The sun died today. Or, maybe it was yesterday; you can’t be sure. It was sometime round midnight and the cold was infesting the city with a bitter shade of white wash. Sane never knew silence; cities will do that to you. The low tone of the dirty yellow streetlamps hummed the soundtrack of artificial light and Sane was ready to dance. With a quick flick, his half smoked butt bounced off the cement like a lit skimming rock. He flickered into motion. In a single calculated moment of fluidity, a backpack peels off his shoulders, fingers slide through zippers, as liquid arms stretch on thick pair of paint infested dishwashing gloves with the familiarity of a surgeon. Carefully fingering through his portable palette lined with aluminum spray cans, Sane snatches four cans and props them along the base of his brick canvas. He gulps a dramatic inhale of frosted air, holds it and patiently exhales his opaque cloud of stale smoke.
Slipping into routine, he snaps a fat outlining tip on the head of a fresh can of flat black and lets the familiar flow of rebellion, expression, and adrenaline burn its course through his metallic veins. Functioning on nocturnal impulse, Sane stoically stares down the decaying wall in front of him as his writing hand blazes the bubble gum frame of his tag. The spaceless nature of his languid rhythm leaves only a cold naked outline upon the wall. At home in the dank alleys between the fragmented moments of time, he begins the fill. Amidst the dimness of aerosol smoke and urban howls there is a swirling haze of flipping cans- spinning colors- switching tips- style moves. The delicate intertwining of an S and an A, the molding of the A with the N, the coercion of the N into an E. The echo of sprayed paint rumbles through pavement below. The air is visibly growing heavy with the dense smell of chemicals and creation. There is no longer a distinguishable four letter tag. Through the chaos of sidecuts, switchbacks, and twisted arrows he has merged the once distinct letters into the liquid mastery of a piece. Sane’s passion for wild style is more then a simple trademark of his expression, it is theme for existence.
Sane slithered within the faint glow of the Manhattan nights, strolling foreign side-streets like it was the block he was raised in. He was at ease in his native concrete habitat, avoiding the chill of the frigid shadow incessantly trailing him a few feet behind. Sane methodically paced the avenues until struck by the cold and a crossroads so generic it could have been anywhere in the five boroughs. He followed his lanky frame into the red and yellow cornershop sprawled with foreign lettering, and exchanged a dollar and change for forty ounces of malted liquor in a crumpled brown bag. A twisted cap and a few pulls later, Sane found himself lowering into the subterranean tunnel system of the iron worms and on to an uptown rolling 4 train. He dropped the hood from behind his sweatshirt over his head and most of his face, took a healthy swig, and faded into a nearby seat. The train rattled furiously like a small craft in choppy waters as a sudden breach of volts and white noise replaced the lights with an uncomfortable darkness...
...The aging cars’ fluorescent candles flashed on, blaring a spotlight down the center aisle of the car. Another young graf junkie draped in nylon and shell tops began to make his way down the illuminated runaway, stomping rubber soles upon the littered floor. ‘What up kid?’ he more then whispers. Sane lifts his hood off aggressively, and glazes into the eyes of the voice. He quickly retreats. ‘Oh snap! How ya livin’ L?’
‘Ya know how it goes, same-ol same-ol. Whas the haps wit you?’
‘Just kickin’ it, ya know how it goes. Anyways, I peeped some def shit you’ve been bombing. That fly Ill Will piece on the J line was you? That was tight.’
‘Yup, no doubt.’
‘Yo what’s up with that. I thought you tag Logic. Who goes round and just starts swinging new tags? Kids get hurt for that kind of shit. Plus what’s the point of getting up if you’re gonna go and switch your shit up every time?’
