A Pinch of Ooh La La (28 page)

“It's the magic hour. I think it'll be fun. Get up.”

The magic hour: two or three a.m. Find an abandoned building, make sure no one is around, and by the next morning your artwork is there for any passerby and all other graffiti artists to see.

“Dr. Henderson, I'm shocked.”

“Don't be. I've already found our location. I've taken care of everything we need. What do you say?”

“What are we going to make? You know we can't wing it.”

“I've thought of that, too. Here.” He reached into one of the bags and took out a drawing of my dad.

“It's perfect.” I hugged him with everything I had. After a moment I said, “I miss him. I miss him so much.”

“I know,” he said, holding me tighter. “I know.”

•   •   •

B
endrix and I were obsessed with three bands back in high school: the Smiths, the Cure, and De La Soul, and we listened to them whenever we made our graffiti art. Thanks to Bendrix, that night was no different. He'd put together a playlist of several of our favorite tracks, and we drove to our destination
while listening to songs like “This Night Has Opened My Eyes” and “Hand in Glove” by the Smiths, and “Fascination Street” and “A Forest” by the Cure, and De La Soul's “Me, Myself and I” and “Stakes Is High.” We sang along and tried to remember words and laughed and reminisced.

The building he'd chosen was near Mandela Parkway, an old factory or abandoned loft, hard to say in the pitch dark. After walking through an empty parking lot, we tromped through trash and weeds to reach our destination. There was a drip tag made by an amateur who didn't know how to properly hold the can, but other than that, the entire wall was ours. We organized the cans, then put on our masks and shared a lucky fist bump. Bendrix started to outline Dad's face and body, while I worked on the color fill. When the basic image was completed, we began making the design come more to life by adding second and third shades of color, sharpening lines and shading in edges to give a 3-D effect. We moved like synchronized dancers, sweeping out our arms one way and then the other, standing on tiptoe then bending low to the ground. We worked fast and hard, as if no time between high school and the present moment had passed at all.

When we were finished, we removed our masks and inhaled the fresh, cool air. We remained silent as we took in our work. Dad stood next to his piano in his shades and hat. His legs were crossed near the ankle while he held up the palm of his hand, where music notes shot up and out in every direction. I was teary-eyed when I raised my fist toward Bendrix and we bumped. “Thanks, Benny.”

•   •   •

W
e were picking up the last of the spray cans and tossing our surgical masks into the bag Bendrix had brought along when we heard what taggers call the
woop-woop
, the sound of a police car siren—two exact
woop
s followed by flashing lights.
I shouted, “Run!” but it was too late; the cop had already blared a spotlight on us, and there I stood still holding a can of spray paint. The cop used his microphone, and a voice blared as if from on high. “Okay, you two, drop down to your knees. Hands behind your heads.”

I looked over at Bendrix as we fell to the ground. “Told you my life sucks.”

I'm Beginning to See the Light

B
endrix and I met with Judge Lewis in her private chambers. She had a long, narrow head and small eyes that never seemed to blink. She stared at us as though we were the last straw on her road to retirement. Thanks to Bendrix and me, she had officially seen it all.

She granted time to speak and I took the opportunity to go on about Avery and tell her all about Samuel. She listened as I told her about my father's passing and how depressed I'd been.

When I finished, she sighed and looked at Bendrix. “And what's your excuse?”

“I was trying to make her happy.”

“By convincing her to break the law?”

He shrugged. “We consider graffiti a form of art.” When she glowered, he added a quick “Your Honor.”

She went back to staring. Even after everything we'd told
her, it was easy to see that she still had no idea why we were in her chambers or why we had chosen to act like common juvenile delinquents. “In all my natural-born days . . . ,” she muttered. She then folded her hands on her desk and handed down the verdict. Dr. Henderson was given sixteen hours of community service at the clinic where he already volunteered. She turned to me next and made it clear she had absolutely no patience for an Oakland business owner who'd defile public property. She then threw the book at me: four weekends, Saturday and Sunday, eight a.m. until noon with SWAP.

“What's SWAP?” I asked, already terrified at the sound of it.

“Guess you'll have to find out, won't you?”

I looked over at Bendrix, who couldn't hide his amusement.

“Do you know what SWAP is?” I asked him.

“I don't, but it sounds funny, doesn't it?”

“No, it doesn't,” I snapped.

He lowered his gaze.

I returned my attention to Judge Lewis. “Would you please tell me what it is?”

“Trash picking, Ms. Ross. You will be helping to beautify the streets of Oakland.”

Bendrix coughed.

“What? Trash picking?” I cried. “Why do I have to pick trash when he gets to do what he's been doing for years? Bendrix already volunteers at that clinic! How is this fair?”

“Dr. Henderson saves lives. We need him out on the front lines. You, on the other hand, bake cookies. People are already too fat as it is.”

“No! Please, Judge. I demand a retrial!”

She narrowed her eyes. “Another word out of you, Ms. Ross, and I'll make it ten weekends.”

When I looked over at Bendrix, he snickered.

