We Are Not Dead
Creative Writing | Austin Kong
It was the three of us. Our bags were filled to the brim with fresh cans wearing us down as we trekked under the bridge at 125th Street.
The sky dawned but the city was still alive and you could hear the cars and trucks rolling overhead shaking the ground with godly might. Far less people come out here during the night making this the perfect spot. Our pants brushed against some leaves.
“Finish that shit already ‘fore we hop this fence.” Scott told Bailey still clutching the Marlboro in his mouth.
“I will Scotty, don’t worry about it. Mad impatient and shit.” Bailey muttered under his breath. He fidgeted around in his worn out Jansport checking the colors and the nozzles he had for the cans. We came prepared and I had my colors too. I knew what to draw. Bailey turned around checking for cops or park enforcement. They usually drive in their tiny smart cars and wear lime green uniforms. We usually called them “Kiwis.”
“Aight. Let’s do it.” One by one we made it over to the other side of the fence making our way to the alcove where we’ve always bombed. The alcove looked amazing during the day with light shining through the concrete beams. Other bombers have been there too and you could still see the tags and writing from the 80s when people actually lived in these tunnels. Many of them were homeless and they’d come here to take shelter under the bridge. Those days are long gone now and only their shadows are left.
“Yo Sam, look. Someone used to live here. See that couch and bed. Man they got their whole setup right here. Could’ve been nice too.” Scott pointed out to the little corner area perched up from the debris. Random drawings and letters were sprawled on the desk and ground and the bedsheets were dusty from the cars running along the highway above.
“Yo what the fuck are you doing? Let’s paint already.” Bailey took out a black spray can and started putting his tag up. It hissed and the sharp smell of spray paint filled my nose. I love the smell of paint. Fumes hit my nostrils giving me a light high as I painted my tag on the wall reading “Sonny.” Our crew have been bombing places all over in the city. We’ve tagged on subways, abandoned buildings, lots, and even on the windows of high-end designer shops in Soho just to prove a point. We’ve painted everywhere; in every borough, in every hood, and on every block. There was no wall in this city that did not have our names on it.
Scott was one of the first who began to graffitti. He was known for his blocky out-of-proportioned letters often mixing faces and characters in his tags so that aligned it would spell genius or subway rat with the two words shaped like a rat with a tail on the end. The dude was a natural when it came to spray painting. He would go to the deepest part of the tunnels just to paint his name on his wall even if it meant getting caught.
“This is my life. Painting is my life. And this can, right here.
It’s my hand. There’s no other thing for me than graffitti. Nothing. Not even canvas can do it. It’s gotta be the wall man. Ain’t no other way you can graffiti besides a cold concrete slab with your tag or your design or whatever the fuck you want to put on there. And when you know they’re gonna put you into cuffs and take you to the precinct, then you can say you bombed.”
Our cans hissed in silence. Using the whole wall, Scott painted the word freedom.
“There.” He took a step back, admiring his work. The letters were bold and fearless. Instead of his usual blocky letters, he painted in sharp letters cutting through the space around.
“Yeah, I’ve been trying out a new style. Tired of the old shit. You like it?” Scott asked.
“I mean, it’s different but it’s still you.” I replied.
Bailey hissed at us. “Cops!”
I darted behind a small wall behind the train tracks grabbing my bag and cans fast before they could see. Bailey did the same dashing to a corner at the end of the alcove along with Scott beside him. The shadow hid them well but one look and we would all be caught.
The Amtrak police car slowly rolled past us, scanning for anyone that doesn’t belong. For years, they’ve been on top of their game and caught many graffiti artists and urban explorers in their tunnels charging them with criminal trespassing and vandalism. This is one of the dangers that we have to face when we paint. And it’s not fair for most who do get caught. The car stopped for a little and then decided to drive on.
“Fuck that was close.” Bailey exclaimed. “Let’s dip out.”
We learned not to hop back the fence we came from. Instead, we went up a flight of stairs and pushed the emergency door open letting us out on the highway.
All my life, I’ve wanted to escape the city — my home for 17 years.
Sure, this is my home and I’ll always remain a New Yorker at heart but New York is not the world. Compared to the rest of the world, this city with its five boroughs is just a dot on the map and there are millions of other dots that need to be explored. Like a good graffiti artist, you don’t just stick to one wall and paint over it a dozen times. A good artist needs to find something new, something different with each paint.