‘First off, you know Logic is All City. Sides’ that shit, bombing to me is bigger then all that yo. It’s like when I’m all amped up staring down my spot on the wall, I’m drenched with every emotion. Fuck! I’m so charged out there it’s like my writing hand is on fire. I’ll focus all those consuming forces and bomb whatevas’ flowing in here (pounding his chest) onto that little slice of space I take for my own. Yo, I’m cheating myself of the real in life if I’m throwing down the same tag every time I’m out there. Like in hip-hop, any rapper can bust a rhyme in the studio, but only a real emcee is down to freestyle off the dome at will. When I’d free-bombing it’s all about spraying my soul on the wall, saying fuck you to the world, and livin’ in the now! Knowwhatimsayun? Didn’t you ever wanna change up your style or life a little? Go for a hike or some shit like that?’ Sane replied with an unassuming nod and soft blink of the eyes. ‘Not really yo, I think no matta have far you run you can neva change smack. Sides, one life is as good as ‘notha and mine fits fine. Like any this jazz talk matters out here anyway.’
‘That’s mad dismal yo, you should get some focus on what you do and think about what goes down out here.’ Anyways, I’m rolling out to Les’ pad up by 233rd street.’
‘Up by Woodlawn?’
‘Dat’s that one. He’s throwing a block party of sorts, rooftop style. What’s his face from the Q borough is DJing.’
‘Marl?’
‘Word, word. You down?’ It didn’t matter to Sane either way. His lips functioned involuntarily on automatic response, ‘why not bro.’ The rest of their journey melted into silence, while the mechanical beat of the subway line droned on.
It makes wonda/how I keep from going unda. The turntables bounced with the frozen breeze in time to the song’s resonating bass kick. Bass —tone tone- bass. Marl’s lower body was indecipherable behind his makeshift DJ stand layered in wax, vinyl, and blinking red lights. His presence levitated above the pulsing waves of thriving b-boys. A group of teens huddled in the mist of the speakers breathing hypnotic beats circled their heads in a unified head nod, encasing two battle hungry emcees intertwined in a violent tangle of egos. Drawn across the center of the roof was a 12 x 12 fresh sheet of cardboard. Kids in bright-striped jumpsuits dancing- spinning- souls- breaking- popping- furious- locking- conflicting beneath the onlooking stars. The roof unraveled like a hip-hop carnival as Sane emptied down his forty, lit a smoke, tossed the bottle, and sucked on the slivered moon.
‘Yo peep those toys posin’ ova by the DJ.’ Sane was reeled in from space by the voice. ‘Wha?’
‘There goes Poko and Reck ova by Marl.’
‘Yeah, so?’
‘Them and their whole wack crew of herbs been writing ova my work.’
‘Nah those kids ain’t beefin’, their just jonesing for car space. Probably don’t even who you are.’
‘I don’t give a fuck yo! They betta’ know my name. Look at those toys frontin’ like they’re troopers or some shit. I seen them toys buy their paint. Damn, you got my back yo?’ Sane instinctively responded with no sign of physical hesitation and rhymed the words ‘no doubt’ as his cold naked hands fondled one another in the pouch of his sweatshirt. Logic escaped from the fix of Sane’s simmering eyes, bounced into the swarming crowd, and turned back to yell ‘I got the big one.’ Sane hustled to keep pace with the Yankee emblem of Logic’s twisted cap. Shouldering himself a path through the herd of flailing carnival freaks, Sane could see Logic’s face and his expression as he pounced upon his bloated prey.
Hostile gestures- spitting words- a crunching chubby face- pounding fists- concrete smacking face. Sane caught the other kid flinching, tossed him to the ground like an empty trashcan, and relentlessly drilled his face with alternating hand jabs. Each blow served as a release of festered aggression (pop,) lost hope and pre-mature cynicism (smack,) and frustrated dreams (crack.) In post-orgasmic elation, Sane peeled himself off the face-less vessel beneath him and watched the blood slowly leak from his whimpering face. The sounds of needles scratching records; I ain’t no joke/ I used to let the mic smoke. The beats flowed on and Sane’s stoic stare shifted to Logic. The fat kid was curled into a fetal retreat as a compassionately vacant Logic repeatedly stomped the heel of his sneakers into the fallen body’s chin and exposed ribs. Sensing the weight of an imposing stare, he recoiled from the body, and froze mid-motion in the slow luminous beam of Sane’s visual grasp. In a simultaneous unfolding of moments, Logic began to stretch his face into a coy smirk as Sane’s mouth jerked ‘he’s got a blade!’ Still panting, Logic was cemented into the ground and watched a pudgy hand flip, roll, and squeeze together the handles of an exposed six inch butterfly knife. The cold began to bite down hard as the clouds congregated to block the starlight. With a deft snap and pair of lazy diagonal slashes, Logic was cut good. His shirt was torn and his left arm gradually leaked blood from their freshly cut capillaries.
