Charlie passed by a out-of-place ice cream truck just as he reached the edge of Washington Heights where the hardware store was. He would have been more alarmed by the truck, but back in Brooklyn, you could buy crack or Fudge Sickles out of every ice cream truck.
He reached the front door of the store and pushed it open. Immediately, his nostrils filled with the scent of paint, fresh wood, and metal tools. Charlie looked at the sleazy cashier with a bad perm and asked her where the spray paint was.
"Over there on the back wall." She answered in with a twang of bossiness.
Charlie choose to not thank the rude girl and walked straight to where the spray paint was. He quickly picked out the 15 cans he would need for his masterpiece. He knew the job would only take 13 or 14, but he always liked to have a little extra paint, just in case. Struggling to clutch every can, Charlie walked up to the register and set everything down in front of the cashier.
"Got everything you need sir?" She was even more sassy this time.
"Yes." Charlie muttered.
"Well. You better paint a pretty picture for your mother, she loved you, you know?" she said.
"Excuse me?" Charlie asked.
"Nothing. I didn't say anything mister." she replied.
Charlie started to feel reality slipping away. His mission for his mother consumed his world, and he couldn't take much more of it. He was hearing things, seeing things, and all around going crazy.
He quickly collected his things, threw a hundred in the slut's face, and ran out the store.
Running out, he happened to bump into none other than George Jefferson. Jefferson was looking shifty, and a little on edge.
"Yo Jefferson, my man," Charlie said. "I heard a car crash last night, then saw you come running. Whats up?"
"Oh boy. I'll tell ya. I got fucked up man. I stole this dealer's car, and shit man, it was too fast. Now I gotta buy supplies here to fix my wounds, they ask to many questions at the hospital." Jefferson said.
"Well. Good luck with that man." Charlie said.
"Thanks, say what you need all the paint for kid?" he asked.
"It's for my masterpiece. Devoted to my deceased mother."
"Cool man. Way to go." Jefferson said, he appeared to still be a little out of it.
Jefferson waved goodbye and walked inside. Charlie started on the trek back to town. He listened to the rain start to fall onto his head. The rain tasted especially salty, like tears. Then Charlie realized it was he that was crying. He brushed at his face and kept walking, eyes on the masterpiece he would create.
Monday, April 28, 2008
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Chapter 6: Spraypaint Cans
Charlie woke up to his head throbbing and the noises of Ms. Wong banging pots and pans. He let out an enormous sigh, and then he started to pick the pieces of dried blood from his straight black hair.
"You fall Charlie?" Ms. Wong asked.
"Yeah, I fell onto a curb last night. I'm okay now though. How are you?" Charlie said.
"Good Good. You get to work okay?" she said.
"Alright. I got it," he said.
Charlie busted his ass all day making ungodly amounts of Sesame Chicken and Stir-Fried rice. When he was on his break, he stepped outside to have a cigarette. As he happily puffed away on his cancer stick he noticed a strange black van drive past twice in a row. Charlie would have been more alarmed but these days nothing really seemed normal. He couldn't stop thinking about his mom, why did all these weird things keep happening to him?
His head hurt now. He felt light headed, and stumbled to the nearest corner store to buy a forty. Liquor could usually make the pain go away, and if that couldn't help, there was always some weed. He chugged the crisp Colt 45 down in three big gulps. He felt better now and walked back into work.
When he finished cleaning up the store, he gathered up his cash that he kept in that old coffee can and stepped out. It started to sleet, but Charlie welcomed the harsh weather cause it kept the god damn police busy. He needed about 30 spray paint cans to complete the job, but first he needed to check out the warehouse to see where he could throw up the art.
As soon as Charlie got to the warehouse he knew where he would do it. There was an entire wall untouched by the small time artists, and he knew what colors he wanted. The sunlight would hit the wall just right at dusk, and the red and white roses would look very choice against the bland brown the warehouse was painted. Charlie quickly sketched out the plans for his masterpiece and was surprised when his sketch book started to get wet. He soon realized that he was crying because of his mother, and he let the tears flow.