Lately, I’ve been feeling constricted to this city and its people. It’s as if all the air has been sucked out of a vacuum and I can barely breathe or get out. Most of the time, I encounter the same people on my block; the same faces that go in and out of the subway, the same kids posted outside the deli, the beggars on the corner with their cups out and the same old man in the park crying, “Watch the flies!” Bailey says I’m just crazy but I think it’s the other way around. And, as much as I am ashamed of it, graffiti doesn’t excite me as it did before. I look out the window on the subway and I see the same letters outside. Most of it is mediocre and some of it is good. The art is dying and a lot of people know it. Unlike the good old days where every car in the subway was tagged, scribbled, painted, pissed on and shitted on. Every wall was sprawled with graffiti and many artists made their name on the streets like Ja, Revs, Keith Haring, and Tats Cru. Now, clean cut advertisements take its place with logos and other corporate bullshit selling marketed bullshit to the masses. This culture is dying.
When I got that mail of acceptance to a school in Paris, I knew my friend’s words would be far less inclined. Bailey was a person who put more dedication to his friends than other people. Ever since our P.S. 3 days, we would run around the playground playing ball tag throwing rubber balls at each other. In middle school, me, Scott and Bailey, started skating. We’d do tricks off public ramps getting ourselves yelled at by public security. Then doing tricks on subway platforms where Bailey nearly had his ass killed going on the tracks with the train just right behind him. Just right behind him. But he’s always been known to be dangerous. And unstable. He shouted non-stop today about how self-righteous I always am and that it was selfish of me to just leave. But this is what I wanted to do. I didn’t want anything to do with the city and it was time for me to move on. He mentioned he wanted to see graffiti alive again like it was in the 90s but he’s living delusionally. The kid now pops pills and downs them with drink and he’s been hanging out with homeless beggars and smackheads. There’s no trust in his mouth anymore and I’ve been finding it hard to hear his words.
Scott listens better. I’d talk for hours and he would sit and listen to everything that I say like a great stoic. I told him about how I was going to be in Paris next year and he understood. He wasn’t much of a talker and most of the time he spends his day drawing on his sketchbook.
On the train, me and Scott talked for hours. We came across a billboard as the J train skidded across the Williamsburg bridge. It was pretty large and the coca-cola ad was peeling off. The man’s face was ripped and there was a whole lot of bird shit on him. It sat next to an abandoned industrial building like a mill of some sort. I remembered someone mentioning that it was the old Domino sugar mill that closed down long ago and that the city was planning to renovate it for the public.
“Yo that’d be a dope place to bomb don’t you think?” He looked out the window. The billboard was rusted and it was pretty high up from the ground. There was no way any person would survive that drop if they fell.
“Bro, that’s too dangerous. And I don’t think we’d even be able to paint that big with our cans.”
“Of course we can.” Scott reassured me. “Ain’t nothing impossible. We can just get bigger paint. That spot looks over the whole river. Everybody in New York City would see that from Manhattan. We’d make ourselves known. Like a fuck you to the establishment.
The thought of it still lingered in my mind. Something big like this would be very hard to pull off however, this wasn’t our first. There were times when we did dangerous shit for graffiti. We’ve snuck in the subway tunnels one time navigating its tracks looking for the long-forgotten Fulton street station. We’ve crossed bridges and climbed railings in the alleyways of the Lower East Side littered with sewage and half-eaten lo mein the restaurant discards at night. We’ve climbed fire escapes just to get to a rooftop and paint. We did anything just to paint.
When Scott pointed out that billboard, I wasn’t surprised to hear his voice brimming with excitement. Aside from his quietness, he’s been known to be a cocky dude. That rusted old billboard didn’t escape his mind as we got off the train. Later that night, he said he needed to go back home and have some time to think.
I woke up the following morning to news blaring on the television. I didn’t get much sleep last night and my stomach wasn’t feeling too good after drinking so I went to the kitchen for a glass of orange juice. NY1 was playing in the background and the news broadcaster was trying to say something important about the subway but in the midst of a hangover, I could barely make out the words.
Then I heard a familiar name and I looked over and saw Scott’s face on the television.
“Teenager pronounced dead in the hospital after being struck by a subway train. Was found with a bag full of spray paint cans.”
The chief investigator reported that it was a tragedy not deserved for someone so young but that people should never go on the tracks at all times, alone especially. Those words slipped my mind. I looked at his face again, smiling back on the TV screen. I thought about that day with him on the train telling me how badly he wanted to paint on that billboard and the day we did our first tag right outside the park and got called at by a sleeping homeless man and other memories. I realized that with him gone, there’ll be no more memories left. The kettle kept screeching, dying to be turned off. I decided to call Bailey and dialed him several times but it went straight to voicemail.