Poko and Reck backed away slowly, keeping their newfound enemies at bay with the knife, never taking their eyes off them. The music never paused. Sane dropped the dead weight of Logic’s lanky frame over his shoulders, dragged him down a dilapidated stairwell that reeked of urine, and shuffled his newly cut friend towards the staircase towards Les’ apartment. He worked him slowly down a few flights of stairs, propped him against the wall, and rang the 12D doorbell. A minute or two of uncomfortable silence passed, Les answered the door dressed in boxer shirts, no shirt, and a thick gold chain slung around his neck brandishing an oversized golden crucifix. He was occupied with the company of a very young girl, who was fumbling through her clothes on the living room floor. "Yo! Nah, nah, what the fuck happened here!?’
"L over here tumbled down the stairs and caught a paper cut or two.’
‘Settle down motherfucker, the folks are stilled crashed out. Bring him in the bathroom.’
"I could walk my fucking self.’ With his pride more wounded then his body, Logic wobbled his way on the fuzzy pink toilet seat cover. Les snapped open the bathroom cabinet and fumbled through prescription bottles, packages, lotions, and elixirs. He started on Logic’s wounds with the iodine, gauze, and medical tape. ‘This ain’t all that bad, just got it in a spot that bleeds a lot. You wanna get this checked out though.’
‘Whateva. You still got that piece?’
‘Yeah why, you a tough guy now?’
"Wha do’ya think? Just score me the fuckin’ piece aight.’
‘Yo Sane finish this up. I got a find my six-shooter for Logic the Kid over here.’ Les handed him the tape and scissors, and left the room. ‘Hey L, you really gonna pop those toys?’ Sane sealed off his last bit of arm bandaging and sliced off the excess tape. ‘All they got is a little blade, you’d be a punk to spray ‘em.’
‘I’m gonna step to ‘em and if they start high-posting, the herbs are getting lifted off their fucking feet.’
‘What if they don’t pull a knife, you’d be a punk. Let me pack the heat, if they flinch I’ll squeeze off a few.’
Les walked back into the room revolver in hand. ‘Don’t go bringing me back a piece with bodies on it. He outstretched his palm delicately, balancing it on his palm as if trying to prevent himself from staining his hands. ‘I’ll be taking that.’ Sane snagged the gun quickly, lifted his sweatshirt, and slid the piece behind his belt buckle exposing the handle above his waistline. The cold steel felt powerful against his skin. They followed Les to the front door, both taking their time to shoot the young girl a condescending chuckle and smile. Sane silently hoped that Poko and Reck had the brains to jet from the party, but something spoke from the night that told him different.
