“I’m not signing anything.” I continued down the hall toward an opened white door where jazz music drifted out. “I don’t trust him or you. Maybe next time your Dr. Sheep could be more honest.”
I got to the door and pushed it forward, but before I could walk in, Pierre grabbed my arm.
“Ah!” I slapped his hand away. “Don’t touch me.”
Coco’s grandfather had did a good job with keeping us motivated to protect ourselves. In the past, I knocked a few guys out with a some prominent hits, here and there.
I put my back to the door, rolled my fingers, and got into the stance Coco’s grandfather had taught us, when we were only in middle school. “Back away. You’re weirding me out, and I’m already pretty out there with my thinking right now.”
Pierre raised his hands and backed up. “Oh God. I’m so sorry. I was only trying to get your attention to help you understand how serious this is.”
“I’m not signing anything. In fact, I’m getting out of here.”
He took one step forward. “You can’t leave without signing—”
A familiar dark voice sounded behind me. “She’ll leave, when she’s ready, and on her terms.”
That better not be who I think it is.
I turned around. “This is making me uncomfortable.”
Dr. Sheep/Wolf/Whatever kept his gaze on Pierre who was mumbling sorry behind me.
“Did you touch her?” My sudden hero asked.
“I only grabbed her arm,” Pierre said. “But it’s not as bad as it sounds.”
“Don’t touch her, again.”
“I second that.” I spread my hands out on my sides and drew a huge circle around me. “This is my space bubble. Both of you back up.”
They moved away.
Pierre’s voice was more accusation than question. “You told her your identity?”
“It doesn’t matter. She doesn’t believe I’m Wolf, anyway.”
“It does matter. Part of your success is the mystery—”
“My success is the art.”
“She’ll need to sign a form saying that—”
“No.” Wolf waved the statement away. “She’s run the streets with some of the same people I’ve known or mentored in this game. She understands the need for privacy, and all the things that could happen if my identity is revealed. Besides, I know her identity too.”
I turned to see Pierre’s response, not willing to disrupt the conversation.
Sometimes silence helped me learn the truth of most situations.
They are really talking about him as if he’s Wolf. Is this for real?
“She’s only starting out,” Pierre said. “If you tell the world who she is, it won’t cause as much damage for her. But, Wolf, if your identity is known. . .there would be many repercussions. Things that you may have never considered. Think about it. You’ve desecrated government buildings in foreign countries, during a time of war, when US citizens weren’t welcome, and I told you it was a bad idea, but—”
“Those Palestine kids needed the unicorns and rainbows, more than I needed to play it safe. It was the least I could do. Too bad I couldn’t have taken them all. They needed to see something special, instead of men killing each other.”
No. There’s no fucking way this is him. I mean. How the hell could this be him? I pictured a much older guy. He’s older, but. . .
Wolf’s unicorn stunt had been all over the news. CNN had even started its own Wolf section, updating the art world monthly on his recent stunts. He’d been one of the pioneers of the graffiti game. People were fascinated by his innovative images and clear critiques of society.
A year ago, a cop shot an unarmed black boy on a regular afternoon in front of hundreds of school kids. The cop never lost his job. No justice came. Everything in that town seemed lost. Hope appeared like this black cloud over the whole area, and the world sat back in their houses and watched on their television screens.
A day later, the boy’s life and town’s damage had been forgotten due to a celebrity teen getting drunk and pissing on a gate in front of the White House.
Wolf changed the tone. The next morning, a large controversial mural was painted all over the back of the police station. How he’d done it? No one knew. It took major balls. Police had to be their 24/7. In fact, the very idea of vandalizing a police station during a state of unrest was insane.
But, Wolf did it.
The image?
Powerful.
He’d drawn three laughing clowns, dressed in police uniforms and holding massive machine guns that were shaped like black, bulging penises. These haunting men stood on top of a big mountain of dead boys,
all with dark brown skin,
decorated in bullet holes,
and tears spilling from their eyes.
Their hands gripped school identification cards between their little fingers.
Blood spilled between the dead children,
money too.
At the top of the mural, he’d sprayed, “To Protect and Serve.”
Wolf represented more than street art. He symbolized social activism. He was my hero, why I shifted from Mickey Mouse penises to something more.