by Kyle Ratsch
Joel’s muted footsteps brushed the sidewalk.
Dallas stomped about. The heavy fall of his boots echoed between concrete walls and died. He recounted a story from the day, something about him flirting with a girl in class. It had gone spectacularly… well, it had happened. The fact that she blushed was his favorite part, but who knows if that was a good thing or a bad thing anyway.
Joel asked if he was going to talk to her again, but Dallas shrugged. He seemed pleased enough that he had done anything at all. Dallas never talked about tomorrow.
Instead, he teetered on the retaining wall with one foot down and one raised for balance. He hopped from one side to the other, clearing a small staircase, and when he landed, his backpack let out a muffled clank.
Joel walked up the stairs.
“What about you? You do anything today?” Dallas asked.
Joel contemplated. “I stayed after class and asked Mrs. Holloway to explain something about the government to me.”
“Ew. What’d you do that for?”
“Well, I didn’t understand what she was saying, so I asked her why they do things like they do.” Joel shook his head. “But she kept saying stuff about policy and precedent. Then she got annoyed and left.”
“’Course she did. Everyone’s got a specific answer in their head.” Dallas poked his temple twice and rolled his eyes. “And if you don’t go along with that answer, they don’t want anything to do with you.”
“I guess so.”
They rounded the corner of a tall bank building, glass-sided and transparent, so you could look right in and not know what was going on. Double doors slid open for a bustle of black-suited and blue-bloused figures talking about figures. Joel and Dallas didn’t slow their walk but weaved through the crowd without bumping shoulders or upsetting the swing of suitcases.
Dallas shook his head and said it plenty loud enough to hear, “I bet if the automatic part broke, they’d walk right into those doors.”
Joel smirked. “Yeah.”
They were nearly to their destination until someone noticed them.
“You boys aren’t up to no trouble, are you?”
Dallas smiled like a cat with prey. “No sir, Bill. How are you doing today?”
The security guard’s face wavered between a grin and a grimace. “Oh, I was doing just fine until you came along. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t turn you around and march you home.”
“’Cause we’re not doing anything, sir. Can’t you see?” Dallas said. He showed the guard his empty palms and smiled.
“You better keep your feet on the ground, Dallas.” Bill said. He turned towards Joel. “You there…” There was a long pause.
“Joel,” Dallas said.
“Yeah. Why don’t you talk some sense into your friend?”
“I’m afraid it wouldn’t do any good,” Joel answered.
Bill shook his head. “You boys go on now. Dallas, tell your dad I said hi.”
“No.”
The sun drifted down and touched the top of one of many steel skyscrapers that acted as human containers against their will, overtly or subtly. Shadows grew up from the ground and engulfed. They picked up their pace and found a ladder nestled out of the sight of anyone, or Bill, and scrambled up. They trespassed in front of windows and climbed a narrow gap between two walls. This led to a small outcrop inaccessible by doors or windows. There were no office chairs with lumbar support or plastic plants to be seen, just a concrete building and its edge.
They sat on the end, dangling their feet some hundred feet off the ground. Dallas swung his in rhythm, and Joel wedged his against the wall. Cold wind tousled their hair and the descending sun left lingering warmth on their faces. Tangerine and robin’s egg swirled together in the sky against the purpling clouds. Down below pedestrians bustled and cars shuffled between the alternating reds and greens.
“It’s a real shame they don’t stop to watch,” Dallas said. “Buncha fools missing the real show.”
“Mmhmm.”
“What do you think they’re all worried about anyway? Rushing between this and that. I’m willing to bet the world would be a better place if we all took the time to stop and watch things like this. Sunsets. There’s a real beauty to them, you know?”
“Mmhmm.”
“First they’re all bright and radiant, then they start fading into pretty pinks and reds, then the light gets sleepy and tucks itself in, like it’s worked a hard day and doesn’t have much left to give, and all that’s leftover is a deep, deep purple, like those bags you get under your eyes.”
They were quiet for just a moment.
“But while everyone’s looking at the bright show…” Dallas turned around and pointed the opposite way from the setting sun. “There’s my favorite part. That misty blue or… what would you call it?”
