The Story I Paint, The Story You Chase

I had changed. Half the things I did now, I wouldn't have even dreamed of doing over a year ago. Had I met Frank a year ago, I would have told him where the closest hotel, or motel was, helped him get there and then I'd be on my way. I didn't know much about him, and that's why I wouldn't have done that, but something inclined me to take him home. Something inside me wanted to get to know him inside and out. To really get to know him. Really, you can't get to know a person unless you walk around in their shoes. Even if you're married, yeah, you know the person, but how well? The problem is that you can't walk in their shoes, because then the person is stuck with no shoes and is still themselves, you're a mile ahead, and you still know nothing of importance. What I know about Frank- all I know about Frank is that he got evicted this morning, and that he works at a bookstore. He knows where all the books are placed, but that doesn't give away whether or not he reads them, or what kind of books he reads. I knew he was polite, and seemed of a very kind heart but for all I knew he could be a serial killer. I take that back. He couldn't be. He was running from a murderer, he was scarred because he saw it happen right before his eyes. Besides, his features were soft and his smile reached his eyes when he grinned. His features were soft and incredibly beautiful. Gerard no. I didn't know a lot, but I deemed I knew enough to trust him.
Frank was an odd character after the worry died down. He asked where he could put his things, and when I told him where, he used very little space. He asked about where he could put his clothes so I let him put them in my closet (which you could walk into) while I brought out a spare mattress and put it beside my bed. I pulled over a cover and provided him with blankets and a pillow. When I walked in to check on him, all his clothes were to one side and took up very little space. After that, I put his toiletries in the washroom, only to have them rearranged by him into a small corner by the sink. When I asked him why he did that, all he said was that he didn't want to take up a lot of space because it wasn't his house. Eventually, we finished putting his things into place, not that he had many. The last thing he did was put his letter of eviction into his one book, and he placed the book under his pillow. One thing that really stood out to me was that he asked to sit down, he asked to use the washroom, and he asked to look at all my books once he got out. My answer to all these questions was a yes.
The man ventured to my bookshelf but stopped before he even got there, letting a small gasp of wonder leave his lips. He was staring at my brick wall. The brick wall with all the graffiti on it. Half of me hoped he knew exactly who I was, and the other half of me hoped he didn't. Maybe- maybe he'd understand, or maybe he'd take me to the police. I wanted to explain myself so badly but he started to run his fingertips over the rough material. Over the brick and paint. His eyes twinkled and a small smile graced his lips. I watched him intently, the way his hands gently touched the brick, his long tattooed fingers stopping in certain areas. I found it fascinating how he moved his fingers across the wall. He moved them as is if he played piano, but the instrument he brought with him was a guitar, and I guess it was slightly similar. I couldn't get enough of his beauty and how he could turn something so simple into something that mesmerized me.

"Did you do this?" He asked me after what felt like an eternity of silence. At first I couldn't find my words so I forced my feet to move and take me to where he was standing. I wanted to answer him so badly but words got stuck behind my lips. Instead of answering, I admired my work, looking at the detail. It was a black parade, a concept I came up with. You go to the black parade one you die, whether it be from war, cancer, plague, anything of that sort. It was like a marching band of the dead, the skeleton at the front having a red thread.

"Yeah," my voice slightly cracked so I cleared my throat, "yeah I did." I managed to voice. I didn't know why talking became so hard for me in that moment but it did. I wanted to talk to Frank about it, I wanted to show him how I saw but I couldn't. It was too personal for now. "Would you maybe like some tea or coffee?" I asked him quietly. He nodded and followed me into the living room, and sat on a chair by the bar. I walked behind it and puled out a kettle, filled it with water, and placed it on the stove-top, turning the burner on to the highest temperature. "So why Jersey? Why not some other part of New York. Manhattan is huge." I asked.

"I don't actually have a good reason. I just ran. I followed my feet and my subconscious. I guess it got me here." He giggled. His giggle was something I wanted to hear more. It suited him and he was one who deserved to be happy.

"I guess I'm glad it brought you here. It's odd you ran into me, but I'm happy you did." I found myself admitting. The truth was that ever since I saw him at the bookstore I wanted to befriend him. He seemed like a really good person, and all his tattoos captivated me. I was an artist, and art is everything to me. "I wanted to talk to you since the bookstore, I just haven't gotten the chance to. I'm bad at talking." I laughed out awkwardly while rubbing my neck.

