Chapter Four
Spray Paint Savant
I lift my legs off the ground and the guy holding me falters. His grip loosens, and I drop to the floor in a ball. I shoot under his legs and scramble backward, nearly losing my wig. Springing to my feet, I blast across the dance floor like a bullet from the barrel of a gun.
I spot Dizzy near the bar, raising an amber-colored bottle to his lips. Shoving people from my path as best I can, I get to Dizzy. Only then do I turn back to ensure Manhandler isn’t following me.
He isn’t.
But I’m still here, Wilson says. And I can help.
Shut up, shut up! I press into my temples as I lurch forward.
Dizzy notices my face. “Follow me,” he orders.
I nod. I know this plan. We’ve done it a hundred times before when the going stops going, when a store clerk catches me lifting a Snickers bar, or when a fellow street rat harasses us, or when Wilson threatens to surface. Dizzy may not know about Wilson, but he knows I have demons, and he’s always ready when they come crawling.
Fight or flight, that’s what they say.
Dizzy and I fly. Always fly.
He tips his chin toward the front door, and we swim through the crowd like eels. Behind us, Black Beauty calls for Dizzy to come back. But he won’t. We don’t ever stand too close to each other. We don’t ever ask personal questions. But when it’s time to go, Dizzy and I are in the same flight formation.
He pushes through the heavy double doors and together we head toward the house. I walk fast and don’t mind the ache my high heels cause my feet. I want the pain. I want that and more. Anything that will make me forget about what almost happened with the guy. But more importantly, anything that will make Wilson go back to sleep.
Why would you want me to go to sleep? You need me for this. If you’d just go back, we could really—
Go away!
We’re almost home, fifteen minutes of treading across Detroit with my hands sweating, my heart racing, when Dizzy pulls me into yet another alley.
“I want to show you something,” he says. “I was gonna save it until I could get a few more colors…”
Dizzy doesn’t have to continue the thought. He sees the fear on my face, notes the tension in my shoulders. He knows I need a distraction.
“This way, my lady.” He sweeps an arm in front of his body and bows like royalty, but the look in his eyes is one of worry.
I walk past him, my fingers itching to close around something I know will push Wilson down. I get to the end of the alley and see that it turns right and left. The butt of a gray wall spreads in front of me, its arms open in an embrace.
My eyes travel the ground and I spot them, five cans of spray paint.
Graffiti art? Wilson asks. Listen. Let’s go back to the club. I’ll handle everything.
I don’t think, I just rush toward the cans, pick one up in my shaking hands, and open it. The pop of the cap raises goose bumps on my arms, and quiets Wilson. I hear him shifting inside me, but it’s like he’s far away.
Dizzy knows I like to dress up old forgotten walls. It started a few weeks after I left home. Exploring the streets of Detroit one night, I saw a kid—couldn’t have been older than fourteen—tagging a wall. He was so enchanting doing it, graceful as a ballerina. I watched him from my place in the dark until he’d finished. Before he left, he pulled off a pair of blue surgical gloves and ditched them, along with two cans of spray paint, in a city trashcan.
I still remember what it felt like to pluck his leftovers from the other rubbish. What it felt like the first time I attempted to copy his movements. I was sloppy, unpracticed.
But it kept Wilson away.
I shake the can of orange, ensuring the sediments don’t settle. Then I hold it upright, stiff as a prick, and take a deep breath. I know what I want here. I’ve been imagining it while I should have been sleeping. After giving one last shake, I start to spray.
I sketch the outline fast and rough, knowing I can worry about details later. Then I switch to a can of red and start on the letters, careful not to spray on top of wet paint. When I’m done with that, I snatch a can of black. As I work on outlining my letters, placing shadow in various places for a 3-D pop, Dizzy adds commentary to relieve the tension.
“The artist works with an intensity unmatched by the best in the industry,” he says like he’s an announcer at a golf game. “Look at the way she moves. I’m telling you what, Ted, Domino Ray is one to keep your eye on.”
Domino, Wilson says. Don’t push me away again.
I’m mute with concentration and, as the colors blend along the brick wall, Wilson’s hold on my mind eases, bleeding down the grooves of my brain like wet paint.
Until, finally, he’s gone.
I move on to adding flare and shadow to my piece as Dizzy continues broadcasting my steps to an invisible audience. Lowering my can, I step back and tip my head, trying to spot my mistakes. Streaks of orange and red and black wink in the streetlights, and my mood lifts at the work I’ve done.
I’m improving, but Dizzy won’t hear me say that. He says it’s impossible to improve when you’re a graffiti savant. I love that he thinks you can be a savant at holding a can of spray paint.
I mutter without turning, “Thank you, Dizzy.”
“Been picking them up a little at a time,” he offers. And then, with sudden intensity, “Domino.”
The way he says my name makes me freeze. I know that tone, and already my heart is tap-dancing with anticipation. He sounds as if he may say something that’s deep enough to hold on to. Something real. Something that will change whatever it is we are. Do I want that?
Blue and red lights flash across my wall, and a distinct wurp breaks our quiet alley.
“Damn it!” Dizzy yells.
I spin around to see Dizzy running down the alley. I race after him.
Fly! Fly!
He finds a door and tries the handle. It’s locked. He throws his shoulder into it as the sound of a car door opening and closing reaches us. I drop my spray can and start pushing on the door, too. My skin burns with anxiety, and my head screams that I can’t go to jail. I can’t be alone with myself without any distractions. If that happens, Wilson will return.
I bang on the door with the flat of my palms and yell for someone to open up. Wrong move. Now I can hear the patter of police officer shoes hitting the ground. I glance in the opposite direction, but there’s nowhere to go.
Dizzy stops throwing his weight into the door as the pig rounds the corner. The cop looks like a shar-pei, all wrinkles and blond fuzz. His hand is on his gun, and he’s got that stance that says he’s ready to follow if we run.
“Put your hands where I can see them.” He says this like we’re children.
Dizzy starts to raise his hands.
He stops when the door beside us swings open.
“What do you want?” someone inside growls.
Dizzy drops his hands and dashes in. I dash, too, and decide then and there that Dizzy is magic, that he can make himself disappear just like he can a bottle of Yoo-hoo.
Inside the building, we’re running blind. I slam into a table and it scrapes across the floor. I hear Dizzy crashing, too. We reach the opposite side of the room as the person who opened the door yells for us to get out.
Dizzy and I find another door at the same time. He reaches for the handle and we explode through it.
The cop is right there.
Right. There.
He grabs Dizzy from behind and twists his arm in a way that makes Dizzy scream. I can’t stand the sound of hearing him that way. I can’t stand it. I throw myself on the police officer to get his hands off my person.
Dizzy groans from the ground.
How did he get on the ground?
“Run,” Dizzy tells me. “Go!”
The cop spins around, and I have to let go before I fall. He looks at me like he’s trying to figure out how to get us both. His hand reaches for his gun. I don’t think he’ll use it. It’s just to scare me. But nothing scares me more than losing Dizzy. I grab his arm and bite down. He roars, but doesn’t let go of Diz.
“Domino, dammit,” Dizzy says. “Leave!”
I’m not going to. I don’t think Dizzy would leave me, and so I won’t leave him. I’m set to plunge my teeth into the cop’s arm again when flashing lights stop me. There’s a second cop car pulling to the curb.
The three of us pause. I imagine we all think something different in this moment.
The cop: Thank God.
Dizzy: That’s it, then.
Me: Run.