Under the Paint

Most people never looked twice at the underpass.

It was one of those cracked concrete spaces beneath the city — a long, echoing tunnel that reeked of piss, exhaust, and something harder to name. It was tagged to hell, a blur of old gang signs, forgotten art, and fresh scrawls in neon. The only ones who came down here were the desperate, the curious, or the kids with cans in their backpacks and something to prove.

James was the third kind.

Sixteen, skinny, hoodie always up. He moved like smoke — quick and quiet. He knew the underpass better than most because it was his gallery. Well, not officially. Officially, he was just another punk with a spray can. But if you really looked — if you knew the layers, the tags, the throws — his name was there. VARO. Always tucked into the corners.

Tonight, James crouched near the far wall, shaking a can of sky blue. The clatter echoed around him. He was working on something new — a girl’s face, eyes closed, hair like waves spilling across the bricks. He kept redoing the mouth. Always the mouth. Too sharp, too soft, not quite right. Like he was trying to remember something just out of reach. He'd been at it three nights already. He only worked in pieces, not bursts. He layered. He cared.

The can hissed.

“You know,” came a voice behind him, low and raspy, “you're not supposed to be here.”

James froze. He didn't run — running made you look guilty. He turned slow. Behind him stood a man in a security jacket, old but tall, his posture still straight like a tree that hadn’t learned to bend. Flashlight in one hand, the other resting on his hip like he missed having a baton.

“I’m not doing anything wrong,” James lied.

The man stepped closer. “You’re spray painting on city property.”

“I’m improving city property.”

The man looked at the wall, at the girl’s face. He didn't say anything for a long moment.

“Is that supposed to be someone?”

James hesitated. Just a breath. “Not anymore.”

The man nodded, like he got that. He didn’t take out a phone, didn’t snap pictures, didn’t threaten anything.

“What’s your name?”

James glanced toward the other end of the tunnel. “Does it matter?”

The man didn’t push. “Mine’s Cole.”

He waited. When James didn’t answer, he turned and started walking back the way he came.

“Wait,” James said. “You gonna tell someone?”

Cole shrugged. “I didn’t see anything.”

They didn’t become friends that night. But the next night, Cole came back.

He didn’t talk much. Just stood off to the side, watching James work like he was guarding the place. After a while, James asked, “You bored or something?”

Cole grunted. “Maybe.”

That was it. But from then on, they shared the space.

James would paint. Cole would patrol, disappear for a bit, then return. They barely talked. When they did, it was about the wall. The art. The tags that got layered over, the new stuff, the old stuff.

“You see this?” Cole said once, pointing to a weathered patch of red and black tucked behind a rusting pipe. “This is ‘90s. I remember this. Used to work down near 4th Street. Whole bridge was covered.”

“You did security back then too?”

“Yeah. Different kind of job. Worse kids.”

James smirked. “I’m not a bad kid.”

Cole didn’t argue.

Weeks passed. The mural grew.

James added color to the hair, gold to the eyelids. She wasn’t just a girl anymore — she was herself. She had weight. Soul.

One night, James brought a second can of coffee and handed it over without a word.

Cole took it. “Thanks.”

“You ever paint?” James asked.

Cole chuckled. “Nah. I fix things. Never made anything in my life.”

“You don’t gotta be an artist to make something.”

Cole didn’t answer, but his face shifted just a bit. Like the idea had landed somewhere soft.

One night, James showed up late.

He looked like hell — split lip, knuckles raw, hoodie half-zipped. Cole raised an eyebrow.

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

Cole waited.

“Just some guys. Got the wrong corner.”

Cole nodded slowly. “You in a crew?”

“Not really.”

“That why you come here alone?”

James hesitated. “I guess.”

Cole sighed. “You keep working like this, someone’s gonna notice. The wrong people.”

James stared at the wall. “They already do. That’s the point.”

Cole looked at the mural. The girl’s face was nearly done now. She looked peaceful.

“Is she real?” he asked.

James didn’t look at him. “She was my sister.”

Silence.

“What happened?”

“OD. Two years ago.”

Cole said nothing for a long time. Then- “I had a brother. Army. Came back wrong. Died in a motel. Didn’t leave anything.”

James nodded. The kind of nod that says, Yeah. I know that kind of silence.

They sat there for a while. Not painting. Not patrolling. Just being.

One night, James showed Cole how to hold a can.

“Loosen up. Don’t press too hard. Just — let it glide.”

Cole tried. His hand shook a little, but the line came out smooth.

“Not bad,” James said.

“You sound surprised.”

“I am.”

Cole smirked. “You ever think about doing this for real? Galleries, commissions?”

James shook his head. “They don’t want us. They want the style, not the people.”

“Then make your own space.”

James looked around. “This is my space.”

Cole looked too, but saw something different. Something not quite finished.

A week later, Cole didn’t show.

James waited. First night, nothing. Second night, nothing. On the third night, James painted anyway, but his heart wasn’t in it.

He kept checking the tunnel mouth, half-expecting to see that flashlight bobbing toward him.

Finally, on the fifth night, Cole returned. He moved slower, one arm in a sling.

“What the hell happened?” James asked.

Cole shrugged, wincing. “Got jumped near the train yard. Some kids thought I was a cop.”

James' face twisted. “That’s messed up.”

“It is what it is.”

James stepped back and looked at the wall. Then at Cole.

“Want to add something?”

Cole raised an eyebrow.

“To the wall,” James said. “For your brother.”

Cole stared at the mural. Thought about it. Then nodded.

Together, they worked in silence, carving out a space just off to the side — barely visible unless you knew to look. A set of dog tags, painted silver, resting on an old motel key.

Winter came. The air got sharp, the tunnel colder. But the mural stayed.

So did they.

The city eventually fenced off the entrance. Cole cut a hole in the back gate. James brought gloves.

They kept coming.

One night, Cole said, “They’re going to paint over this eventually.”

James didn’t stop painting. “I know.”

“You okay with that?”

He shrugged. “Nothing lasts. But someone’ll remember it.”

Cole nodded. Then- “I’ll remember it.”

James smiled. Just a little.

Six months later, the mural was gone.

Gray paint. City order. One clean sweep.

James stood in front of the blank wall, hands in his pockets. Cole beside him, still in his jacket even though he’d retired two weeks earlier.

James took out a black marker.

“What are you doing?” Cole asked.

James wrote one word in the corner. Small. Neat. Barely noticeable.

VARO.

Then he passed the marker to Cole.

Cole paused. Then added one more word beside it.

C.

They stepped back.

Nothing flashy. Nothing big.

But it was theirs.

And for now, that was enough.