“Kinda indigo.”
“Yeah. Like an indigo fog, but nobody’s looking at you…”
Joel shrugged. “We are.”
“Yeah. Yeah, we are. I see you, indigo fog. The fading to grey and sleepy black nights.”
They watched the sunset until it shifted to the purple of a bruise. Then they let their eyes wander over the city. Yellow squares blinked into existence one by one as people came home in their apartments. Joel saw children scrambling about their living rooms, or some families sitting down for a meal, or—like he normally would—curling up on a couch, faces illuminated by the ghostly flicker of the TV while they spooned leftovers into their mouths. Joel knew there were hundreds of people in that building, maybe thousands, but he couldn’t name a single one of them.
But they were there.
“You think any of them are happier than us?” Joel asked.
“Right now? No.” Dallas patted their concrete perched. “We have the best seat in the world, and there’s not a damn thing at home that would beat this for me.”
“Yeah.” Joel said. He smiled.
“But any other time… yeah. They’re probably happier than us.”
“You think so?”
“Yeah,” Dallas said. “I don’t know why people are in such a hurry to grow up and get jobs though. Looks miserable to me.”
“We ought to do something about it,” Joel said. “Our happiness, I mean.”
Dallas dropped his eyes down to the street below. He was quiet for a moment. “Yeah. About that. I’ve been thinking.”
Joel waited for him to go on, but he didn’t. “Whatcha been thinking about?” He said eventually.
“I been thinking. If he does it again, I’m gonna fight back.” Dallas said.
Joel bristled. “You sure about that?”
“Yeah. Nothing’s gonna change if I don’t.”
“…okay.”
Dallas took a deep breath, as if the admission had energized him, and he spoke. “You know why no-one looks happy? They’re not speaking up or doing anything different, and you know why Bill recognized me? It’s ‘cause he had to chase me down and throw me out. I’d bet a hundred dollars he doesn’t know the name of anyone he hasn’t arrested. You don’t have to pay attention to anyone if do what they’re supposed to do.
“You know those bankers? They saw us. They pretended they didn’t, but they did. Just like everyone else. We see each other, but we don’t do nothing about it.” He half-heartedly hit his fist against the concrete. “We don’t do nothing about it.”
Dallas was right, and that made Joel sad.
“You know,” Joel started. “If everyone on this street died tonight, we wouldn’t remember a single one of them.”
“It’d be the same for us,” Dallas said. He jumped up and stretched. “Damn. That’s sad. It’s getting dark, Joel. We can sneak out now.”
“They wouldn’t see us either way.”
“Cut it out.”
The boys climbed down, avoided the sweeping beam of Bill’s flashlight, and made it back to the public space.
They were quiet for a time, footsteps muffled in the rumble of car engines and echoes of city chatter. They got closer and closer to home before Dallas froze in place and narrowed his eyes.
Joel sighed. “What now?”
Dallas unshouldered his backpack and rummaged for a jangling aerosol can that he tossed to Joel, who fumbled the catch and let it clatter to the street and roll in a tiny metal cacophony.
Dallas hissed a shush and Joel apologized. His knees trembled, but anyone who had noticed made no mention of it.
“What are you doing?” Joel asked.
“You know, the problem with sound is that it goes away too quick,” Dallas said. He shook the can with its weird uneven clank. He smiled.
“Stop! You better stop.”
“No.” Dallas’s smiled disappeared. His word wasn’t sharp or defiant. It was tired.
He scrambled up the side of a building and uncapped his spray paint with a pop. He raised it to the concrete canvas and his sleeve slid down a little, revealing marks left by a grip too tight, a grip meant to harm. Dallas carved lines of indigo paint into a strange form quite unlike words, leaving something very much like a bruise. His work was quick, like most terrible things are, and then they went home.
***
It was all over the news. Historic administrative building vandalized,
The hosts were furious. The interviewees were furious. “When will this generation learn respect?!” They asked.
Later it was announced that the suspect was on security footage and there was no way he was getting away with it.
Dallas hadn’t been at school that day. None of the headlines said anything about where he was.
