The thump on the sidewalk outside his studio sounded larger than a cat jumping or a rat falling out of a tree. There were, in fact, no trees outside Paul’s studio. There was, however, a billboard, which was a magnet for taggers. Another case for it being a human thump were the police sirens and the running feet. Against his better judgment, he looked outside.

“Not you again,” he said to the kid, who was struggling to stand. Well, at this distance, Paul realized he was more of a late teenager or in his early twenties than a kid.

“Who me?” he said, wincing in pain and favoring his left leg.

“Yes, you. You who fell off this same billboard last weekend, you.”

The sirens were getting closer. The kid limped behind Paul’s van parked next to the studio. There was a plea for help in his eyes as he melted into the shadows.

A patrol car slowed to a halt in front of Paul. The cop stuck his head out and asked if he’d seen anyone tagging the billboard. Paul said he hadn’t seen anyone on the billboard, which was true. This satisfied the cop and, after wishing Paul a pleasant evening, drove off.

After years of living in an industrial area much beloved by taggers and junkies, Paul knew that taggers, at least, were not dangerous unless they were cornered. He’d never had occasion or desire to corner one, so there’d never been any conflicts with them. Paul minded his own business, only nodding when the spray can-toting outlaws made eye-contact, which was seldom. Now, the kid tonight he’d seen before: he’d been trying to tag the new billboards above his studio for several weeks. That particular billboard changed frequently enough that it was a challenge to keep it tagged. It seemed to be the personal quest of this one particular kid to keep it tagged and he was willing to brave cold, rain, police, and falls. Paul had seen him fall more than once, but the kid usually bounced right up again and darted away before the police got there. But not that night.

“Hey, thanks, man,” the kid said, hobbling out of the shadows.

“You’re not going to get far on that leg,” Paul said. “And the cops are probably just going around the block, looking for someone who has spray paint on his pants. Like you do.”

“I—” the kid slipped back in the shadows as a car went by. “I’ll be okay,” he said, trying to look tough balanced on one leg.

“I can give you a ride somewhere,” Paul said.

The kid thought about it and then agreed. He directed Paul into a shabby neighborhood not far from the train station. He said, “thanks,” and hobbled away as Paul drove off."

‘You’re welcome. Stay off that billboard, kid,’ Paul thought ruefully as he drove home. He stopped at the market to pick up a carton of milk because he knew Mark would be there when he got home and he knew he wouldn’t feel like explaining where he’d been.

“Where’ve you been?” Mark asked after a quick kiss hello.

“I went to get milk. I was out,” Paul said, putting the carton in his nearly empty fridge.

“Thanks.” Mark could not drink his morning coffee without milk. He was more touched than he showed; since he’d moved out Paul had seemed ambivalent about sleeping with him and this small consideration seemed like an encouraging sign.

A week later, Paul noticed the billboard was half tagged. He’d been at Mark’s place the night before, so the kid must have been back and gotten interrupted again. “Idiot,” he murmured as he let himself into his studio. The kid was an idiot with a quest and the romantic in Paul couldn’t help but admire that.

Making Mark fall in love with him had once been a quest, but an accomplished quest is no longer as interesting as an unaccomplished one. Reasonable as ever, Mark had suggested they needed more space or something and moved out. They continued to date, but Paul was keeping his options open. In these last, restless months before this thirtieth birthday, Paul was no longer sure what his options were open for, but they were definitely open.

A few days after this, the half-tagged billboard was changed. Paul had nearly forgotten about the tagger, when late one evening there was a slightly panicky knock on the door and then a louder banging.

“Police officers, open up.”

Paul looked through the peephole and there were indeed two cops standing behind the kid Paul now thought of as his tagger. He opened the door.

“Do you know this kid?” one of the cops asked.

“Sure,” Paul said, hoping they would not ask his name. “I even know where he lives,” he added before they could ask. “Miss your bus again, pal?” he asked the tagger as if he’d known him all his life. “Need a ride home?”

“Yeah, sorry, thanks,” the kid mumbled.

The cops looked on dubiously and seemed about to ask some hard questions, but whatever they heard on their patrol car radio caused them to leave in a hurry. Paul hustled the kid inside before they could change their minds and come back.

“Whew, thanks, mister,” the tagger said.

“My name’s Paul. What’s yours?”

“Daniel.”

“You should give up the tagger life, Daniel,” Paul said, watching the kid stroll around his studio. “Before you end up in jail.”

“Someday,” Daniel said vaguely. “What do ya do here?” he asked, inspecting Paul’s G5s.

“Computer games.” Paul made a quick mental review the window bar situation, his homeowners policy, and the wisdom of letting this strange, reckless kid into his studio.