•   •   •

O
ne week later I found myself riding in a nondescript white van along with fifteen other convicts. We the convicted were angry with the Man and we wanted justice, but that morning we weren't getting it; we were going to clean the streets of Oakland, like it or not. The two men in charge, Dwayne Hicks and Alvin White, chatted and made jokes up front. Dwayne was a short wad of muscle topped by a mass of Jheri curls. Al, his assistant, was Dwayne's tall, skinny opposite.

I was in hell not so much because of the trash picking I was about to do, but rather the horrible, nightmarish smooth jazz Dwayne and Al played inside the van. Growing up, I was taught two things about smooth jazz: Smooth jazz was crap Muzak, and smooth jazz was diarrhea.

When Dwayne turned, I realized I'd spoken out loud. “What did you say?”

“Nothing. I was wondering if you could turn that off? It sucks.”

My fellow inmates giggled.

“Who are you?”

“Abbey.”

He took out his roster and looked through the names. He gave a nod after reading my report. “So you're an
artiste
, huh? Like to draw,
Mizz
Ross?” He caught Al's attention. “Our friend here got busted for spray-painting walls.”

Everyone in the van turned to stare at me.

“You're a little
old
for spray-painting graffiti, aren't you, Mizz Ross?” He locked his eyes on mine, then reached toward the radio. The diarrhea music grew louder and louder. A no-talent horn player piddled spineless notes while a female singer, more suited for pop music, sang about bullshit.

So far, SWAP was just great.

•   •   •

“W
e all know perfectly well why you are here today. Those who can, do; those who can't, get caught, and you, my feebleminded friends, got caught. I'm here to make sure you don't come back after your sentence is up. How am I going to do that? I'm gonna have fun. I'm gonna sit in my comfortable van with my assistant here, and come lunchtime, I'm gonna eat the nice meal my wife prepared for me. Meanwhile, you all will be out in the hot sun regretting your actions. Understand?”

Silence.

“I said,
Do you understand?
”

“Yes, sir!”

Dwayne walked up and down the line we'd formed. Over time, I'd learn that Dwayne would give this same exact speech every Saturday and Sunday. My fellow SWAP mates would come and go, depending on their sentence, but Dwayne and that speech stayed the same, as did the style of khaki pants he wore, with the severe crease running down the center.

During my first weekend, I, along with the rest of the condemned, cleaned several streets along the Emeryville-Oakland border, an alleyway off San Pablo, and so many gutters I lost track of who I was or why I existed. When we passed apartment complexes, it was as though the inhabitants didn't own trash cans and merely tossed items they no longer wanted in the front of the building.
SWAP is here! Throw everything out the window! Yay!

Our tools were extra-large trash bags and the Nabber!, a forty-inch pickup tool with an aluminum handle and nifty magnetic grip(!). We wore fluorescent orange vests with the letters
SWAP
on the back. We spent hours picking up everything from empty beer cans to used condoms, from candy wrappers to items of clothing. We, the condemned, were graffiti artists, taggers, gangbangers, and petty shoplifters. We either took our
punishment and never returned or went on to greater offenses. I worked alongside young men with tattooed necks and women with dark makeup and pierced eyebrows and chins.

After only one weekend, I felt broken and demoralized. I went home and showered until my skin felt ready to melt under the hot water. I then headed straight to the bakery to catch up on work. For once, baking did nothing for my spirits. Judge Lewis had been right: All I did in life was make people fat.

•   •   •

B
y my second Saturday, I'd learned to wear a big hat and sunglasses to protect myself from the sun and keep my identity hidden. There were only six of us that Saturday. After giving his speech (“Y'all cronies got caught and I'm here today to make your lives miserable!,” etc.), Dwayne told us it was a very special day. “Today, you people will be improving the city of Oakland by painting trash cans and bicycle racks. Lucky y'all. If you look to my left, you will notice buckets of paint. Al, show 'em.”

Al waved his hand over the buckets of paint.

“You will hold your brush like so. Show 'em, Al.”

Al held a brush with his arm straight out like he was about to start a fencing match.

Dwayne continued. “The point, here, is that you want a nice wrist-like action—see?
Al?
”

Al moved the brush up and down, making sure to emphasize a taut flicking action in his wrist. Dwayne then sought me out in the crowd. “This is your lucky day,
Mizz
Ross. You get to paint to your heart's content.” He and Al laughed. “Now, you cronies, make sure you don't use more paint than what you need; otherwise, you'll make more of a mess and I will be required to add on to your hours. Understand?”

I heard a slow, silky voice coming from my left. “Those two . . . are, like . . . so . . . stupid.”

I turned and saw a young woman, no more than thirty,
chewing her gum as slowly as she talked. She was tall and feline, with dark skin and jet-black hair that glimmered beneath the hot sun. She wore a midriff top that showed off a pierced navel and a pair of shorts that revealed mile-long legs. She made the mandatory orange vest we wore look like couture. While we listened to Dwayne give his speech, she entertained herself by cracking her gum and staring at her nails.

