Page 29 of Tagging Bases

My foot.

With each press of the nozzle, the foot takes shape, poised above the crown, ready to stomp down and grind it into dust. I add detail to the sole—the rough edges and cracks telling a story of resilience in the face of adversity.

It’s not the most technically skilled piece of art, but it carries a weight that resonates deep within me.

I turn around and see Harrison appraising my work. His brow furrows in thought, and his foot softly taps the pavement. Under his intense gaze, a warmth blooms in my chest and spreads to the tips of my fingers that are still wrapped around the spray can.

“Not bad, Hollingsworth,” he says after a minute. “Not bad at all. I dig the symbolism.”

“Symbolism?” Charlie pipes up, cocking his head. “What does it mean? Aside from, you know, fuck the rich?”

I chuckle, shaking my head. “It’s a bit more nuanced than that, Charlie. See, the crown represents the wealthy elite, the so-called ‘royalty’ of New York. People such as Harrison’s parents, my parents, all those socialites who thumb their nose at everyone else.”

Charlie nods in understanding. “And the foot?”

“That’s the common people—the ones who’ve been stepped on and ignored for far too long. But now, they’re coming together to stamp the bullshit out. The bare foot symbolizes their connection to the streets, to the real world that exists outside of penthouse suites and gala events.”

Harrison steps closer, his shoulder brushing against mine ashe examines the piece further. His proximity sends a shiver down my spine.

“Drawn to scale?” he muses, glancing down at my sneakers.

I’m grateful that it’s nighttime because I’m sure I’m as red as the TKTS steps right about now.

“What are you going to draw, H?” Charlie asks.

I take the momentary distraction to return the spray paint cans to the ground and compose myself. Once I feel as if I’ve regained my senses, I walk back over to Charlie.

Harrison has one hand on his hip and the other tapping a spray can against his chin as he surveys the wall. “All right, boys. Time for the master to show you how it’s done.” He flashes us a cocky grin before setting up the collapsible ladder and shaking a can of electric blue paint as he climbs to the top.

His hand moves confidently, an image taking shape before our eyes. He works with laser focus, his forehead creasing as he moves fast but efficiently.

First, he outlines a muscular arm, the bicep bulging and veins popping. Then, in quick succession, he adds highlights and shadows, giving the arm an uncanny realism. As he moves down to the hand, he adds a middle finger. A bold “fuck you” to the world.

From there, he paints an entire body before climbing down and swapping out the blue for a can of vivid green. With deft flicks of his wrist, he transforms Charlie’s crude penis into a monstrous, veiny behemoth, complete with bulging balls and a few stray hairs.

Charlie lets out a low whistle. “Damn, H. My dick looks hot now.”

Harrison smirks. “I’m not done yet.”

He retrieves the can of brown from my discarded pile and returns to the wall. Crouching down, he starts spraying beneath the giant cock. Slowly, a second foot takes shape beside the one I made. Except now, they’re gargantuan, hairy monstrosities with yellowed toenails and gnarled bunions.

As he adds more details, I realize what he’s doing. He’s tyingall of our pieces together to create a cohesive narrative. The feet—the downtrodden masses—support the pulsing, throbbing phallus of unnecessary capitalism that belongs to a hideous ogre, which represents how high society views those beneath them.

It’s a striking image that’s raw and unapologetic in its vulgarity.

But Harrison’s still not finished. He snatches up a can of red paint and, with quick, angry bursts, adds a splatter of blood beneath the impending stomp—a visceral representation of the violence inherent in the uprising of the oppressed.

When he finally steps back, the mural is complete. It’s a glorious mess of color and crudity, a fiery indictment of the social hierarchy we’ve all grown up around. Or, at least, Harrison and I have.

“That’s…intense,” Charlie murmurs, his eyes wide with admiration.

I nod in agreement, transfixed by the mesmerizing image. “You’ve got some serious talent, Price.”

Harrison shrugs, but I can tell he’s pleased by the compliment. “It’s not about talent. It’s about having something to say.”

As we gather up Harrison’s belongings and make our way back to the subway, I realize something else. I have as much to say as Harrison does about the life I live.

And for once, I want to find my voice and say, “No more.”

---