Graffiti Red
Joseph Ortiz crept from the Central Park tree line near the Angel of the Waters. He ducked his spidery body behind a park waste basket, peering over the top to where the Tunnel Bombers huddled in front of the fountain. Wind whipped across the giant pool of water, tiny waves spilling over the side and splashing at their feet.
He aimed a .38 at the leader, Dreadhead, inching closer for a clean shot to the back of the Rastafarian’s head. The angelic centerpiece in the fountain cast its shadow over Joseph and he looked up. With the sun directly behind it, Dreadhead’s body blocking out the glare, the features of the statue became black, the silhouette outlined in day-glo yellow.
The crew started laughing and Joseph hesitated. He thought about his best friend Carlo—how they had tagged the trains and tunnels between Brooklyn and Lower Manhattan together since they were twelve. Dreadhead turned to another crew member and glimpsed Joseph from the corner of his eye. He dodged to the side and the glare from the statue struck Joseph squarely in the eyes.
“Look out!”
One of the crew raised the alarm and the rest scattered for cover. Dreadhead snapped open his black trenchcoat, uncovering his brawny bare chest and stomach. He snatched a 9mm from the waistline of his black BDU tactical pants tied down by black combat boots. Joseph turned and ran, his opportunity wasted, barreling into the waste basket. Dreadhead smiled, slipped the 9mm back into his waistline, and signaled the crew to charge.
The #5 train shrieked into the Nevins Street subway station. Joseph watched the train pull up to the small crowd gathered along the platform, cringing as the wheels took forever to fully stop.
“You should’ve left it alone, Joseph.” Dreadhead and the other five Tunnel Bombers hovered over Joseph. He scanned around, looking for a way out of the dark corner of the platform where they had isolated him.
“What do you want?”
“What do we want?” Dreadhead grinned. He looked to the train. “We want you to finish what Carlo started.”
Joseph followed Dreadhead’s gaze back to the train—to the unfinished graffiti mural painted along its side.
“Fuck you!” Joseph spit.
Dreadhead answered with a solid kick to the ribs. “You brought this on yourselves, mon. Carlo should’ve known better than to burn my tunnels without permission.”
“These ain’t your tunnels mutha fucka, they’re ours!”
Dreadhead answered with another kick and knelt down beside Joseph, leveling the 9mm to his temple. “Not anymore,” he grinned. “I’ll give you the same choice I gave him, Joseph. Either by the gun or by the train, one way or another.”
Joseph tensed, staring sideways at the gun. His head lowered in defeat and he nodded.
“We’ll be watching you at every station from here to Brooklyn Bridge. If you don’t have it finished by then…” Dreadhead pressed the gun harder and Joseph jerked his head away. He tried to swallow, but his throat had gone dry.
“And just to give you a fighting chance, the same chance we gave Carlo.” Dreadhead tossed down a set of suctions designed to fit on the knees and left hand.
“What are those?”
“Trade secret.” Dreadhead slipped Joseph five cans of spray paint—black, green, silver, blue, and red.
“Why these colors?”
“Those are the crew’s colors, mon. And you got to use them in that order.”
Joseph took the cans one by one. He went to take the red and Dreadhead held onto it.
“But this color’s special. This one we call graffiti red. Think of it like a sacrifice, Joseph, but instead of blood, paint.” He pointed to the train. “Those trains are alive, mon, and only graffiti red keeps you safe.”
Dreadhead let go of the red can. The others chuckled wryly. Joseph snatched the can and stowed it in his baggy jeans pocket, shoving the black can in his other pocket. He wedged the other three spray cans into his waistline and slipped on the suctions. The platform cleared of people and he crept toward the train, scanning for Metropolitan Transit Authority.
He swung around the barred gate that blocked access to the narrow walkway above the tracks and crouched into the shadows, shrinking away from the lights as the front of the train passed. He sprang onto the first door ledge of the last car and hugged the side, the suctions latching to the metal and glass. The fit was tight, with less than five feet between the train and the tunnel wall, the door ledge nine inches wide. The train quickly picked up speed, disappearing up the tunnel with Joseph clinging desperately to the side.
