A Dragon on the Wall

Kyle and Burton pass an elementary school neither of them went to. The road dips here as it goes under the railway, but Burton and Kyle climb up through the grocery store parking lot to a break in the fence so they can walk along the tracks.

There aren’t many trains on this line – only a few slow freights on their way to the yards downtown. Along the perimeter fence on either side are weeds like you see in the country, chicory in flower and nightshade and a tangle of other plants that smell of urine where rubbies have relieved themselves. Kyle is half afraid of meeting some crazed homeless guy walking the tracks or maybe one of the homies from Symington, but they see no-one. People have thrown all kinds of garbage over the fence, pop cans and plastic bags and broken boxes. Then, lying right on the rails as if they had just been dropped there, are three spray cans of paint. Burton picks one up and shakes it.

'Still some left'

“Still some left,” he says and picks up the other two and hands them to Kyle.

“I gotta go home. I have that exam in the morning,” he says to Burton. Burton shrugs and Kyle can tell he's pissed because of the mention of the exam. They continue walking.

Kyle is hungry and thinks for the first time that evening of home and that he told his folks he was going to Alex's house to study. His Dad will be furious – he always was the kind of Dad who yells but it’s got all out of proportion lately. He gives a lecture every second day about doing well in school – it makes Kyle want to drop out altogether. Actually, the feeling he has most of the time is that he cannot wait to leave home. This feeling comes over him now in a wave that makes his stomach growl.

The dragon

They pass the school again and Burton walks right out into the spot where the spotlight is trained on the wall and uses the blue spray can to write “Legalize pot.” He looks at Kyle, daring him. Kyle chooses a shorter wall around the corner and begins to draw one of his fantasy creatures. He is somewhat restricted by the limitations of working with spray paint, especially the black, which has too little in the can to give him a clean line. But then he gets into it -- the green sweep of the wing and a little feathering to suggest texture. And the eye -- looking straight out but still hooded as if thinking. When he is drawing, he always loses track of time and he doesn't know how long it is before it occurs to him to look around the corner for Burton. Burton isn't there. He goes back to his creature, burying his signature K in the crux of its neck and then beginning on the missing wing. He is standing back, paint can in hand, for a better look when a lone cop walks around the corner.

“Okay, Michelangelo, stop right now. You’re coming with me,” says the cop.