11 PM. The night air feels like a steaming wet towel being dragged over my face. My eyes have adjusted to the darkness. The moon casts shadows of the rusted iron safety rails onto the concrete of the bridge. They stand tall, black paint imposing even darker than the dim gray of the forest as it vanishes into the creek. The river sparkles under the moonlight. The sound of it slurring through the rocks is the only noise other than the insects. As I remember it now, though I had been to that bridge on many nights for surreptitious meetings: a joining of my moon shadow with hers…surely there were other sounds? But I can only remember the murmur of the water as it rushed below. I think none of this as I cross the bridge tonight. I am alone. I do not linger in the pale-blue light. Instead, I cross over the creek, following the path deeper into the woods, toward the old pool.
It probably used to have barbed wire on top of the fence--I assume, anyway. Not anymore. Hardly feeling the sway of the drawstring bag digging into my shoulders, I pulled myself up and over it, down onto the concrete that surrounded the old, abandoned pool. We came here a lot on summer nights when I was much younger. Much the same way you or I might react if a giant lit up the night to blind you with an enormous spotlight, the frogs that reside here freeze when you shine a flashlight in their eyes. Paralyzed in fear, or maybe fascination--I’m still not sure--it was not hard to scoop them up. Tonight, the sounds of the frogs that live in the shallow, algae-ridden rainwater that blankets the bottom of the forgotten pool fills the air. Their song blends with the cicadas’ calls. I did not bring a flashlight.
To the left is the correct way to get in: a squat brick building that bisects the rusting fence. Its bricks are speckled with growths of moss. A sun-bleached ice cream menu, used impromptu to cover the concession window, was positioned feet away from a closed door. Judging by the cardboard security system on the window, I figured locking the back door was unlikely to have been a priority on that final lifeguard’s last closing shift before summer vacation ended and the pool closed one last time. The door was unlocked.
The air inside had been still for years before I disturbed it. Air that hasn’t moved in many years has a plastic smell to it…and mildew. There is a waist-height fence on my left and my right, corralling me from the pool area to the front door; it prevented the guests from disturbing the important work of the guards that used to occupy these halls. A binder lies open on the counter. Each page, an empty grid, those on the left-hand pages, filled with signatures of members who checked in, documenting each guest (if any) that they had brought with them. Thick dust blankets the names of each pool-goer. I stand on the counter, careful not to disturb the check-in book, and reach up to open the window high above. I am blinded by the full moon piercing through layers of muddy grime. Backlit, and blanketed in shadow, the latch cuts into the bright night sky. It does not resist as I slide it open.
The window swings open after some pushing. It’s possible that it’s never been opened before. It makes a satisfying, unstickying pop as I push it up, and it swings a quarter-circle open. Wet air flows in; the sarcophagus below swells as paper and wood absorb moisture. Carefully, I hoist myself up through the window. I pull myself through an inch of mud and moss that mercifully softens the coarse, sandpaper shingles of the pool roof. Straight ahead, the street below is still. Behind me, a brick wall, dotted with windows, silhouettes the night sky. I’m not sure how I’ll get back into the building, should I need to, but I’m pretty sure I can jump down without breaking anything should the need arise. I rip the pack off my back, pull open the drawstrings, and search for the white paint can.
A lot of people don’t notice the sloppiness of street art. Look closely next time you’re on the train. Those painted walls blur by and hide the sketchy streaks of their artists. Pay close attention next time: look for the uneven lines, the uneven paint as the artist sprayed back and forth to fill in a letter, leaving little empty gaps in the can’s trail, spreading wider with each sway of the arm. A tag can look intricate and sloppy at the same time. Anything can. I didn’t want my tag to look like this. Only deliberate lines. Slow movement. Not too slow, we can’t let the paint run. I sketched the outline of each letter, but didn’t draw the border. It’s important when painting not to directly draw any lines. Rather, a skilled painter should place the color of one form directly upon the color of another. A boundary is suggested, but not enforced with the curved black lines of a drawing.
I spray a line of blue pigment around the black border on the letters, hardly overlapping onto any of the black paint. I placed another black ring around the letters, covering only the inner half of the blue halo I had sprayed before. One last halo of white before I saw it. White letters, bordered with black, simple. But the blue halo spreads into a white angelic glow. Within, three cursive, overlapping letters: “YAZ”.
At my current vantage point, I can only take in the letter “Y”. I step back. My foot slides momentarily, setting free a fist-sized clump of moss. The, no doubt, years old clump slipped down the roof, making little puff sounds with each bounce until I heard it clatter into the gutter. My foot followed until my toes balanced inches on tile roofing, and inches from the gutter. The full vastness of my piece was painted with moonlight, dripping slightly in one of the bottom corners, but otherwise fixed in the cold night air.
Suddenly, the “Y” grew brighter in focus. The murmur of the insects and frogs that had once been the unnoticed, but nevertheless loud, an unrelenting chorus that filled my subconscious conspicuously vanished and was replaced by the low hiss of spinning car tires. Cones of light paint the street below, and just barely illuminate the pool house roof. I know better than to try and run; it’s easier to see movement in dim light than stillness in shadows. So, I make myself flat against the roof. I fall face-down, roll over and crane my neck up as little as I can. I turn my eyes down as much as possible, until I feel the strain of my ocular muscles pulling into my head. I squish myself as flat to the roof as I can, and watch as the slow silver car drives by. A soft glow emanates from the glass around the car. The headlights cut through the darkness, illuminating the road ahead with its sparkling yellow line. Above me, the fresh paint reflects those lights with a glossed sheen brighter than if the paint were dry: a liquid kind of reflection that--unknown to me--the driver couldn’t have possibly noticed. He was completely absorbed in the complex, multilayering of some vaporwave song that was playing, while simultaneously trying to drive in a way that seemed normal, but not too normal. I almost piss myself.
It’s worth it, though. It’s worth it. I have added to the world. I have created. I may get in trouble, but I doubt it, and for what a reward, I took the risk! I’m finally a part of it. It’s just like the graffiti in the Twin Tunnels. I never knew who put it there, but it was so old, so ancient, and yet, just part of the woods. The same way you just accept moss growing on a wet rock by the creek, you just accept graffiti growing on any concrete structure. How it got there is unimportant: unknowable, even. Acinteyya. They were probably painted long before I was born and will certainly be there long after I’m gone. Stomping through the woods in our black rubber boots, we memorized every tag, throwie, and mural in the pair of culverts that cut through Robert’s road. Now, just beyond the woods, just outside of the deep immortality of the creek that ran through those tunnels, I’ve made my mark too. I have joined the pantheon. Someday, others will walk through that creek and see the mark of “YAZ”. Kings could rise, or kings could fall in far off lands on precious thrones, but here, just beyond the woods, more minds would make a note of the change I had made to those woods that day.
The car tops the hill, and its lights travel down and behind it. I pull my knees back under myself and sit up. The frogs resume their chatter; the cicadas resume their song. Above the wall, the sky tonight has a deep, endless quality. Thousands of stars hang above my mark, burning endlessly in unchanging patterns studied by every civilization that has ever lived. I feel like I can see eternity.
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