Two

“Hey, man.” I was walking up to the guy who was spray painting a beige and grey wall. Boring wall. Bright orange and neon green lit it up like a red, green and white string of lights glows in the night, turning darkness into Christmas. Words like Stop! and Wuzz off! glowered at me. At him?                

I hoped so. My family wouldn’t appreciate. I’d make them happy.

I think as I had stopped before him, that these words expressed this man’s feelings, but he never said anything. He never threw his hands up, yelled, screamed, raged, cried or even slammed doors of his apartment. Well, at least I’ve never heard him. He’s been here for a while. Oh, he’s been spray-painting walls like these for a very long time. He always does this.

Why?

I shrugged my shoulders. “Hey!” I called out to him. He whipped around. Glowering at me, his face twisted into a question mark of leave-me-alone attitude. “What are you doing here? Thought I was here all by myself.”

“Well,” I slid my hands into my beige and brown-sugar fur coat and scuffed a tennis shoe on the concrete parking lot of this abandoned parking garage. “I thought I’d come by and be with you for a minute. Having anyone over for Thanksgiving?”

“No.” He snapped.

“Okay! Come by if you need some turkey.”

He didn’t answer. Shaking my head as I flicked a piece of brown hair off my eyesight, I headed away. The blue Honda Civic Accord’s back and front lights flickered like someone wiggling their eyebrows. The sounds of it unlocking probably drowned out my snickering. Inhaling and then exhaling, I drove, stopping by just to see what this man was up to. reading words I couldn’t fully grasp, I continued, watching the man whip his hand this way, shake the bottle of purple and then spray up, down and then do curly cues—

I got into a car crash last time. I need to focus.

But my mind focused on that man. He was homeless—at least I heard that from someone at work last week. I worked nearby, at a candy shop. Several others cleaned, filled and fixed the gumball machines periodically while I cleaned the bathrooms, floors and windows and restocked the seemingly endless drawers of candy children coveted so idolatrously. I was half-janitor, half-worker. Candy to your rescue, sir!

I knew he never expressed himself, even as a spray painter. As I pulled into the driveway some minutes later, I imagined him spray painting forever, the sky becoming dark, and then light, and then dark, and then light. Day and night passed before him. He had no concept of time—he had no ability to feel. He had no desire to express himself, even with the no-nonsense words he had spray-painted on that wall.

The wall would just sit there, staring blankly at him, even blanker than before.

Because he’d just spray. Nothing would matter. No feelings expressed. No passion infused into the purple, pink and blue. Nothing would come of his artwork!

I shut my front door. My purring cat, its body making a U-turn around my leg like it had forgotten to go this way and then that way and then this—

“Okay, Purrs, you’re good!” I shook him off, and he trotted I guess annoyingly away. I sighed and threw myself on the couch to watch some good show I always let my eyeballs soak in and my brain absorb the nonsense until bedtime. My brain however never computed anything the man on the show said.

I took my iPhone into my hands and looked at it. Does he have a number? Should I invite him to Thanksgiving? Should I include him? I swallowed, hoping Aunt and Uncle, Cousin, Dad, Mom, Sister, Brother and Dog of Aunt and Uncle would enjoy a guest. Would the turkey cook right? Would the gravy smell just like Aunt’s gravy every year? Dad’s homemade apple pie—would I be able to crunch down on the baleful deliciousness? Mom’s supreme broccoli and cauliflower—could I even let my taste buds betray me?

I inhaled, and then threw my phone aside. I guess.

That Thursday, Thanksgiving was a little chaotic. I thought, No way! That man would have a heart attack. I thumped the decorated kitchen table loudly, and everyone’s conversations and reasoning and arguments and food fights all died. “Everyone, I’ll be back.”

No one said anything. A few hours later, I returned to a table full of relatives chowing down on turkey and mashed potatoes and garlic bread. Inviting the man in, I sat at the table across from him, he never saying anything. I blinked, offering him some food, loading it up. He swiped it, eating slowly and methodically, like he never had turkey or potatoes before. I forced myself to smile and asked him whether he knew anyone around this area.

“My brother.”

“You have a brother! That’s great.”

“Yeah.” He grabbed the salt, and almost let it fall like snow onto the potatoes. I gritted my teeth when he took the last of the cake. Inhaling with sheer patience I could muster, I remembered, telling myself. This man is different. What if his brother doesn’t like him? Then I, barely containing it, asked him whether he could step outside for a minute.

“It’s cold!” He shouted. Everyone looked over at me. I gulped, and tried again.

“Maybe in my room.”

Getting up, we traveled there. Closing the door, I started the conversation. Or rather interview. He was looking down, his shoulders hunched. He wore the same grey sweatshirt from the time I saw him. Inhaling, I began, no shortcuts.