I went out and walked on the streets of New York. It was a nice day outside and the breeze was comforting to feel despite wearing a skimpy t-shirt and flared jeans. After several minutes of walking, I stopped in my tracks and the first drops of tears fell. I couldn’t believe it. No one deserves this. Scott told me that if he ever were to die, he would be with the people he loved and do the things he loved most. I stood there and cried. I didn’t care that I was out on the streets or the fact that people were eyeing me differently. Nothing really mattered anymore. I’ve sunk into darkness and there was no hope of escaping this time. No way for me to leave quickly as I want to.
Time flew by and I didn’t realize that it became dark outside. I was walking aimlessly on Avenue D. An overwhelming smell of home cooking emitted from one of the public houses and there was noise and laughter from the people upstairs playing salsa and reggaeton having a good time. Even in these late hours, the neighborhood was still alive and many of the people that used to live here have moved on but the remnants didn’t change and some of the graffiti there have been preserved so people can still see the works of the old graffiti artists.
I thought that the culture was dead but that wasn’t true at all. I could still see tags and letters on top of rooftops, walls, ceilings, doorsteps, mailboxes, subway stations, bus stops, everywhere! Then it dawned on me. The words, We are not dead, sprang to my mind.
I called Bailey and told him that we should meet. It was something serious.
We met the next day. I almost couldn’t see him coming down the street. For a moment, I thought that it was a different person. His walk was different and the way he looked at people changed as well. He wore dark rings around his eyes and he’d often make frantic glances at people scared that something might happen.
“So what are we doing?”
“We’re going to the billboard right next to the Williamsburg bridge.”
His face lit up a bit. “You mean the one right by the sugar mill.”
“Yep.”
“What the fuck are we doing there?” He said.
“Tagging it up.” I handed him a bag full of spray paint.
“What for?”
“For Scott bro.” I said.
He wasn’t convinced. But I knew deep in my heart that he would’ve wanted this. To keep his memory alive and the culture alive. I knew that in some way we needed to climb onto that billboard and tag.
We hopped over the gate and made our way towards the tower. My heart skipped a beat and I could feel wetness under my armpits. I was nervous about this and scared that I might end up like Scott. I didn’t want to die for art but I put that thought aside as I made the climb.
“Are you sure about this?” Bailey asked.
“He would want this to happen.”
“Alright.” We climbed the ladder up to the top. As we climbed higher, the wind blew us more and it became even more difficult to climb up without falling.
The thought of falling really scared me and I looked down at the ground realizing that I was 300 ft up in the air and that death could be seconds away.
Finally, we made it to the top and climbed up on the metal grated platform. The sky grew more fierce and the wind was ready to knock us down like chess pieces. I looked up at the board and the ripped up face was much closer. His half smile glaring down menacingly with bird shit all over his face. Bailey was clutching to the side. His hands grasped tightly on a rusted out railing and he was trying his best to not point his eyes to the ground or he might collapse.
I grabbed the can of paint and aimed it high towards the sky. The paint shot up like white confetti spraying everywhere. Eventually, it formed into a white stream and I slowly formed the words, We are not dead.
Bailey was shivering from the wind. “What are you writing?”
“We are not dead.”
“How suiting.”
The words were high up and I knew that people across the river would be able to see the advertisement. The form wasn’t that great but its message was important. And I wasn’t just doing this for Scott but for the whole world.
“Yo lemme get some.” I handed Bailey a can of paint. He wrote, RIP Scott Stay true to your art.
“Now that’s better.” He said. “Let’s get out of here.”
We left the scene and walked back towards the train station.
Bailey still hasn’t gotten over his friend’s death but death is something that never leaves a person’s mind. He’s getting better and recently he told me that he’s teaching spray painting to disadvantaged youths at the church. Most of his time is spent around kids and teaching art. I saw him the other day in the school playground and, for once in his life, he was smiling.
The billboard that we painted appeared on the news a few days after. They said the words were ominous and meaningless and might’ve referenced a graffiti crew proclaiming themselves to be the undead ones.
There hasn’t been a day where I didn’t think about Scott. Most of the time, I believe he’s still here with me and listening. But I know he’s not. I made the decision to not leave the city for Paris and to stay here with my friends. I think it’s better that way. I still visit our old spots sometimes and I find myself tagging its walls—painting and repainting all over again. I can’t stop sometimes and it’s been hard to avoid it. There were times when I would write the same words again on different walls and different styles. Sometimes even writing We are not dead continuously. I knew graffiti was not dead. At least we get to keep it alive.