Joel took the last drag on his cigarette and snuffed out the remains. He let the smoke clear before shutting the window and switching off his TV. He made his way down the stairs, passing wallpaper and curtains stained maple by the tobacco. The next tenants of the house would at least know that they smoked.
The living room rumbled with the murmur of low-volume news and the choppy drag of a hangover snore. Joel’s mother was face-down in a pillow damp with drool, illuminated only by the light from the TV. He gave her a nudge.
“Momma, I’m gonna use the phone.” He said.
She groaned. “You’d best not.”
“I’m worried about Dallas, momma.”
“Keep quiet. I’m trying to sleep.”
Joel crossed his arms and waited for her to fall back into an inattentive sleep. When she did, he navigated the forest of beer bottle alarms and went into the kitchen. He dialed Dallas’s home.
The voice was sharp and loud. “I don’t want no more calls.” The receiver slammed and the dial tone filled the silence.
Joel dialed again.
“I said I didn’t want no f—”
“Sir! This is Joel. I’m sorry. I’m worried about Dallas.”
“…who?”
“I’m… I’m one of Dallas’s friends from school. He wasn’t there today.”
“Don’t you worry about Dallas no more.” He snapped. The phone slammed down on the other end and the dial tone blared.
***
Joel clicked the remote twice, changing from news channel 8 to 10. No mention of Dallas. He clicked four times from channel 10 to 14. Some celebrity was getting divorced. He clicked down twelve times to a summary of Sunday’s football game. He clicked up to a heartwarming story about a dog on the police force, and then up again to find that he had returned to channel 8. The news had railed their indignance for two days, but now they’d moved on. He’d been swept downstream in the digital river.
The news never said if they’d arrested him or not, and Dallas hadn’t returned to school yet. He’d already been buried. Yet he had not been buried. Joel didn’t even know where he was. Dallas’s phone line didn’t ring anymore. We’re sorry, the number you dialed cannot be reached or has been disconnected, but we do not offer any condolences for the owner of the previous phone number as we wait eagerly to reassign it.
Joel rose from his chair and extinguished a half-smoked cigarette.
He descended the stairs and said, “I’m heading out” to the catatonic figure on the couch. She snorted a protest.
Joel thought about going to the cemetery again, to the headstones that never changed channels. Maybe his grave would be there this time. Maybe they just hadn’t announced it. After that he might check their favorite hiding spots.
Joel started down the street. It was as good of a place as any to look for someone.
He navigated the current of nameless faces and wondered for a moment if he should ask them. What would they even say?
“Dallas is missing,” he’d say.
“Who?” They’d ask, then move along with their days.
And if the tables were turned?
“My friend is missing,” they’d say.
And then he’d have a choice to make. He was accountable to that person in that moment. Knowledge is the precursor to responsibility, but he doubted anyone wanted to be responsible for someone they didn’t know. And God forbid they had to take time off from work. Conversely, could he afford to skip a day of school? Would it be an excused absence?
Something about that nagged him.
As Joel approached the place of Dallas’s opus, he noticed several men on ladders with brushes and buckets. They scrubbed away flecks of indigo paint bit by bit and, just like a bruise, the color faded and the pain remained in the memory alone.
Joel was startled, then angry. He screamed. He didn’t remember exactly what he said, but he certainly got their attention.
The men raised their eyebrows and exchanged glances.
“Can I help you?” one said.
“You have to stop.”
The brush-wielder wrinkled his brow. “No can do.”
They returned to scrubbing.
Dallas stared, slack jawed. Could he stop them? Could he topple their ladders and break their brushes? The vigilante guardian of the graffito bruise? It was three to one and they were twice his size. They could call the cops. But even if Joel could win, how long would he last? How many days would he dedicate? How many responsibilities would he abandon? Waiting would be easy for them, paid by the state dollar, patient as the ocean eroding the shoreline. If Joel didn’t act soon the building would be restored to an unmarked glory that would persist past the lives of the men cleaning it.
“…Please don’t.” Joel said.
Only one man stopped this time. He turned a scowl towards Joel. “Go on, kid,” he said.
So he did.
