Room 132

Language Arts, 8-2
Friday, April 7th, 2006

Aerosol Cloud

In the moonlight the aerosol vapors rose up through the air, to seemingly be ghosts of the spray can. Abstract silver clouds floated around the great cement wall as if they were meant to be there and they were. The sound of the jet stream of paint onto surface, created a natural drum pattern, true music of the slums. Through all the fumes, you could barely make out the series of shadowy figures at work, but out of all, one still stood out, Tag. His rather small demeanor was the most noticeable factor in his appearance. If you looked closer, it also became clear that the can in his hand moved with such grace, he made it seem like he was born with the can attached to his hand, his facial were indistinguishable, because of the respirator strapped across is face and the hood pulled over his head.

You could tell something was wrong merely from the way he was walking, the crowd then stepped away, the air cleared, and a true master piece was revealed. Night after night this would occur around the city, as if deviance was mass producing his greatest pieces unto giant walls and subway cars. Only these were different, these were not oil painting on canvas, blending left and right, this was not just art. This was liberation of the masses. Liberation of those who had been oppressed under a pessimistic, and fascist society. One filled to the brim with crime, racism, sexism, and all types of hate. This was rebellion against those who would rather observe a gray concrete wall, than a true masterpiece, against those who would rather have stockpiles of other people’s taxes go to covering the product of blood, sweat, and tears with lifeless gray paint. Who would prefer to use that money on covering art than improving the cities education, and those people were coming. A thunder of heavy footsteps running down stairs was the only thing hear able. Tag ran to the nearest fence. No time to grab his paint or black book. He hopped the fence with incredible ease, but was it fast enough?
He ran down a dark alley way. Out of the corner of his eye he saw and inside light shining, he dived through the open doorway…No such luck. there they were right on the other side. One put his massive hand over Tag’s entire face, he tried to scream but he realized no one could here him. Besides even if they did, what were they going to do? fight the police? He nearby dumpster made a clanging noise and he hit it, hard. After that they all took turns beating him till he had a broken leg, wrist, and chipped teeth. Not to mention other smaller wounds and bruises covering his entire body. He returned home bruised, and battered. There was that molding brick he called home. He took out his key and walked in. The long walk up the stairs was a brutal one. His Open wounds wee grinding into his sough denim pants. Two sixty seven. Here was his room. Click. The door popped open as he slowly rotated the shiny piece of metal in his hand. Inside there were shelves and shelves stacked with paint. Krylon, Rustoleum, Montana, and every brand you could ever imagine. Walls filled with markers, sketches, paint rollers, all of his utensils put into making his rebellion of art. Scattered torn up papers, dirty clothes, and all sorts of miscellaneous objects were thrown on the bare stone floor. He dropped his bag as he collapsed on to his couch and that was the end of his night.
He woke up to a phone ringing, “Hello?” he answered.
“Bombing, tonight!” the voice on the other end of the phone replied.
“Aight, whenever you want, I’m kinda sore from the beating last night though”
“Haha they finally caught your crazy @$$ huh?”
“Haha, yeah see ya tonight”
“Aight, Peace”
Click, he hung up. Drowsily, he pulled himself out of bed and got some orange juice. Oh $h!t he thought, what was he going to do to pay the rent this month? Oh well any day alive here is a good one.
He spent that whole day sketching, coming up with idea’s for what he might paint that night. The black book in his hands was filled his hundreds of masterpieces, it looked like something that could be in a museum. Cans and cans of paint, were loaded into his backpack, he was gnu need it all. After the paint came the caps to choose. By the time he had everything picked out, it was time to roll.
Tag scrambled down the fire escape, in his black outfit, he resembled a ninja flying the great wall of China. His feet hit the ground, and a small cloud of dust arose from the impact, he snuck around the city till he reached the train, with his crew awaiting his arrival, “You ready?” one asked.
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” he replied
That night, they arrived at the train. In their eyes it was one of the most beautiful things they’d ever seen, of course this wasn’t saying much considering they lived in the dying ghetto of Neigh York. They stepped closer, unloaded their wares, and started right away. Just like the night night a few days before, the entire area was filled with the intoxicating smell of aerosol, and the thin wispy ghosts made from the light reflecting off the paint that had bounced off the white surface. Even from afar you could see Tag’s limp as he walked to pick up color paint, or another. The subway shook, A train was coming. As quickly as they could, they dived around the nearest corner, picking up everything they could on the way. Tag’s limp leg brushed against a can, and the ball inside rattled as it fell to the tracks, and he tripped. Just then the train came by. BOOM! it hit the can all the vapors sprayed into his face. Everything went black.
Where was he? he was in a black room in which even the walls were not visible. Suddenly, there was a type of clanky sound, followed by buzzing lights turning on. He was trapped in a room. then the floor fell open. He was falling from hundreds of feet in the air, he air was slamming into his face so hard, he couldn’t close his mouth. His clothes were flapping all over, but he wasn’t wearing the same clothes. What he was now wearing was more of a loose rubber jumpsuit. It made him look like a giant flying squirrel. An outline of a city underneath was now visible, but there were still clouds in between. Smack! He hit a cloud. It was a weird sensation. Slight pain from impact, but comfort in the clouds softness. Then it hit him. He was laying on a cloud. Not only that but even weirder, it started moving towards the city. On his way down he saw a several signs that read “Mile High City.” There were huge walls filled with paint, graffiti seemed to be everywhere. This was the city of his dreams. After literally a mile of traveling down, and seeing his wild dreams with his own two eyes. He hit the ground. Even just from the sight of things, he could already tell that the city worked in classes, and that the higher up you were, the better off you were. At the top,
he had seen flying cars, covered with art, glass building tops, he had even seen a diamond fountain, spraying lave every which way. However, now that he was at the bottom it looked just like his old home, only more graffiti. After a week in the city he quickly discovered that he was in New New York, also know as the mile high city, and that instead of destroying The. old buildings they simply added foundation and built up. So of course the poorest people were left with the lower floors. Another random fact he found was the the Empire State Building was now the smallest building in the city, but even more important, graffiti was now legal. Gigantic white walls had ben placed all over the city just to paint on. Tag loved it. Within a week he had racks of paint, a job painting peoples cars, and was on the way to the top. One day he was just on a usual stroll to the local paint store (The Krylon Paint company had bought out Nike) to get shoes and some paint. He was tugged into an alleyway and shacked violently. All his money was lost and he lay there in the street dying. He saw a burst of light. He was in the emergency room, his whole body aching. Something was different. There were no flying cars, Nothing. What a disappointment, it must have been that exploding can. He was never really in the future it was merely an illusion. Well before he died, he had one last thing to say.

Look up to the future, because there’s always something in store…