Then he rose to his feet, and started walking towards the hardware store in the next town over to get his paint. He felt a strange quiver come over him as he passed a young lady sitting on a bench. It was none other than Snazzy Filazy, a sweet girl that frequented the Chinese place. But when he looked into her face, her eyes were crying blood. Streams of hot, red blood streamed down her face, and she looked deep into his eyes.
"Your mother misses you Charlie, make haste, don't forget your mission," she said.
"Holy fucking shit!" Charlie screamed, and before Snazzy could react Charlie was three blocks away.
"Well gosh, what was his problem?" Snazzy said. She, of course, was not crying blood.
Charlie stopped running and leaned against a building while he caught his breath. He knew these images wouldn't stop until he completed the mission. He straightened up, brushed off his clothes, and got back on the road to the hardware store.
The sun was setting now, and Charlie couldn't help but notice the sky's blood red color. Like the whole world was bleeding. He knew what he had to do.
"You fall Charlie?" Ms. Wong asked.
"Yeah, I fell onto a curb last night. I'm okay now though. How are you?" Charlie said.
"Good Good. You get to work okay?" she said.
"Alright. I got it," he said.
Charlie busted his ass all day making ungodly amounts of Sesame Chicken and Stir-Fried rice. When he was on his break, he stepped outside to have a cigarette. As he happily puffed away on his cancer stick he noticed a strange black van drive past twice in a row. Charlie would have been more alarmed but these days nothing really seemed normal. He couldn't stop thinking about his mom, why did all these weird things keep happening to him?
His head hurt now. He felt light headed, and stumbled to the nearest corner store to buy a forty. Liquor could usually make the pain go away, and if that couldn't help, there was always some weed. He chugged the crisp Colt 45 down in three big gulps. He felt better now and walked back into work.
When he finished cleaning up the store, he gathered up his cash that he kept in that old coffee can and stepped out. It started to sleet, but Charlie welcomed the harsh weather cause it kept the god damn police busy. He needed about 30 spray paint cans to complete the job, but first he needed to check out the warehouse to see where he could throw up the art.
As soon as Charlie got to the warehouse he knew where he would do it. There was an entire wall untouched by the small time artists, and he knew what colors he wanted. The sunlight would hit the wall just right at dusk, and the red and white roses would look very choice against the bland brown the warehouse was painted. Charlie quickly sketched out the plans for his masterpiece and was surprised when his sketch book started to get wet. He soon realized that he was crying because of his mother, and he let the tears flow.
Then he rose to his feet, and started walking towards the hardware store in the next town over to get his paint. He felt a strange quiver come over him as he passed a young lady sitting on a bench. It was none other than Snazzy Filazy, a sweet girl that frequented the Chinese place. But when he looked into her face, her eyes were crying blood. Streams of hot, red blood streamed down her face, and she looked deep into his eyes.
"Your mother misses you Charlie, make haste, don't forget your mission," she said.
"Holy fucking shit!" Charlie screamed, and before Snazzy could react Charlie was three blocks away.
"Well gosh, what was his problem?" Snazzy said. She, of course, was not crying blood.
Charlie stopped running and leaned against a building while he caught his breath. He knew these images wouldn't stop until he completed the mission. He straightened up, brushed off his clothes, and got back on the road to the hardware store.
The sun was setting now, and Charlie couldn't help but notice the sky's blood red color. Like the whole world was bleeding. He knew what he had to do.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
THE PIECE
Charlie came up with a lame excuse to miss work the morning after he bought his tool.
"I gotta go to the doctor, I gotta stomach ache and I need medicine," Charlie lamely said to Ms. Wong.
"Okay Charlie! You make noodles when you come back though," Ms. Wong replied.
"Alright. The noodles, I got it." Charlie replied.
Charlie stepped out the noodle store and jacked the nearest bike he could find. He came upon a beautiful BMX bike with the black mags so nice, and he had to have it. Charlie whipped out a pair of metal cutters, busted the lock, and was rolling out in under 30 seconds. He popped a few bunny hops and wheelies, trying to look natural on his newly stolen bike.
Then Charlie remembered he had to stay focused. He scanned the worn out dump of a town that laid out in front of him, it wasn't New York and subways, but it would have to do. He had to throw up one of the biggest graffiti pieces he had ever done. All for her. He rolled down several roads but couldn't find the right spot to sketch out his master plan.