“Look, I saw you spray painting. I know I’m intruding, but you have a brother, and you’re alone, and I want to know whether you are living with your brother. If you have anyone for you. I know I have a great family, but I want you to know I invited you because I love reaching out to those who are not as fortunate as others.” My palms sweated, but I continued. “Please—I asked for you to come because I want you to feel comfortable. I’m sorry everyone gave you hard looks. I have that kind of family. They’re not used to seeing someone with a smelly, sweaty, stained sweatshirt and basketball shorts on. They’re more like…other people.” I closed my mouth, hoping I at least helped him express his frustration of being on the street.

A very long silence sat between us. If it were a person, it’d be smiling evilly up at me, its eyes glinting malice. But it wasn’t a person, and I killed it with, “Please—for your own sanity. I work at the candy shop. Mind if we go there?”

The man didn’t say anything. Didn’t do anything. Then, when we headed out in my car and then stopped at the candy shop, he just came along. Didn’t talk to me. Just shivered in the cold. “Please!” I took my jacket off, and he grabbed it, wrapping it awkwardly around him. I helped him, but he just jerked away and threw it around—the zipper almost whacking me—and hid in the awkwardly positioned jacket. We entered as quickly as possible. I showed him everything, from the gumball machines to the bathrooms. He rushed into the bathroom, cleaned his face and said whether I had any towels for him to take a shower and buy new clothes. “Money!” He griped, coming out after using many, many paper towels. I cringed at the mess.

“Yes—yes. I have some tens and fives.” I dug out my wallet and put four tens and five fives into his outstretched hand. Fisting them, he burst out of my candy shop.

“Hey—where you going?”

“To the store! I’m hungry!”

“I gave you money for clothes. Isn’t that what you wanted?” I jogged beside him.

“No. food!” He jogged away, and I stopped. I watched the man jog to somewhere. Did he know this place? How, if he didn’t really get out much? I know I was being judgmental, but…

I’m…not my family. I’m me… I saw him in Target. Bursting out of there with some jackets, he looted Walmart. Store clerks chased after him, threatening to call the police. I pursed my lips. I have my phone. Mom and Dad would be furious. He needs to suffer for his wrongdoing! I bit my lip. My shoulders sagged.

I sighed, and moments later, I pointed the police in the right direction, at a Marshall’s nearby. They handcuffed the shrieking, threatening man, but they dragged him forcefully into the car, the man’s wickedly angry face contorted so badly into rage and fury I jerked back, fearing for my life. I wished Purrs was with me.

I hurried out of the cold towards my car. Driving home, I reassured everyone no stranger would ever enter this home again. I blinked back tears of apology, and everyone hugged me, thanking me for chasing him away. I nodded, relieved everyone hadn’t eaten the apple pie yet. I sat back, relishing it.

I woke up the next morning, weary but good. I sold candy by the bags. When my twelve-hour shift was done, I sighed a good sigh and went home, glad I didn’t have to pick up anyone on the way. I parked, went inside, Purrs at my feet curling around me and then he went to his bowls. No U-turn. Huh? Was Purrs betraying me? I had fed him some turkey!

“Purrs, what’s up?”

He ignored me, chowing down on his belated Thanksgiving dinner of catnip. “Purrs!” I insisted. He still didn’t like me. “Purrs!”

He looked up, his eyes shimmering like they were screaming he was eating. Deciding to ignore him in return, I plopped onto the couch, switching on the TV. It didn’t entertain me. My mind went to that man—all alone in a jail cell. I blinked. Inhaling, I shook my thoughts away. I turned to the news, seeing the man in an orange jumper suit behind cold steel bars, wearing the same ugly scowl he had on since I saw him that day before Thanksgiving festivities. Watching him turn around and walk to his bed, I saw him slip out a piece of paper. Taking a pencil, he wrote something. Minutes later, he asked a security guard whether he could give this letter to a white man. A man I don’t know the name of, the man said.

“Well, you must know his address at least.”

“He’s tall, got brown hair, a small—”

“Is he the guy who pointed the police out to you?”

The man clenched the bars, jumping up and down. “Yes, yes!” He grinned. Bobbing his head, he jabbed the piece of paper with a finger. “Yes. He’s the one.”

“Okay.”

Quicker than I knew it, I found myself sitting there before the man before Plexiglas. I listened to this man’s story of spray painting some horrible words on the wall. Just to say who I was, the man’s face crinkled into pain and frustration. I just don’t get it. What does a man spray painting have to do with—

“Feelings?”

I didn’t regret spitting this word at him.

He continued, ignoring my iciness between us. “I just spray paint on my paper—I mean, I do ovals and triangles, circles and stuff.”

“Hm.” I didn’t want to be here anymore. When a police officer asked whether I wanted to leave, I said yes. When I found myself again at the man’s table with Plexiglas separating us, I sucked it all in. Blinking hard, I almost missed his Are you okay?

“No!” I spat bitterly.

“Are you mad because I lied and stole?”

I forced out, “I’m mad—at you!”

The man looked taken aback. “I’m doing my time. Four years. That’s it.”

