HE HEARS A VOICE, close to him, then shuffling footsteps and someone sniffling, and he shifts farther back into the shadowy doorway. A man dressed in rags, bent, his hair wild, is making his way along the broken sidewalk across the street, at the edge of the zone of destruction. He’s surrounded by garbage bags. He’s carrying them, but there are so many, so full and so round, that it seems impossible he could be carrying them. They seem to be moving with him, like creatures in an animated cartoon.
Matthew remains in the shadows, watching, waiting. The man, in a businesslike manner, with no rush about him, shuffles along with his garbage bags, muttering all the while, moving purposefully along the sidewalk, and in a moment Matthew realizes his objective. Standing alone at the edge of the leveled landscape is a traffic-control box entirely free of graffiti.
It’s him again. The Graffitist. He’s everywhere.
When he reaches the box, he sets his bags down, takes out a marker, squats, and begins writing. Matthew crosses the street and takes a position behind him, near enough to note, with pleasure, that he’s using a Runznot, the brand of marker he recommended in the message Matthew read in the rain weeks before, the brand Matthew himself uses for writing on his wall. The graffitist writes this:
IF IT’S ANDERSON’S IT’S PURE AND STURDY AND TASTY —
AND IF IT’S PURE AND STURDY AND TASTY IT MUST BE ANDERSON’S!
It’s Jack’s ad, says Matthew.
Stolen from Pabst Blue Ribbon, if you ask me, says BW.
It’s funny that he should write an ad.
He’s probably being paid. It’s a new breakthrough — commercially supported graffiti.
The Graffitist goes on writing:
IF YOU’RE HAPPY YOU’RE WISE AND GOOD AND JUST —
Ha! says BW. That lets us out.
The Graffitist finishes:
AND IF YOU’RE WISE AND GOOD AND JUST, YOU MUST BE HAPPY!
What bullshit, says BW.
It’s something to think about, says Matthew. Those ifs, though. Which way do they point? Does he mean that you can’t be wise, good, and just unless you’re happy? Or does he mean that if you’re wise, good, and just, you can’t help being happy?
Who cares?
I just wonder whether he’s saying that you have to be happy to start with. Is this a message of hope? Or — or is he telling me that —
He is not writing this for you, Matthew. He is writing this because he is a crazy person.
I think he must be saying that the ingredients are enough.
Matthew, this is a philosophy based on a beer commercial. A plagiarized beer commercial.
But it’s intriguing —
Are you kidding? This is sentimental claptrap.
“Maybe not,” says Matthew, aloud.
Hearing these words, the Graffitist turns and sees Matthew. He draws back like a frightened animal, cowering, huddling down against the switching box, bringing his hands up to his face as if he were preparing for a blow.
“Don’t be afraid,” says Matthew. “I wouldn’t hit you.”
You wouldn’t?
No. I wouldn’t do anything like that.
Oh, no?
No. He holds his hands out, as if to show that they’re empty, but in one he’s still clutching the bar.
Shit. You’re right. I hit someone.
“I hit someone,” says Matthew. The Graffitist draws away, but he’s against the control box and can’t retreat any farther.
I hurt someone. I hit someone. How could I have done that? I wouldn’t hurt anybody.
“I wasn’t myself.”
I’m not the kind of person who would hurt someone.
“I’m sorry.”
Stop it, Matthew. Stop it. You are not sorry. I am not sorry.
[to be continued]
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🎧 560: He hears . . .