*May Contain Explicit Content - Parent Guidance is Recommended*
Passion Painting by Franco Machado-Pesce
“So I woke up one morning, right? I know that sounds stupid, but give me a second. And I was just trying to start off my day like I start off every single one. I got up, brush my teeth, hop in the shower for a quick second, get dressed and then go downstairs to eat my breakfast. While I’m putting a spoonful of cheerios in my mouth I check my phone, right? And what do I find? This girl texts me at 3 in the morning, drunk as hell, that she cheated on me, apologizing and shit. Can you believe that?”
I shake the can of spray paint, rapidly. I don’t know why, but the clicking of the can is so satisfying to me. Then, when I press the trigger for the paint to flow out of it, the hiss is even more so; it’s euphoric really. I touch the rugged wall, making sure it’s not wet from last night’s drizzle. It’s cold, dry. I hold the trigger and gently move my hand down, letting the paint settle.
“Yo, Leo, talking to you man,” I wake up from my daydream and infatuation to look up. Devon has a funny smirk on his face. I can’t help, but laugh as I see that only half of his mouth is actually grinning, the rest is stoic. Classic Devon look.
“Sorry man, you know how it is when I’m working,” I reply.
“Working? Bruh, you out here, at 11 pm doing this with me for free. That ain’t work.” He chuckles and grabs his can of yellow spray paint and starts to draw.
“Sucks about your girl though, man,” I lift my can up and start to go over the second coat, “some people just ain’t loyal.” The quiet hush of the paint overwhelms all the noises from outside. There’s no better feeling than getting away from the world and doing what you like to do. You know what I mean? It’s a rush. The love for doing things is what sets us apart from one another because we each like different things. This passion is what makes us humans and it’s a fire that burns rageous within each and every single one of us. Those who don’t feel its warmth, are already dead and cold inside.
“Yeah, bruh, what can I say?” Devon finishes glossing over his first letter and taps my shoulder, “whatchu think?” I look at the piece and quickly try to conceal my opinion. I know it’s always better to tell the truth, but with friends it’s sometimes more beneficial to keep the truth brushed aside. It’s a harmless fib. In fact, every single parent has utilized it with their kids. I remember when I would bring home really shitty dinosaur drawings from class and my mom would grab it and put it on the fridge, saying that it was the best drawing she had ever seen. Having your drawing put on the fridge is like a child’s LACMA exhibit, the highest of artistic honors. If you have no idea what I’m talking about then you’re either lying or had the worst childhood of all time. Honest. My head juggles the infinite possible responses to my companion’s question.
“Dope, man,” I start, “love what you did with the ‘a.’” Devon lifts an eyebrow, confused.
“An ‘a’? Man, whatchu talking about, there’s no a, that’s an ‘e.’” Dammit.
“Oh shit, you right my bad man, ” watch how smooth I can be, “I think this paint is getting to my head.” Boom, saved it. Devon scuffs quietly and turns to continue working. His work isn’t bad, it’s just not my style. It’s not my fault that the “e” is closed at the end and has a devil’s tail. If anybody sees it, they’re going to say it’s an a, but I can’t warn him aloud. If I do so, it will just bum him out. Who am I to take the passion out of someone?
“Whatchu working on anyway?” He asks. I sit quietly, biting my lip as I continue the strokes of the work.
“You’ll see.”
“You always acting to mysterious, bruh.” Hiss. For a minute we sit there, quiet, working. “You still with McKenzie?”
“Ahuh.” I reply. I love Devon, he’s a great friend. I mean, who else would sneak into a park with you in the middle of the night to just spray paint and chill? However, he talks a lot, which I don’t mind until he asks questions. If I’m going to be candid, talking isn’t my speciality.
“Now she’s a fine ass honey, if you ask me,” Devon sprays the wall frantically, “she still studying up at State?”
“You know it, she’s as smart as she is beau- aw shit.” I look at my shirt and realize that there is black paint smeared on my shoulder. It’s one of my good shirts too.
“The girls up there are,” he curls his finger in a perfect hand gesture and scrunches his face. “You think you could gimme the hook up?” I rub the paint on my shirt, making sure that it smears into something that looks intentional. I grab the paint and shower it on the wall, making a dense pool of black spray paint. I dip my finger in it and start to draw on the shirt. Like my father would always say, an artist has to be versatile and adapt to any canvas.
“Now why would college girls be interested in some dumbass boys like us?” I finish my drawing, dab it with a towel next to me to have it dry and then chuck it at Devon. We both laugh into the night. Our noise steadily drowns out by the echoes of the crickets around us.
“Bruh, I may be young, but trust me I’m all man.”
“All man my ass,” I smile and continue to work on the graffiti, “just yesterday I saw yo mama kick you outta the house to take out the trash.”
“She didn’t kick me out, boy,” He throws a spraypaint can at me, “I just realized that the trash was overflowing and decided to take it out myself.”
“Ask the neighbors if that’s what yo mama’s yells said.”
“Fuck you,” he chuckles. We go back to concentrating on our artwork. I carefully weave my hand through the crevices of the cement. My wrist flows from side to side, making sure that the different colors don’t tarnish each other. I peek at Devon and notice that he’s resumed his break, giving up on the weird “a.” Must be texting his ex-girlfriend. I finish the last letter and sit back to behold my work.
Drunk. It’s not my best work, but I like how the blue and white look together. I made sure that the black shadows gave it that three-dimensional effect. It’s curious why I chose that word.It’s a numb and dizzying sensation, without a single second-guess. Everything just happens naturally. It takes any doubt and shatters it to create a confidence that although momentary, can be impactful. Passion makes me feel drunk. Painting.
Suddenly, a branch cracks in the darkness. I see a beam of light glow in the shadows. Devon and I instinctively pull each other’s shirts up and jolt into the woods.
“Who goes there? Stop!” A voice is faintly heard in the darkness. We kept running until the ray was no longer in sight. Panting, I finally look up and make eye contact with Devon. Our breaths synchronize, and I pat his shoulder. We start laughing and I realize that the start of every passion, is not just what you do, but who you do it with.
