The Tagger
I was coming back from a shopping spree. I had from over at the Chinese grocery on Ludlow two bags of pine nugget cat litter and from the Essex Market I had picked up vegetables for juicing, a bag of coffee, over-priced toilet paper, some sliced mangos, and a carton of half and half. In total my purchases weighed between 12 and 14 pounds. I was carrying them in three plastic bags, two in one hand, one in the other and they dangled swaying from my claws a matter of inches or several hundred feet above the topography that was a gum spotted sidewalk or freshly mown field where mice scurried.
Bernadette's sister, Magdalena, was preparing to clean from the window glass in front of the building a white marker tag measuring about two by five inches. Hello Magdalena, I said. I released from my one claw the heavier bags and dug into my front pocket for the front door key. While Magdalena descended into the basement for more cleaning supplies I traced my index finger over the tag, thinking perhaps that I might discern something meaningful from the feel of it, the texture of the ink; that I might in fact crack this case of the persistent New York tagger, the ticker tape parade in my honor going down as one for the ages, the New York Post celebrating me with an uncharacteristically straightforward headline--jimlouis, not a fuckup, anymore.
Instead I am flanked by two well meaning newly trained shiny and I mean shiny New York City cops. The shiniest one addresses me while the just moving towards pudginess shiny one stays hidden to my right side periphery, judging, in this case correctly, that he is to the side of my bad eye. Excuse me sir, the lead cop says to get my attention. Just him being a cop got my attention but the excuse me sir I have to admit was a very nice touch. The polite introduction implies that he is clearly, by himself, prepared to play good cop and bad cop. While the cop to my flank plays the quiet, baton-fingering menace. I have been in the past so impressed by a good good cop routine that I have now at this time forgotten all about the particular misdeameanor or minor felony and can only recall the cop and his finesse in the field of human interaction.
The cop is clearly interested in the rather unremarkable scribbled grafitti. He motions towards it. I follow his lead and am looking in the correct general direction when he utters--what is that?
Oh now I know where he is going with this and I must say I am a little taken aback. I retort, perhaps too quickly--my good sir, I am not "a knave, a rascal, an eater of broken meats; a base, proud, shallow, beggarly, three-suited, hundred-pound, filthy, worsted-stocking knave; a lily-liver'd, action-taking knave; a whoreson, glass-gazing,
superserviceable, finical rogue; a one-trunk-inheriting slave; one that wouldst be a bawd, in way of good service, and art nothing but the composition of a knave, beggar, coward, pandar, and the son and heir of a mongrel bitch..." And I will have you know that the number of years passed since last I have been spoken to in such a manner, with such implication by one of your profession is no short interlude. While I will not demand an apology I must still suggest strongly that you be on your way and waste no bit of yourself looking back.
Or in fact I did not say that but only wished for a place to insert that nifty insult from Act 2 Scene 2 King Lear which I was fortunately able to attend with Yonder Fair Maiden a few nights ago in Brooklyn.
I said in petulant voice (let's face it a little hurt by the accusation soon coming)--that's a tag.
The cop nodded a triumphant yet reserved Ah Ha and then asked me, did you just do that?
Did I just tag my own building, I said, dissmissively, and feeling that rising tone of anger best not reserved for cops or other humans I was then luckily interrupted by the returning Magdalena coming up from the basement saying (and picking up right where my tone had left off) Nooo, he didn't...and this followed quickly by the appearance of Bernadette bringing into clarity for these young cops how a simple grafitti bust can turn into a one act you don't really need to attend entitled Two Women Not to Mess With.
And no sooner had they arrived they were off. And now these days later gazing out the window at the Shenandoah peak known as The Peak all I can think about is damn I wish I had those vegetables and the juicer here and, is it a bad thing to eat nothing but homemade granola cereal for three days. Shouldn't I add some milk this time instead of drinking it dry, from a highball glass?
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