"Oh god, don't worry!" Frank insisted. I swear he was getting more comfortable the more we talked, and that was something I was happy with. At first he was stiff, and now he was a bit better but I still wanted to unravel him completely and have him perfectly comfortable with talking to me and spending time together. "I've actually been thinking about you, god that sounds wrong." I accidentally let out a laugh.

"What is this, some romantic comedy?" I ask lightheartedly, not expecting an answer, and certainly not expecting the answer I got. Now, I know Frank was joking, but there was something about the fact that he was joking that bothered me.

"No, no, if it were, we'd be all over each other by now, and we'd be in love, or whatever bullshit they call it when you just meet a person and think you're in love." I laughed along but not wholeheartedly. "Okay, okay, I'm sorry. As I was saying, I've been thinking about you and that book on graffiti you bought." I swallowed hard. The cover had my art on it, and people were talking. I wanted to know what was said, what was featured. I wanted to know so much about how people perceived my art.

"Oh. Well, I'm interested in all sorts of forms of art, you know? I thought it would be interesting to look at the really good graffiti art. People overlook the beauty of it. Everyone pegs it as vandalism but it's so much more than that. It's a very big 'fuck you' to corporate America, and just the government in general. It's not that I'm not going to abide to what the government wants, we all have to, but I just like the concept because you don't need to put a name or a face to the art, and it means something." I explained as clearly as possible, and Frank listened with intent. His eyes were fixed on me, and when he listened, he soaked up every single fucking word that was spoken. He watched and nodded in understanding and paused before saying anything about it.

"I think- I think you're right. It's a way to get a message across because you're sort of crossing the line right? Like, you're breaking this law supposedly, and it's just it gets the point across if it withholds meaning. If it's beautiful people will take photos of it and share it on the internet. It's like with Banksy. It'll cause an outrage among the government but it'll just prove that there's something there that isn't right." I nodded. Frank understood a lot more than he seemed to when I first met him. "I think the reason for all this outrage and graffiti that these artists do is because- as Kurt Cobain said- 'Nobody dies a virgin. Life fucks us all'. So these artists take out this pain life has caused by spreading this powerful message onto the streets and it can create so many different emotions." Frank was a wonder, and I felt like I finally had someone here who had the same intellect and thinking process as I did. It felt good. I didn't feel alone. I didn't feel alone. That was the first time in forever that I didn't feel alone. "The best is when it creates a huge movement. There's no turning back, and in that moment, art wins." I smiled.

"Frank you're really smart. Why- why don't you have a better job?" I inquired.

"Because I don't want an office job. I'm good at art but not- not you good. I'm good at music. I love music and photography but I can't afford a camera. I do have some prints if you want to see." Frank barely whispered the last part. I nodded eagerly and so he slowly got up and went to his bag. He took out some glossy papers, and padded over to me. "They're not that good, I-" He handed them to me. I shushed him and flipped through them, looking attentively at every single photo. I saw one in black and white of Frank crouching, holding a paper bag in one hand, and in the other a remote for the camera. You couldn't see the top half of his face. I smiled.

"Can- Could I buy this one off you?" I asked him, willing to pay for it, whatever price he asked for. He looked at me funny and slowly nodded, a puzzled look on his face.

"You want to buy this off me?" He asked dumbfounded.

"Yeah. Yeah I do. Then I think we should go to bed. It's getting late. How much do you want for it?" I inquired further.

"Nothing. Keep it. You're letting me stay with you. If you paid me, the money would just go to your rent. Really." He beamed. I couldn't say no. I heard the kettle whistle and I took it off the burner, taking two tea bags from a box of chamomile tea and putting them in two separate mugs. I poured the tea and I let it steep while I went to hunt for a picture frame.

"Can you autograph the photo?" I asked and handed Frank a silver Sharpie. He promptly agreed and signed with a delicate 'To Gerard, for being ever so kind. -XOXOFrnk'. I smiled and framed it, and then put it on my work desk.
An hour or so later we finished out tea and headed to bed, after getting ready of course. I was exhausted and the tea made me sleepy. I should drink tea before bed more often. "Hey, Frank?" I asked right as I was about to turn out the light.

"Yes, Gerard?" He hummed back in response.

"You make it less lonely. Thank you." With those words I turned out the light and snuggled into my sheets, and I'd like to imagine that Frank did too, but that was far from what he did.

Notes