I got up, and left. Come on, Cal, what are you doing? You never behave like this. Think of the generosity you bestowed upon that man. Without you, he wouldn’t have had a special Thanksgiving. Come on!

I wanted to strangle my thoughts. My brain had betrayed me! I didn’t want to show up anymore before this man. I told my family I was never going to bring a stranger into my house again. They said I had already told them this. “Well,” I said, “I’m telling you again.”

“Okay.”

I flipped on the TV. Watching my show, I shrugged as Purrs meowed. “Not now, Purr. I got to watch this show.” Soon, I found myself dosing off to sleep. Dreaming about my candy shop extravaganza, I relived every moment of this dream again and again when working. Finally, the weekend hit. When Saturday came, I unclenched my hands from the receiver and just told my family I’d never ask a stranger into my home—

“We get it, honey. Cal, please stop worrying! We know.”

Lying there in bed, I blinked. I got up, driving around town. No, I’ll walk. Though it’s snowing. My thoughts will distract me. But I couldn’t rip away from my mind. It showed the man, behind Plexiglas, behind a steel set of bars. Behind a—

“Wall of spray paint. He decorated that wall with ugliness and hatred. He had no way out. His bottles of spray paint illuminated the wall, flashing words of cold cruelty and harsh bitterness. He had admitted he had no words to express himself. Those words were his own. He had to spray paint them on the wall. He couldn’t just walk away. The beautiful colors flowed onto the wall, him exhaling a sense of tension outwardly onto the wall.

I thought as I walked, ignoring the snow. I never exhale. I always inhale. Why does he always exhale? Why didn’t he just use the stupid money for clothes? I know we all mess up, but why couldn’t he just buy some of my candy? Then I went home and typed out a letter to him. I asked for his phone number, his name and his new address. He gave it all to me, a genuine smile on his face. I looked at the smile, it making a U on his face. Like Purrs wraps his body around my leg, heading around for some place he forgot or missed to rub to mark his scent. I pushed up a grin on my face, relieved I knew this man now.

I inhaled, and for the first time, exhaled. Purrs made that U-turn, but I pushed him aside and then flopped onto the couch. Inhaling, I couldn’t take it anymore, and I exhaled. I truly let my shoulders sag. I blinked. Maybe Mark shouldn’t have written those nasty words on that wall…

But I couldn’t help wanting to give candy to him. Every time I went to go see him, he had a sunny disposition about him—his eyes sparkled, his back straightened and his smile—oh, his wide grin!—made me almost shiver with confusion. But Mark kept up the bright attitude, but my attitude got colder and more indifferent.

A phone call.

“What’s up, man?”

“Don’t call me that.” I suggested.

“Oh. Just want to be friends.”

“Well—” I looked at Purrs. He was looking up at me. “Please—don’t do that.”

“Just making your day!”

“No, you’re not—”

“You don’t have to be so cold. I know I did bad things—stole, lied and spray painted ugly things—but I don’t do that stuff anymore. I mean, I don’t imitate spray painting anymore. I actually write letters to you. I hope you got them. A lot of letters have gone out to you. I hope they’re not choking your mailbox.”

I went outside to my mailbox, said they weren’t choking my gaping mouth of a mailbox and grabbed them. Throwing them on the table, I blinked, and shut and locked the front door. Mark continued. “Look, I know you have an apartment. Not much. But you have a job. I never worked until now. I don’t really have much—just a bucket and a sponge. Crap job. But I think of all the things we have said. And I want you to be happy. I also mow lawns and scrub toilets. Don’t you do that, too?”

I blinked. I couldn’t speak. I said in a quavering voice that I had to go, and fell into the couch. Tears poured down my cheeks.

My family’s cold. I’m not them. Mark called me. We talked and talked. I wrote him letters, emails and sent him books. When he got out, he came every Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year’s. My family abandoned me. I inhaled—and then exhaled. Along with Mark, we smiled together, laughing and joking as we cleaned the wall of its ugliness.

“Thank you.”

“For what?” His face crinkled.

“For…warmth.”

Mark nodded kindly.

“Fear of what others thought of me. Especially my family.”

“Yeah—”

“Well, I do have feelings. I’ve just been hiding them for them. Really stupid of me. See, I’ve done bad things in my life, too—lied to you, stole and said ugly things—emotionally.” I expressed them to him all the time, and we both bonded over tools, guns, Purrs, his new cat Seals and football. Selling Mark candy pushed a smile onto my tight face—I had never invited a stranger into my life before. When my family called to see whether I’d be inviting any weirdos into my life, I inhaled and exhaled with yes, I will.

Mark is coming, I announced. And we had Christmas. He gave me a box of chocolates, and I gave him clothes, candy and spray paint.  

“Just don’t spray paint that same wall.”    

He laughed, and I did, too. I nodded, and exhaled. All the coldness outside of me. Warmth invaded my heart, and I grinned genuinely. Too.