Louis Mitchell stepped back and smiled as he surveyed his handiwork. He thought the face on the poster was considerably improved by three extra eyes and a dash of profanity to the forehead. As a final touch, he scrawled “MITCHELL WAS HERE,” in huge letters, partially obscuring the fine set of teeth which had given testimony to the effectiveness of a new toothpaste.
A distinctly antisocial man of forty-five, Mitchell was obsessed with graffiti. Graffiti gave him a sense of importance, a measure of pride, and he never went anywhere without an assortment of felt-tipped pens. Thousands of billboards, walls, and doors fell victim to his artistry. Occasionally, for big jobs, he would use cans of spray paint. Mitchell had lately been toying with the idea of going over to the pier and decorating a boat.
Before emerging from the subway station, Mitchell printed out one of his favorite phrases, “I LOVE LOUIS,” on the turnstile. His apartment was still ten blocks away, a distance he knew could be shortened by cutting through a cemetery. Although Mitchell had lived in the neighborhood for more than a year, he had never once taken advantage of that route. He did not think of himself as especially superstitious, but he just simply did not like the place. Funerals, coffins, cemeteries … any of death’s reminders gave him the jitters.
Still, on this particular afternoon his feet were hurting a bit, causing him enough discomfort to make the cemetery more inviting. “What the heck,” he said, “I’ll do it.” Mitchell always avoided saying, “What the hell.” Hell reminded him of death.
After he walked past row after row of graves, Mitchell felt surprisingly calm. His surroundings began to fascinate him and he soon forgot about fears and the tightness of his shoes. Eventually, he found himself standing in front of a mausoleum. It was the closest he had ever been to one and he decided to peer through the glass door. “Interesting.” Mitchell then turned a brass knob, but the door would not budge. Deeply disappointed, he continued on his way, after scribbling “WELCOME” on the tomb’s threshold.
A few steps down the path, Mitchell paused to study an ornate headstone which contained a porcelain photograph of the deceased. This was the eternal resting place for the earthly remains of one William Blodgett (1814-1889), who, according to his epitaph, “Always lived by the Golden Rule.” Feeling that there was something less than satisfactory about Mr. Blodgett’s face, Mitchell added a mustache to the portrait, and prior to departing, wrote “MITCHELL WAS HERE,” on the monument.
Evening was approaching and Mitchell quickened his pace, for enjoyable as it was, he did not want to be locked in the cemetery. Consequently, he was relieved to find that the caretaker had not yet sealed his exit, and he cheerfully passed through the open gate.
Minutes later, as Mitchell approached the building in which he lived, he saw a tall, gaunt figure, wearing a top hat. Ever quick with a wisecrack, Mitchell yelled, “Hey fella, there’s no wedding here.”
Those were Louis Mitchell’s last words. The coroner’s report listed the cause of death as a “massive coronary.” Nevertheless, detectives continued to search for the morbid prankster who had inked a mustache on Mitchell’s face and scribbled “BLODGETT WAS HERE” on the sidewalk next to where the body was found.
Originally appeared in Downtown Brooklyn #15.
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