I asked her name after we were assigned to work together and she looked at me steely eyed. “Vel. Vet.” And a second later—
pop!
went her gum.

“Gum isn't allowed,” I whispered.

She glanced at her nails. “Ask me . . . if I care.”

Velvet and I were assigned to paint two rows of bicycle racks blocks away from the van where Dwayne and Al played games on their phones. Velvet decided she didn't want to walk and appointed a group of men to carry her on her Egyptian-styled chaise to the area we were to paint. Once we reached our spot, one man held an umbrella above her head while another fed her grapes one at a time.

In short, I worked while Velvet leaned against a tree, watching.

I tried to convince her to help me, but she said I looked like I was doing fine.

“You don't feel guilty watching me sweat in the hot sun?” I asked.

She considered me, then tilted her head as if realizing I might be useful after all. “When is lunch?”

I rolled my eyes and went back to painting. A guy from SWAP took a risk by leaving his partner behind and sneaking over so he could chat Velvet up. She cut him off by ordering him to get her a soda and chips. He ran to the liquor store at the corner and returned with her requests. When he was gone, she popped her gum. “Men . . . are idiots. You ever notice that?”

I smiled for the first time all day. In truth, I no longer cared
that I was doing all the work. I liked Velvet. I liked her aloof confidence and bored attitude.

Most of all, I liked that she had the nerve to ask the guy who bought her the chips to help us—
me
—finish the bicycle racks. After he took over, I joined her under the shade of a tree. We stood quietly for a while, and then I asked, “So what did you do, anyway?”

She took her time turning her attention away from the street. She then bit down on a chip and considered my presence. “None . . . of your damn . . . business.”

She watched me laugh.

•   •   •

D
uring my third weekend, Alvin drove us to a run-down park in West Oakland. There were about twenty grumpy, irritable SWAP members that morning. We half listened to Dwayne give his speech, then went to work; everyone except for Velvet, that is. She was back, as feline as ever. While the rest of us went to work, she managed to saunter over to Alvin and pull him into a conversation. I had to hand it to her: She kept him talking the entire time we were cleaning the park.

Next we drove to the warehouses near the 80 freeway. We were then told we'd be working in threes. “For those of you who don't know how to count,” Dwayne said, “that's this many.” He held up three fingers, and he and Alvin had a laugh.

I picked up my bag and my Nabber! I was surprised when Velvet walked over and stood next to me; a woman who introduced herself as Myrna asked if she could be our third. Myrna was squat, with pudgy arms, but she walked to our assigned area as though she meant business. In fact, when she saw that Velvet planned on leaning against a tree and watching us, she marched over and looked her up and down. “Oh, no you don't, Miss Think You're All That. You gonna work like everybody else.” She stood in place and stared Velvet down. The expression on her face said,
You wanna mess with me?
She took another step forward:
Do you?

Velvet broke Myrna's gaze by staring down at a single fingernail and popping her gum. She rolled her eyes for all they were worth and picked up her trash bag. One. . . . leisurely . . . catlike . . . step . . . in front of the other . . . and she actually walked to an empty soda can and picked it up!

Myrna crossed her arms and raised her brow at me:
This is the way you have to do these young girls these days.

Things went smoothly after that. Myrna was as industrious as they came and moved about as if being paid top dollar for every trash bag she filled. Thanks to her help, we gained an extra five minutes on our fifteen-minute break. We found a seat under a tree. Myrna ate from a bag of chips and Velvet ate candy. They both stared when I took out a sliced bagel and bag of figs. “What?” I asked.

“Where are you from?” Myrna asked.

“
Here.
Oakland.”

She and Velvet looked at each other and laughed.
“Nuh-uh!”

“I am!”

“Rockridge . . . ain't Oakland,” said Velvet, still laughing.

“I'm
not
from Rockridge,” I snapped.

Myrna leaned back on the bench. “So what did you do, anyway?”

“You two first,” I said. “Velvet, what did
you
do?”

She clicked her tongue and folded her arms. “Got caught.”

Myrna said, “I don't mind telling you what I did. I was smoking weed at the park with my friend. Now, I don't smoke weed all too often. I only smoke on special occasions. I just lost my job, and I figured I needed an antidepressant. But Mr. Policeman was in a mood and arrested me anyway. I told him I'd lost my job, but he didn't care. My friend got off but the judge said since I'm a mother I needed to learn a lesson. I think that judge was high. I'm out of work and here today instead of with my kids.” She shook her head and went for more chips. “So what's your story, Abbey? Because for the life of me I can't figure you out.”

I started with Avery and by the time I moved to Samuel, we were cleaning near the freeway entrance. I talked and talked. I think I used that day as my own therapy session and was hoping to figure out how I got from point A to point SWAP. Myrna was surprised by it all and kept asking questions like: “So you're saying your best friend is a doctor? Like a doctor doctor?” And, “You own a
bakery
? Like a real bakery? Where people go and buy stuff?” And, “You were married to a lawyer?” That's when Velvet said, “Can he come . . . and get us out of here?”