Be Very Afraid : “The Wall”

The wall stood, perfectly blank, waiting to be filled.

It hadn’t been there two days ago. Frankie was sure of that as he gazed at it in admiration.

He fingered one of the cans of spray-paint in the pocket of his baggy trousers and his gaze swept along the 20-foot length of pristine concrete. It looked gray in the midnight shadows, but Frankie knew it was white. He had seen it that afternoon, nestled pointlessly against the embankment that sloped up to the Santa Monica Freeway.

Sounds of traffic filtered from above, even at that late hour. Elsewhere around him the neighborhood was dark and quiet.

Frankie couldn’t believe he was the first one to get to it. It stood like an invitation to every tagger in L.A. County. Sure, it was kind of out of the way, behind some warehouses, but that didn’t matter. Around there anything that stood still for more than a few minutes ended up covered with slogans and pictures. He wasn’t going to complain, though. No way. This was going to be his masterpiece, even better than the time he did the La Cienega off-ramp sign while hanging upside-down over the freeway.

Better get to it, he thought. He studied it with an artist’s practiced eye for another moment, then fished a can of paint out of his pocket. He would start with the red, he decided. He stepped forward, then cursed as his foot descended on something round, turning his ankle. He peered through the darkness at the ground, then stooped and lifted a can of spray-paint. A short distance away was another one. Near it was a baseball cap, lying upside-down like a dead animal.

Frankie shook his can. It was full.

The tagger looked around. He was completely alone in the deep shadows cast by the looming warehouses behind him.

“Weird,” he muttered, then turned back to the wall. Maybe a security guard or something had frightened off other taggers earlier. All the better for him.

He raised his can of paint and began to spray, confidently forming the first few large looping letters. He paused to gauge the effect and was startled when the paint faded from sight, as if absorbed by the concrete. He tried it again, with the same result.

Frankie reached forward and rubbed at the wall with his hand, then lurched forward as his hand sank into it up to the wrist. He yanked back with a startled hiss, but his hand was stuck fast. His confusion turned to fear as something yanked his arm in up to the elbow, then to the shoulder. He thrashed, dropping his spray can, but whatever had him was horribly strong.

“Hey! Hey!” he yelled. His baseball cap flew off, landing near the other one.

There was a loud sucking noise, then a terrified shriek, suddenly cut off. After that the only sound was the muted rumble of freeway traffic. Of Frankie there was no sign at all.

The wall stood, perfectly blank, waiting to be filled.

* Phil, 37, is the manager of Rizzoli Bookstore in Beverly Hills. He lives in Downey with his wife, Leanne. Their children are Emily, 19, Rachel, 10, and Alexander, 9. Also in the household are two dogs, two cats, one rabbit, one pigeon and some fishies.