“Cool. Wanna go to an art opening?”

“At this hour?” Paul looked at his watch.

“Sure, if we go now, we’ll beat the rush at midnight.”

The art show was in a tiny, dark club under a freeway. It was too dark to see any art, so Paul figured it was just an excuse for a bunch of tough guys to stand really close to each other. The music was too loud to talk over, but everyone was swaying a little to it, not that it could be called dancing, but it was more than just standing. There were male couples and threesomes standing in dark corners, doing more than swaying. It looked to Paul as if they were jacking each other off.

‘What kind of place have you brought me to, Daniel?’ Paul wondered, swaying close to him, inhaling the thick clouds of dope smoke and male pheromones.

Eventually Daniel maneuvered them into a dark alcove and fumbled at Paul’s belt. With a little more fumbling, they were jacking each other off in rhythm to the music. “I don’t kiss,” Daniel growled when Paul leaned toward him.

Paul thought that was a shame; he liked to kiss and Daniel had a nice mouth. The nearly forgotten Mark liked to kiss and was good at it. At least he was good at kissing Paul. But Paul was too busy coming, and feeling Daniel climax was too distracting, to pursue this train of thought any further.

They zipped up, drank some beer, and when the place seemed even more crowded, they left. Paul dropped him in the same shabby neighborhood as before and went home to wash the smell of sweat, semen, and dope off his body.

Thereafter, Paul kept an eye on the billboard to see if it was tagged. He was also half listening for the sound of a body falling off it. Neither of those things happened. He was distracted and when Mark, who was considering moving back in, asked him what was up, he said, “Work,” as if that explained everything. Mark didn’t pry, but he stopped talking about moving back in.

A few weeks later there was a soft tap on his door late one night. “I was wondering what became of you,” Paul said. He stepped aside to let Daniel in, but the kid stayed put.

“Hey, c’mon, I wanna show you something,” Daniel said. “Bring your car, okay?”

In the car, Daniel alternated between giving directions and molesting Paul’s thigh. “You like guys, right?”

“Yeah, you?” Paul asked.

“Yeah, but I keep it on the downlow.”

“What’s that?” Paul asked. He parked the car near the concrete ravine train tracks ran through.

“I like to come, and girls are too much work sometimes. Another guy, he understand that, too.” Daniel got out of the car and sat on the hood.

Paul followed him, thinking that Mark was a lot of work, but at least he liked to kiss as well as come.

“So we keep it on the downlow and everyone’s happy,” Daniel said, running his hand over the bulge in Paul’s jeans.

“Is that why we’re here?” Paul asked, sliding his hand around Daniel’s waist.

“Nah, we’re waiting for the moon,” Daniel said. He pulled Paul against him, pushed the older guy’s legs apart and leaned their crotches together. His mouth was inches from Paul’s, but Paul controlled himself and concentrated on getting his and Daniel’s cocks out.

Daniel leaned his forehead against Paul’s collarbone and ran his hand down their dicks, pressing them together in a voluptuous, maddening rhythm. Sliding their slick with pre-cum cocks together, the tagger varied the tempo and pressure, spinning the tease out until Paul thought he’d lose his fucking mind. He came first, with a gasp, his cock jerking against Daniel’s. And then Daniel let loose, with a grunt that ended in a whimper. The night was very quiet as they held each against the hood of Paul’s car.

“Thanks,” Paul said, and wiped his hands on his jeans.

“Welcome,” Daniel said, and wiped his hands on Paul’s jeans. “There’s the moon. Look.” He pointed at the ravine wall opposite their perch.

There was a huge tag, maybe several smaller ones and some designs Paul had seen on buildings in the area, but had never seen so deliberately arranged before. “Yours?” he asked.

“Me and some guys,” Daniel said, proudly. “I did the stuff mostly on the left.”

“That’s the best part,” Paul said, and got a killer smile as thanks. They stared at it until clouds covered the moon up.

Back in the car, Daniel said, “I’m leaving in a few days. I’m joining the Marines.”

‘No more downlow there, pal,’ Paul thought, but said, “Congratulations. They don’t just take anyone.”

“Yeah, they got the best deal, too,” Daniel said. “I might go to art school when I get out.”

‘You could do that now,’ Paul thought, but said, “Ah, good idea, you could be an artist.”

He dropped him in the same shabby neighborhood and drove home. He never saw him again, but a few days later the billboard was tagged and the word “bye” was spray painted on his front door.

The next day Paul asked Mark to move back in and give it another try. After one last fling, even on the downlow, with a reckless, romantic kid like Daniel, he could settle down with Mark, not on the downlow, and have no regrets or what-might-have-beens whatsoever.

 

© 2005 Ginger Mayerson - Contributor's Bio