chromosome 17

We were nothing but a handful of freaks and a gallon full of paint. Dilated pupils see if papa’s still awake. We would sneak down the stairs, hoods up and no cares, hesitate, and trip out the door.

It’s dark outside. We would get presents of graph paper and postal stamps from the midnight stationary store. We would use our markers and use our paints to create a name. These midnight identities were an escape from who we were forced to be during the day. You could be anyone and anything and then during the day be your little society’s acceptance.

They used to ask me why I was so tired.

I used to say I didn’t sleep.

I didn’t lie.

That night was dark, so we brought flashlights. You could tape one of those little lights to the top of the can to see exactly where the spray would go. It was an idea I got from some movie where the killer taped a flashlight to his gun. He never missed a shot.

But life isn’t a movie. It’s a constant struggle to attain fame and maintain anonymity. Two polar opposites in a mainstream world are nearly impossible these days. That’s why we paint the walls.

My name was Edie, those days. Like everyone, I stole it. I used to have an uncle named Eddy Socially. Edelia is my adaptation with a twist of flavor and a dash of theft. It gets shortened to Edie to honor Edie Sedgwick. It was me and Possum and 17.

The path was beaten into our brains, like the broken stems of the deer’s grass. Left, right, past the naked baby doll in the grass, over the train tracks, hardly fumble for the stairs. There’s the stop sign underneath which someone scrawled “worrying” in orange paint. The fire escape stairs are rusty and probably not too safe. I chase her feet up anyway, backpack rattling.

Possum is up first. She is always first, her tiny little sinew body, she climbs fast. 17 and I are up and Possum already has a block of pink on the brick. We’re on top of the record store, and Possum is starting out standard. She tags with a pink possum, those furry alligator mouth scavengers. When we were twelve we tried to catch one. A white one, not pink. That was back when we thought we were something special. Well, things go wrong, nets fail, we slip out of the tree, and Possum gets, well, a possum on her back. She still has scars.

In the days after making these wall decorations you might feel a little elated. A little bigger than yourself, but still you’re you, and the people who make those wall arts, well, they’re the ones who are something special. You can walk by with your friends and laugh and point out the new art and they can say how good it looks, and you can see all of the flaws you missed in the dark. It’s all a complicated feeling.

17 and I were working together on a big piece. To make it really stand out, you slap down a coat of white house paint before you start. Leave the edges outlined with the bright white; it’s more permanent this way too. He’s a big fan of whatever’s in these days. I’m a big fan of whatever’s not. We work well together. This piece is probably six or seven feet long. My part is sort of surreal in black and white with a big brush and black wall paint. I’m trying to swell an ink drawing in my head. The swirls of kid color 17 drips on top scream social order, and it works.

If you ask 17 why it’s 17, he might give you a varied cryptic reply. He might say because he’ll always be seventeen years old. He might say that’s how many people he’s murdered or how many shots he can take. He might say it’s his birthday or it’s the day of insert event here. He might just tell you it’s important. He might not tell you at all.

I’m not sure what people think when they see my art. Some people hate it, I know. Because some people have in their heads that all graffiti is trash, whether or not that’s the truth. Dilated eyes can’t see the truth.

We’re on the roof and we’re finished and we sign the piece and we’re done. Possum has already moved on. She’s done her possum tag and scrawled her “which crash did you survive?” and climbed down those rickety stairs. I peered down and I could see the pinprick of light sticking out of her mouth. 17’s cheap camera didn’t flash yet. We would wait until the morning to get a good shot. It was dark.

Going down, 17’s feet followed me. It was then. About halfway down those rusty fire escape stairs. We didn’t wear gloves; it wasn’t that cold. Coming home there was always specks of paint and rust and cuts and whatever else on our hands. I could see it a little bit, even in the dark, when 17 cracked the rail. It gave me about a half-second warning before I knew we were going down.

We are talking about adrenaline in Anatomy II class today. How adrenaline stops all lesser functions when you’re in danger. You don’t have to stop and pee if you’re being chased by a grizzly bear. You forget that you’re hungry if the man behind you has a chainsaw.

The ladder must have been ready to go for some time now. I don’t know how well it would have fared in the event of a fire escape. The first crunch through the rust seemed to be the catalyst. One piece broke and another, and I was trying to dig my fingernails into the brick. 17 was making some noise like an animal and we both tried to cling to the wall. I’m sure getting off of the ladder fast would have been a better idea, but the sudden rush of adrenaline didn’t comprehend that. We swayed. It creaked. Rust dust dropped. It was like a cartoon where you watch the rope pull into individual threads. It felt like forever, and then the ladder collapsed.

We were crumpled on the ground like the unwanted remains of some party. Thrown out the window to turn into the killer of some naïve animal who eats our trash. I looked up to see Possum’s wide glistening eyes. It looked as if she hadn’t moved from the spot; her cigarette still perched between her teeth. I tried to figure out which entangled limbs were mine and which belonged to 17.

That’s when I realized he wasn’t moving.

I probably yelled at Possum because she seemed to suddenly become aware of us. I’m sure she heard the crash, but her dilated eyes told me how she’d been occupying herself. I tried to find his head. My fingers found wet. White, cold wet of the paint bucket that had accompanied us down. And hot wet on his forehead where the paint bucket had fallen. It was not possible.

Things like this happen to other people. Not me. Not Possum.

Not 17.

Possum said not to call 911. I put my phone away. Then what? Possum said we had to do it. She knew how. I said okay. Okay. 17 had driven us here. His car was nearby. Neither Possum nor I could drive. But we couldn’t stay here. Possum said she would drive. Possum can do things like that. 17 had hot dark coming from his head. He wasn’t moving. I tried to wake him up. I tried to take his pulse. He had one. I think. He wouldn’t wake up. I knew to use his hoodie to stop the blood. I think. Possum said to. Possum and I carried him to the car. He was heavy. Possum and I weren’t strong. We got him to the car. Possum dug the keys out of his jeans pocket. She started the ignition. She drove. We drove. We went to his house. Or Possum’s house. I can’t remember. I can’t remember. I can’t remember.

I remember when we got to the house and walked in the door and turned on the lights. I remember that sudden illumination of all the blood and all the scrapes. I remember how nothing seemed as real as that moment. I remember the bright white. How it used to be dark. But there was still dark coming from 17’s forehead. And his arms and his side and.

In the house Possum did things. I probably did things too. I don’t remember this part. I remember putting 17 in the bathtub. I remember how the blood was everywhere when we turned the water on him. I remember 17 waking up. I remember holding a flashlight to his eyes. I remember that was to see if he had a concussion. I remember he didn’t. I remember the three of us peeling his clothes off of his body. I remember how they stuck to him in sticky clumps of matted blood. I remember how his knee was like a raw steak and how we had to cut apart his jeans because he would scream. I remember the denim was all mashed inside the meat and I remember all of this.

I remember how much better everything was when he woke up though.

I remember how after that everything seemed so much smaller. The trouble we could get in from the graffiti, the trouble we could get in from the drugs, the trouble we could get in for sneaking out of the house in the middle of the night, that was different. Those were all troubles that authorities like parents and government decided. These people who came up with their own conclusion that they were more important than us, just because of age or wealth or whatever, they could say whatever they wanted. And it would be okay, because 17 was okay.

I remember at some point in the night I finally came face to face with my reflection. I had been in the same room as the mirror the whole time Possum and I stood over 17, but I hadn’t really seen myself. The mirror didn’t recognize me that night. Apparently I showed a lot of damage from that fall too, maybe even more than 17 did. Apparently, but appearances aren’t everything.