Page 28 of Tagging Bases

I can’t help but chuckle at Harrison’s crude but oddly apt metaphor. Leave it to the eccentric artist to find deeper meaning in a spray-painted schlong. Charlie still looks skeptical as he turns the can over in his hands.

“I don’t know, man. Seems kinda juvenile, don’t you think?” He glances at me, seeking backup.

I shrug. “Hey, if Harrison says it’ll work, who are we to argue with the expert? Besides, it’s not as if either of us has a better idea.”

Charlie’s shoulders slump in resignation. “Fine. One dick coming right up.”

He shakes the can vigorously and steps up to the wall. The hiss of the aerosol cuts through the still night as he paints. Histongue pokes out the side of his mouth as he concentrates on his penis—er, nothispenis, butapenis.

Before I know it, a misshapen oval takes form, followed by a long, slightly crooked cylinder.

After a moment, Charlie steps back and tilts his head as he appraises his work. “Quick question. Should this thing be circumcised or what?”

“Ha!” Harrison throws his head back as I snicker at my best friend getting hung up on the minutiae of graffitied genitalia. “Definitely circumcised. We’re not cavemen, McManus.”

Charlie nods thoughtfully, as if he’s received sage wisdom, and turns back to his masterpiece. With a few more quick sprays, the deed is done.

I shake my head, amazed at the surreal turn this night has taken. And the craziest thing is…I’m enjoying myself.

Charlie steps back to admire his work, and Harrison gives him a congratulatory pat on the back. “Not bad, McManus. Not bad at all. I think you’ve genuinely captured the essence of the bourgeoisie’s depravity.”

My best friend beams at the praise, puffing out his chest even though I know he has no idea what the hellbourgeoisiemeans. Ordepravity,for that matter.

“All right, Hollingsworth. What’ll you spray?” Harrison asks before getting cut off by Charlie shouting.

“Spray! That reminds me…”

Charlie shakes the can again and steps back up to the wall, a man on a mission. His arm moves in broad, confident strokes. Two rudimentary stick figures soon take shape—one with a triangular dress, the other with a square torso and what appears to be pants. Classic man and woman bathroom symbols.

But Charlie doesn’t stop there. Oh no. He adds a little something extra. Squatting, he rifles through the other cans for a different color. Then he pops back up, and an arcing spray of white paint erupts from the penis, splattering across the male and female figures.

I press my lips together to stifle the incredulous laughter bubbling in my chest. The moonlight bounces off the fresh white paint as Charlie turns to face us with a shit-eating grin. “You know, I’ve been thinking. All this talk about greed and excessive wealth—it’s a big mess, isn’t it? A big,stickymess.” He gestures grandly at his stick figure money shot. “And this right here? Vandalizing a building that screams Richie Rich has gotta be a long time…cumming.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. Beside me, Harrison howls with laughter. The sheer audacity of the pun and the ridiculousness of this entire situation are almost too much.

“Jesus Christ, Charlie,” I mutter, shaking my head when all I want to do is laugh my ass off.

Harrison doubles over with one hand braced on his knee as he gasps for air. “McManus, you beautiful bastard,” he wheezes. “That was inspired. Not even I could have come up with that.”

Charlie waggles his eyebrows. “What can I say? I’m a regular jizzus of modern art.”

Another round of groans and laughter echoes through the alley.

“I guess it’s my turn?” I say once Harrison has gotten a hold of himself.

“Sure is. Give us your best, Danny Boy!” Charlie smacks my ass, the sound ringing out like a gunshot. I whip around to glare at him, only to find him with his hands behind his back, rocking on his heels and whistling a jaunty sea shanty.

Flipping him the bird, I turn back around and get to work.

The possibilities are endless, but I want to create something meaningful. Something that speaks to the very reason we’re out here rebelling against the status quo. After a few minutes of thinking, an idea takes shape in my mind.

I grab a can of gold spray paint and outline the shape of an ornate crown. Then, switching to a deep, rich purple, I add embellishments such as jewelsbefitting royalty.

But this crown isn’t meant to be admired. No, it’s destined to be crushed.

I crouch down, snatching up a can of brown paint. In stark contrast to the regal crown, I spray the outline of a foot. But not just any foot—this one is large, imposing, and bare.

The foot of someone who has walked a hard road, who has known struggle and hardship.

---