Soon, Charlie came upon a local, but lovable bum named Fil. He bought a couple of soggy newspapers from Fil, and inquired about some of Fil's favorite chill spots. Charlie knew bums always knew where straight spots to sleep were, and where there were bums, there was always a good spot to do some graffiti.
"Well, I don't know mister, some times when it gets really cold I will climb into the old warehouse at the edge of downtown and sleep in there," Fil replied, leaking out a breath that smelled of raw sewage and rat piss.
"Thanks Fil, I can always count on you," Charlie said.
Charlie popped a ill barspin of the curb and quickly pedaled away. As he looked at the sky's overcast clouds he could almost make out his mother's face smiling down onto him. He was surprised and felt chills go down his spine, Charlie looked up for one more glance; but didn't see the open manhole.
Blackness.
Charlie slowly lifted his head from the pool of salty sticky liquid around him. It was nighttime now, probably eight or nine o'clock. Charlie turned down to realized that his head was resting in a pool of his own blood. He remembered the feeling of the curb smacking him in the back of the head now. He got to his feet and felt light-headed. He could barely mount the bike to ride home.
When Charlie finally had ditched the bike and stumbled into the Chinese restaurant, it was probably one in the morning. He made noodles like a zombie, emotionless and tired. He fell onto his cot, and the blood on the back of his head had just started to coagulate, it had also stopped bleeding partially because of the immense amount of dirt in the gash.
Charlie slept deeper than he had in his whole life.
"I gotta go to the doctor, I gotta stomach ache and I need medicine," Charlie lamely said to Ms. Wong.
"Okay Charlie! You make noodles when you come back though," Ms. Wong replied.
"Alright. The noodles, I got it." Charlie replied.
Charlie stepped out the noodle store and jacked the nearest bike he could find. He came upon a beautiful BMX bike with the black mags so nice, and he had to have it. Charlie whipped out a pair of metal cutters, busted the lock, and was rolling out in under 30 seconds. He popped a few bunny hops and wheelies, trying to look natural on his newly stolen bike.
Then Charlie remembered he had to stay focused. He scanned the worn out dump of a town that laid out in front of him, it wasn't New York and subways, but it would have to do. He had to throw up one of the biggest graffiti pieces he had ever done. All for her. He rolled down several roads but couldn't find the right spot to sketch out his master plan.
Soon, Charlie came upon a local, but lovable bum named Fil. He bought a couple of soggy newspapers from Fil, and inquired about some of Fil's favorite chill spots. Charlie knew bums always knew where straight spots to sleep were, and where there were bums, there was always a good spot to do some graffiti.
"Well, I don't know mister, some times when it gets really cold I will climb into the old warehouse at the edge of downtown and sleep in there," Fil replied, leaking out a breath that smelled of raw sewage and rat piss.
"Thanks Fil, I can always count on you," Charlie said.
Charlie popped a ill barspin of the curb and quickly pedaled away. As he looked at the sky's overcast clouds he could almost make out his mother's face smiling down onto him. He was surprised and felt chills go down his spine, Charlie looked up for one more glance; but didn't see the open manhole.
Blackness.
Charlie slowly lifted his head from the pool of salty sticky liquid around him. It was nighttime now, probably eight or nine o'clock. Charlie turned down to realized that his head was resting in a pool of his own blood. He remembered the feeling of the curb smacking him in the back of the head now. He got to his feet and felt light-headed. He could barely mount the bike to ride home.
When Charlie finally had ditched the bike and stumbled into the Chinese restaurant, it was probably one in the morning. He made noodles like a zombie, emotionless and tired. He fell onto his cot, and the blood on the back of his head had just started to coagulate, it had also stopped bleeding partially because of the immense amount of dirt in the gash.
Charlie slept deeper than he had in his whole life.
Thursday, April 3, 2008
Chapter 4: Crazy
Charlie flicked back his wet black hair, and he shook off his wetness in the door way. He looked around the old, sleazy pawn shop, there wasn't much to see. A couple of fishing poles, some TVs, broken vacuum cleaners, and jewelry from lost causes. Finally, Charlie's eyes fell onto the half-rotten old man, he resembled the crypt keeper, and looked like he might be dead.
"Hello?" Charlie said, half expecting the old man to be in a coma.