The train shook at Joseph every few seconds. The wheels shrieked in protest of his presence, Dreadhead’s tocsin racing through his mind. Joseph madly spray painted the black, followed by green, then silver, eager to get to red and pacify the train. He went to slide the suctions across the smooth metal to reach the next ledge, but the train shimmied and he quickly decided against it.
Something thudded against the roof and he looked up. The wind sucker punched him in the jaw, jerking his head back. He thrust his head forward again, to the roof, but nothing was there. Only darkness and the rough-hewn ceiling blurred into one long streak as it raced by. Tiny feet scampered across the roof toward Joseph and stopped, scratching at the roof directly above his head.
He looked up and glimpsed tiny shadows scurrying through the darkness along the rooftop. He started spraying the blue and the shadows broke into a chorus of high-pitched squeals. A small horde of giant rats hungrily poked their heads over the side of the roof, scrambling over each other for position. One of the rats leapt at Joseph’s face and bounced off his cheek into the tunnel wall, choking his eyes and nose with the stink of sewer and mangy fur.
The train slowed as the lights of the Borough Hall station loomed closer. The rats squealed at him in frustration, some of them spilling over the side and onto the tracks. A rat the size of a small cat smacked into the top of his head like a lump of hard clay, raking its claws down his left ear and neck. It hooked into his shirt, its hind legs digging into his chest for leverage. His lips parted a silent scream and he grabbed at the rat, but he missed and it scrambled up and wriggled into his shirt as the train entered the station. The suctions unplugged with a loud pop, dropping him onto the walkway. He sprang into a crazy little dance, feeling around his chest, his crotch, fanning his shirt, jiggling his leg. The rat scurried out his left pant leg, darting into the tunnel.
Joseph fell back against the wall. He leaned forward, his hands on his knees, and puked. Wiping his mouth and spitting out the last of the vomit, he didn’t feel any better. He imagined Carlo had felt the same. Joseph closed his eyes and pictured Carlo on the side of the train, holding on for dear life one minute, every muscle burning to keep him on the train, and in the next minute, he was gone.
Joseph gritted his teeth and straightened up. He scanned the platform for MTA, then swung around the barred gate blocking access between the walkway and the station, earning strange looks from some of the people gathered along the platform. He hurried across the platform to the other side under the gaze of three sneering Tunnel Bombers leaning against a Coke machine. Joseph scanned again for MTA and swung around the other barred gate. The train jolted forward and he ducked into the shadows, springing back onto the train two ledges down from where he started.
Joseph inched the can of red out of his pocket. He looked at the can, thinking back five years ago to the day Carlo had saved him when they were sixteen. They were bombing the layups at the One Hundred Eightieth Street Bronx yard and Joseph lost his grip on a train. The car pitched forward to link with another car and his hand slipped, throwing him onto the adjacent track at the same time a second car clattered toward him from the opposite direction. He scrambled to move out of the way, but the fall had lodged his shoe between the tracks. As the car was about to crush him, Carlo rushed up, freeing Joseph’s foot at the last second.
The #5 train shimmed violently, bursting into an earsplitting screech that rattled Joseph’s brain. His hand shot out into the stinging air and the wind sucked the can away! Sparks flew up from the tracks and showered him in hot whites and bright yellows. The train screamed derisively and shook more vicious than the first, sending his heart dipping into his bowels and bobbing up again. The suctions started to peel, fighting the wind to keep him on the train.
He looked ahead, up the tunnel, to the lights of the Brooklyn Bridge station in the near distance and his salvation. The wind howled in his ears, until he could hear nothing except a loud throbbing in his head. The train pried at the suctions again, eager to drag him down beneath its shrieking wheels, shaking with such force that Joseph thought it would rock itself from the tracks and derail.
The lights grew closer, brighter; the tunnel widened into another walkway above the tracks. The front of the train entered the station, followed by the middle. He screamed out, summoning up everything in him to will his body to move. The train fully entered the station and screeched to a stop. The jolt popped the suctions loose and he dropped backward onto the platform, landing on top of an undercover MTA cop. A thick arm latched around Joseph’s neck and squeezed; his face turned red, his eyes bugging out, pleading to the people on the platform watching on in stunned amazement. Across the station, Joseph saw Dreadhead rise to his feet and shrug his trenchcoat off to the floor.
