hour-old fireworks.

I walk into the unlocked bathroom; she had kept it unlocked. She’s chattering away hidden by a shower curtain, and I’m blowing my nose, grunting in acknowledgment. I open the tissue to purple, green, orange, and red… I’m unsure if it’s paint or blood. My reflection is nothing more than a blur on her mirror. I trace my finger along the glass, marking my name before smearing it all away. My hands no longer throb – they’re bound in gauze. The cut on my stomach is covered and it only hurts when I exhale. I sit back on her white bed in her white room while posters of Hollywood films and beautiful people clutter her walls.

She steps out wearing a wife-beater and our school’s red gym shorts, wet hair up in a bun. A pretty face I know. Patricia Yu. She was in my English class and always raised her hand. She’d ask for my notes sometimes but I’d only give them to her after erasing all the creatures I’d drawn in the margins. That’s if I had any notes to give. She had asked me to the prom, and I said I couldn’t go. I didn’t want to be there, with her, her friends, around anyone from school: the jocks, gangsters, the nerds, any of them. That night I hid in some bushes waiting for a security guard to leave his post.

She sits close but not close enough, “Those thugs who chased you, do you know what they looked like? Black? Mexican?”

“Don’t worry about it, nothing was stolen.”

“You feeling better?”

“A little. Do you have any alcohol?”

“Under the bathroom sink.”

“I mean to drink.”

“There’s tequila above the fridge. Are you sure you want to drink now? It’s pretty late.”

I walk out, past the paintings by people who don’t matter. I’m sure she doesn’t know any of their names. I swear I’ve seen them in dozens of restaurants and coffee shops.

I shout across the hallway, “You want some?”

“No, my parents will be over and I need to get some sleep.”

“Tequila will help.”

Her glare from the doorway doesn’t make me hesitate and I come back to her lips pouting.

“That’s too much. Can you be a little more considerate? Dad’s going to know all that’s missing.”

“Chill, it’s for both of us,” I sit so our legs touch and lean into her. She moves away.

“Stop it. Just stop. I’m not like those girls, Nick. I’m not like them at all.”

“Yeah, I thought so.” I bring my head back and finish the drink. Her eyes stuck on my empty glass.

“That shit is awful.”

It’s a second before I ask, “So, where am I sleeping?”

Her response is unfamiliar, “I think you should go. Nick.” She curls under her bleached sheets. My eyes trace the curves of her thighs, the arc of her spine, her breasts, and finally back to her eyes staring at me.

“You sure?”

“Leave.”

I walk out, away from the fluorescent lights of her room.

“Where are you going?” She calls out, and I try to ignore her, “Nick, where are you going?”

“Why the sudden interest?” I spit.

“We need to talk. I’ve been meaning to tell you something.”

“I have something to take care of.”

“What?”

“You won’t understand.”

“Nick. That’s bullshit. Give me a second, I care about you more than you realize.”

“Yeah, thanks for the bandages.”

Her voice trembles, “You know what I mean, Nicholas.”

“I know how you feel but nothing is going to happen. I’m going away for a bit.”

Patricia says, “I don’t understand. Tell me.”

“What I do is secret.”

She shakes her head, “What? Grow up.”

“You’d say the same thing if you really knew what it was I did with my time.”

“Nick, please it’s too late for this.”

“Goodnight, Patricia. You’ve got church or something in the morning.”

“And you?”

I’m down the steps and Patricia follows me out barefoot to the asphalt. The wind is brisk and hurts my face. Her eyes are gutters in a storm.

“Go sleep in your nice cozy bed,” I shout.

“Is that what this is about?”

“A little…”

She turns around without a word and I imagine some cinematic moment where I grab her arm and bring her to me for a single kiss. The one kiss that would fix things, the one all those teenagers imagine over and over. But, I remember who I really am and just let the door slam behind me. The only light on the street shut away from me.

I walk down a few streets gazing at blank walls and electrical boxes. Ignoring the few destroyed by scribbles from kids trying to be cool. I look past the blotches of gray paint on the sides of office buildings and freeway ramps. I run my hands against the concrete walls and smooth windows, some with names scratched in by shards of porcelain. Past the same sleeping bums under their cardboard sheets. There are windows of lovely apartments belonging to college graduates and families.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow will be a knock on Mother’s door. A flash of a badge and Father will wish he really did send me somewhere far away. Handcuffs, a losing fight in court, and maybe behind some bars if they’ve taken pictures of all the shit I’ve done.

The end of the street is a T section, going left or right with a fence blocking the train yard. It’s dark now, black like the coffee no kids my age drink. And, it’s too late for me. Impossible. I know where all these streets could take me but I walk straight. My head is clouded but I still climb the barbed wire fence. The gravel crumbles at my feet. My fingers trace the rows of boxcars, and I feel the layers of paint. Colors covered up only by more colors. Just looking into the yard makes me feel as if all my cuts have reopened. I could just wait till one of these trains leave. I could just forget life here and be on my way to Portland, Seattle, or San Francisco.

The cops had forgotten a can and left it at the rusted wheels of a boxcar. Half empty. My unfinished piece stares at me, dry to the touch. I grip the can with my suffering fingers and instinctively shake it. Just one little touch up and I can make up for those minutes the cops never gave me. I know what tomorrow brings for once. No more running. No more alcohol. No more girls. No more nights of this. The fumes comfort me as orange erupts onto the steel canvas.

—

Michael Villo lives in suburban hell, goes to school and looks for work. He’s also currently working on a novel.