As they pried open the stairway door, a glacial gust forced its way into the building and sent an indelible chill through their already burning nerves. Sane flipped on his hoodie, and began to walk the role of the main character of his life wading through the pre-destined play of futility. I got a letter from the government, the other day/ I opened and read it/ It said they were suckers!’ Logic scanned the still thriving crowd as he stalked the rooftop with the unnerving determination of an animal seeking to re-establish its position in the hierarchy. ‘Got em’!’ Right by the ledge.’ Without subtlety or grace, Logic darted towards them followed closely by Sane. He spoke with a confidence that is heard behind the grip of a gun in your possession. ‘What’s up now bitch? You still wanna play the tough guy?’ Sane took a stolid posture behind him. The entire universe collapsed and was drawn to standstill on a small roof in the Bronx, floating between the clouds and the snow. Sane’s mind was flooded with the rawest strands of the emotional spectrum flowing into a unified whirlpool of thought. I don’t care of I shoot this motherfucker or not. He lifted his shirt casually, flashing the cold black steel pressed tight against his flesh. Poko and Reck exchanged panicked glances and bolted for the nearest exit. As quickly as they had appeared into the immediate consciousness of Sane and Logic, they were gone. Sane was visibly relieved and disturbed at how close he had come to shooting then, but he did not break character. He absorbed the energy of the strange and twisted night, and could feel the persuading pressure of something powerful forcibly branding itself upon his soul. Logic pretended to be pissed. ‘Great party, great party.’
‘Yeah-yeah, word.’
‘Anyways, fuck this scene. I’m gonna break out like I was the fat kid,’ he laughed revealing a crooked smile and a sigh of relief. ‘You comin’ yo?’ Sane paused in mock deliberation. ‘Nah, I’m gonna hang low for a while.’
‘Aight. Thanks for all that. Youknowwahtimsayun.’
‘It’s all good L.’ But it wasn’t though. Sane felt uncomfortable within himself and couldn’t verbalize it, not even to himself. The friends parted nonchalantly as if the night played itself out in a melody that they heard too many times before.
The roof and the streets were riddled in cold. To stay, or to bust a move- it came to much the same. Sane needed to wipe his head clean of Logic and the rest of the evening’s surreal happenings. He had to admit it, he was shocked at how close he came to killing someone; more importantly how powerful it felt to see the fear in their eyes, the taste of bile in his mouth, the adrenaline pumping his trigger finger. He waited for the song to end, sparked another smoke, and ambled along with the slowly amassing exodus congregating towards the staircase. The cold whistled around the buildings, through the concrete, and hummed in Sane’s ears. He wasn’t tired, and was soothed by the natural surroundings of the frost dipped sky scrapers and warm subway exhaust melting the residual snow on the sewer grates. He returned to the streets and started walking. Guided by a divine futility, he wandered the blocks, avenues, and over a posted fence that read Van Cortlandt Park — Closed at Dusk. He flicked his butt, and stumbled into the frigid meadow. The cold was nearing unbearable. The trees were enclosed in ice and their leaves shivered under the weight of the fallen snow. Sane ventured on- fighting through the glare- unwilling to submit. He eyes traced the end of the field into a preserved patch of evergreen forest, and saw the solace of a dry bench protected within the wood’s welcoming arms not far ahead. The snow poured down from the sky with an increasing vigor and an overwhelming desire to immerse the Earth in its white tide of sterility. Sane could not see and blindly followed the linear path of his saturated shell-top sneakers.
Nearing his oasis, he glimpsed two people huddled on his bench intimately sharing he smoke of a blunt that passed between their frozen fingertips. They noticed him too. His first reaction was to run, turn back, go home. It was too cold, he had already promised himself the warmth of the trees, he already gone too far. He could feel the blood rushing to his face, circulating faster through his veins. He drudged on and on, closer and closer. Poko drew his knife. He knew it was no hotter beneath the trees, but it didn’t matter anymore. Nothing did. The clouds reflected off the mirrored ground. Sane’s legs marched on their own will. The park began to reel before him- a blade made a dash for his throat. The entire sky seemed to be collapsing upon him. Sane rolled left to the padded ground, gripping tight the handle of the revolver with all his fading might. Every nerve on his body was focused on the metal spring trigger. His grip closed the gun. The trigger backlashed in a whipping motion, piercing through the sedimented layers of all his constructed illusions, dismantled dreams, fractured hopes, and disinterest in life. The skinny kid ran. Sane stumbled to his feet and looked over the limp body emotionless and plugged him four more times in the flesh of his guts. Peering within, Sane realized he has shattered the frail stability of the ice-cold night and his vacant soul.