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Authors: Nikki Godwin
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Graffiti Kings.”
“Just Tuck,” the guy confirms, reaching over to shake my hand.
Pax runs over to us upon hearing Micah’s voice. He drags Micah off to a corner of the large room to show him some kind of graffiti shark he’s working on. Any intimidation these guys might’ve had is now gone. If Pax is one of them, I have nothing to worry about.
Tuck readjusts his cap, shaking his brown hair. He needs a haircut as badly as I do.
“Pax has no manners. Come with me. I’ll show you around,” he says. He lights another cigarette, and I follow him to the blue wall.
There’s a tall black guy with huge biceps painting the adjoining wall white. He tilts his head back, that nod of acknowledgment that all guys recognize as a universal symbol for “What’s up?” I’d do it back, but I know I won’t look half as cool as he did.
“This is Micah’s friend, Ridge,” Tuck says to him.
He lays his paint roller back in the tray and extends a hand. “Damien.”
“We played football together in high school,” Tuck tells me.
“Defense?” I ask.
Damien smiles. “How’d you know? I was a defensive lineman. Tuck was our running back.”
I wouldn’t have taken Tuck as the football type. He’s short and thin, and it would only take one swipe to knock him out for a season. But then again, if they ever put Damien in to block for him, I don’t think Tuck would have to worry about anyone taking a swipe at him.
“I play basketball. Point guard,” I say.
Tuck’s eyes size me up before he speaks. “Didn’t take you as the basketball type.”
Damien laughs. “Well he probably took you for the drug dealing type, so be nice.”
He has no idea how right he is. Damien returns to coating the wall with white paint, and I follow Tuck’s smoke cloud along the blue wall.
“I was into graffiti in high school, early high school anyway,” he explains. “My mom found out, and she brought home a bag full of spray paint and told me I had free reign over my bedroom walls as long as I didn’t vandalize anything in public.”
We walk down to the far end of the wall where two girls are painting. Tuck introduces them as Emilia, Pax’s sister, and Heidi, Emilia’s best friend. Heidi’s bleached blonde hair stands out like that one last light bulb above the bathroom mirror that you hope shines forever so you don’t have to crawl on top of the counter to change them.
Tuck points out an angel fish on the wall, talking about how it started off as a swirl of colors. It looks like a huge knot with multi-colored scarves waving out of it.
A hand falls on my shoulder, and I jump. Then Micah leans around me to see what I’m looking at. He doesn’t interrupt Tuck’s one-sided conversation about what the Graffiti Kings do.
“We do a lot of small canvases, but every summer we all meet up here and work on one of those larger than life paintings, the type you see on the side of a building,” Tuck explains.
“Last year we did a big city scene,” Pax says as he stands next to Micah. “Like New York – skyscrapers and streetlights. It was Micah’s idea.”
I remember the picture above his bed. The city with the sunset. The initials TRL in the bottom corner. Tucker Livingston. He must’ve painted it for Micah.
“This year we’re going for a shipwreck approach,” Tuck says. “We were going to do an ‘Under the Sea’ kind of thing, but I wanted something edgier.”
Tuck takes the last drag of his cigarette and drops the butt into a cup of water again.
“I’m thinking sunken ship. Buried treasure. Maybe a skeleton pirate on the ocean floor,” he says. “With the sea life living among the wreckage.”
He takes another cigarette from the box in his pocket and lights it. I can’t believe a ball carrier could be a chain smoker. It’s hard enough getting up and down the court when you’re out of shape, much less when your lungs are black. He motions for Micah and me to follow. We sit away from the others on some
“Just Tuck,” the guy confirms, reaching over to shake my hand.
Pax runs over to us upon hearing Micah’s voice. He drags Micah off to a corner of the large room to show him some kind of graffiti shark he’s working on. Any intimidation these guys might’ve had is now gone. If Pax is one of them, I have nothing to worry about.
Tuck readjusts his cap, shaking his brown hair. He needs a haircut as badly as I do.
“Pax has no manners. Come with me. I’ll show you around,” he says. He lights another cigarette, and I follow him to the blue wall.
There’s a tall black guy with huge biceps painting the adjoining wall white. He tilts his head back, that nod of acknowledgment that all guys recognize as a universal symbol for “What’s up?” I’d do it back, but I know I won’t look half as cool as he did.
“This is Micah’s friend, Ridge,” Tuck says to him.
He lays his paint roller back in the tray and extends a hand. “Damien.”
“We played football together in high school,” Tuck tells me.
“Defense?” I ask.
Damien smiles. “How’d you know? I was a defensive lineman. Tuck was our running back.”
I wouldn’t have taken Tuck as the football type. He’s short and thin, and it would only take one swipe to knock him out for a season. But then again, if they ever put Damien in to block for him, I don’t think Tuck would have to worry about anyone taking a swipe at him.
“I play basketball. Point guard,” I say.
Tuck’s eyes size me up before he speaks. “Didn’t take you as the basketball type.”
Damien laughs. “Well he probably took you for the drug dealing type, so be nice.”
He has no idea how right he is. Damien returns to coating the wall with white paint, and I follow Tuck’s smoke cloud along the blue wall.
“I was into graffiti in high school, early high school anyway,” he explains. “My mom found out, and she brought home a bag full of spray paint and told me I had free reign over my bedroom walls as long as I didn’t vandalize anything in public.”
We walk down to the far end of the wall where two girls are painting. Tuck introduces them as Emilia, Pax’s sister, and Heidi, Emilia’s best friend. Heidi’s bleached blonde hair stands out like that one last light bulb above the bathroom mirror that you hope shines forever so you don’t have to crawl on top of the counter to change them.
Tuck points out an angel fish on the wall, talking about how it started off as a swirl of colors. It looks like a huge knot with multi-colored scarves waving out of it.
A hand falls on my shoulder, and I jump. Then Micah leans around me to see what I’m looking at. He doesn’t interrupt Tuck’s one-sided conversation about what the Graffiti Kings do.
“We do a lot of small canvases, but every summer we all meet up here and work on one of those larger than life paintings, the type you see on the side of a building,” Tuck explains.
“Last year we did a big city scene,” Pax says as he stands next to Micah. “Like New York – skyscrapers and streetlights. It was Micah’s idea.”
I remember the picture above his bed. The city with the sunset. The initials TRL in the bottom corner. Tucker Livingston. He must’ve painted it for Micah.
“This year we’re going for a shipwreck approach,” Tuck says. “We were going to do an ‘Under the Sea’ kind of thing, but I wanted something edgier.”
Tuck takes the last drag of his cigarette and drops the butt into a cup of water again.
“I’m thinking sunken ship. Buried treasure. Maybe a skeleton pirate on the ocean floor,” he says. “With the sea life living among the wreckage.”
He takes another cigarette from the box in his pocket and lights it. I can’t believe a ball carrier could be a chain smoker. It’s hard enough getting up and down the court when you’re out of shape, much less when your lungs are black. He motions for Micah and me to follow. We sit away from the others on some
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