“Yeah, kill that lil mutha fucka!” Two of the Tunnel Bombers ran up and kicked at Joseph. “You’re gonna die, bitch!”
“Get the fuck back!” The cop pulled a .45 Glock with his free hand. The Tunnel Bombers ignored the gun and kicked at Joseph again, one of them hitting the cop instead. Two gunshots echoed through the station with an angry twang and the crowd animated and scattered screaming up the subway stairs. The Tunnel Bombers collapsed dead, one of them falling on top of the cop, knocking the gun into Joseph’s hand. The cop released his strangle hold and struggled to throw the Tunnel Bomber off.
Joseph reflexively clubbed the cop over the head and the gun slipped from his hand. The cop went limp and Joseph wriggled out from under him, meeting Dreadhead’s evil gaze. The remnants of the crowd froze. The air between Joseph and Dreadhead froze with them. Joseph dived for his gun and the floor exploded in front of him, tile shrapnel scratching at his face. The crowd repanicked and ran screaming. Joseph looked up and saw the smoking 9mm—saw Dreadhead squeezing one eye shut as he carefully aimed through the escaping crowd—and snatched up the .45, rolling behind a column as the floor exploded again where his head had lay seconds before.
“Freeze! Drop the gun!” Two uniformed transit cops rushed at Dreadhead from the fleeing crowd and he ducked behind a nearby column. A discord of screams and gunfire ricocheted through the station. It quickly reached a terrifying crescendo and Joseph squeezed his hands over his ears, above which the #5 train whined into motion.
Joseph jumped up, screaming at the top of his lungs. He ran out from behind his column and slipped in the blood pooled around the bodies of the slain cops. Dreadhead charged at Joseph empty-handed, clutching a gaping hole in his side, a piece of his triceps missing where a bullet ripped it away.
Joseph frantically fired and missed. Dreadhead kicked the gun away and pinned Joseph in a headlock, dragging him, choking, to the edge of the platform and holding him out over the tracks as the train inched closer and the lights bore down on him. Joseph slammed his fists into Dreadhead’s thick arms and the Rastafarian laughed, letting go. Joseph blindly grabbed out and latched onto Dreadhead’s wrists, nearly pulling Dreadhead down onto the tracks with him. The train whined to a dead stop and Dreadhead flung himself backwards onto the platform with Joseph in tow.
Dreadhead lay belly-up, wheezing and huffing. The last of his strength oozed out of him along with the blood from his wounds. “You lost, Joseph.” He grinned a bloody smile, looking to the graffiti mural on the side of the train. “You didn’t finish, mon. You didn’t use red!”
Joseph calmly picked up the .45. He looked to the suctions on his hand and knees—at the torn straps and split rubber. He took them off using his free hand and tossed them onto Dreadhead’s heaving chest.
“What are you doing, Joseph?”
“I’m giving you a fighting chance.” Joseph motioned with the gun toward the train. “The same chance you gave me and Carlo.” He cocked back the hammer and smiled. “Either by the gun or by the train, one way or another.”
Dreadhead glared sideways at the gun, giving it a cold, long stare. “You can’t beat me,” he finally said. “I own these tunnels.” He snatched the damaged suctions and slipped them on. “You only think you can.”
“What the hell’s going on out here?” The door to the conductor’s booth slid open and a slob of a man poked his head out. Joseph shot at the train and swiftly pointed the gun back at Dreadhead.
“Jesus Christ!” The slob ducked his head back inside and the door slid shut.
Joseph helped Dreadhead up and shoved him toward the train. Dreadhead staggered to the train and climbed onto a ledge, latching the suctions to the metal and glass. The train jolted into motion and quickly picked up speed. The last of the station lights washed over the train, and in the semi-darkness, Joseph saw the suctions snap apart and Dreadhead fall silently to the tracks, great arcs of blood splashing the graffiti in red.
Joseph collapsed to his knees. He threw the gun out onto the tracks. He felt sick to his stomach and puked, but he still didn’t feel any better. He tried to stand and couldn’t, something holding him down. It was the heaviness of his heart. He stared up the tunnel, listening to the train grow fainter in the distance. It was worth it, he told himself as the shrieking wheels of the train faded away. He repeated the thought over and over in his mind, assuring himself that Carlo would have been proud.