"I heard you would be coming to see me. Oscar is quite fond of you. Come closer, so I can get a look at you," said the old man.
Charlie walked forward, hesitating at first because with every step the old man smelled more and more like a dead baby fetus at low tide.
"So do you know what I need?" Charlie asked.
"Yes, Yes I do. But before I sell it to you, you must promise that no innocent bloodshed will result from this gun." said the old man.
"Of course. The person who this is meant for asked for it. They need it." Charlie said firmly.
"OK. OK, kid. How does a Desert Eagle sound? Ever shot one of those?" said the old man.
Charlie nodded, he remembered when he was in a gang in high school, and he had to kill three people to get out.
"Well. Here you are." said the old man, handing him the hand cannon.
Charlie threw a 100 dollar bill on the counter, and he tucked the piece into his pants as he walked away.
"Do it for her Charlie. Remember everything is for her. She loved you," the old man said from behind him.
Charlie whipped around quickly, but the old man had vanished. Charlie shook away a shiver, and stepped out the front door. It was late now, and Charlie was getting tired. As he began the walk back to the Chinese restaurant, he wondered if he was insane. He had heard voices before, but he had never heard them this frequently. He always thought those voices were his conscience, but now he wondered what they really were. Maybe they were angels leading him in the right direction, or maybe it was the work of Satan, poisoning his mind with evil ideas. Either way, Charlie knew his mother loved him, and he knew he had to do it; for her.
He had reached the back door of the restaurant, and he slipped inside. He shed his clothes, flopped down onto the cot and tried to sleep. He thought about Billie Jean's slut-ass, he thought about Oscar and the basketball game he had promised tomorrow. He knew Oscar tired easily, and he could usually beat him, but despite his weight; Oscar could still hit a mean three. Maybe Charlie would throw a twenty on the game tomorrow. But above all, Charlie thought about his mother, he didn't even have a picture of her anymore, he had lost the only one in a fire in his old orphanage. He had stared at that picture for so long he had every dimple and line on her face memorized. He thought about her beautiful face, and he drifted away into a deep sleep.
"Hello?" Charlie said, half expecting the old man to be in a coma.
"I heard you would be coming to see me. Oscar is quite fond of you. Come closer, so I can get a look at you," said the old man.
Charlie walked forward, hesitating at first because with every step the old man smelled more and more like a dead baby fetus at low tide.
"So do you know what I need?" Charlie asked.
"Yes, Yes I do. But before I sell it to you, you must promise that no innocent bloodshed will result from this gun." said the old man.
"Of course. The person who this is meant for asked for it. They need it." Charlie said firmly.
"OK. OK, kid. How does a Desert Eagle sound? Ever shot one of those?" said the old man.
Charlie nodded, he remembered when he was in a gang in high school, and he had to kill three people to get out.
"Well. Here you are." said the old man, handing him the hand cannon.
Charlie threw a 100 dollar bill on the counter, and he tucked the piece into his pants as he walked away.
"Do it for her Charlie. Remember everything is for her. She loved you," the old man said from behind him.
Charlie whipped around quickly, but the old man had vanished. Charlie shook away a shiver, and stepped out the front door. It was late now, and Charlie was getting tired. As he began the walk back to the Chinese restaurant, he wondered if he was insane. He had heard voices before, but he had never heard them this frequently. He always thought those voices were his conscience, but now he wondered what they really were. Maybe they were angels leading him in the right direction, or maybe it was the work of Satan, poisoning his mind with evil ideas. Either way, Charlie knew his mother loved him, and he knew he had to do it; for her.
He had reached the back door of the restaurant, and he slipped inside. He shed his clothes, flopped down onto the cot and tried to sleep. He thought about Billie Jean's slut-ass, he thought about Oscar and the basketball game he had promised tomorrow. He knew Oscar tired easily, and he could usually beat him, but despite his weight; Oscar could still hit a mean three. Maybe Charlie would throw a twenty on the game tomorrow. But above all, Charlie thought about his mother, he didn't even have a picture of her anymore, he had lost the only one in a fire in his old orphanage. He had stared at that picture for so long he had every dimple and line on her face memorized. He thought about her beautiful face, and he drifted away into a deep sleep.
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