Higher Class

Maya The first one to land was a mega-24 storyline breaching the sky, and it was dubbed the Tower of Babel; its sheer scale looked unreal, and its length was unending. Never has anything of such magnitude been seen in Skyfall—it was the largest piece of crap I have ever beheld! After this, more came till they pierced the skyline, blocking the sun. One by one, it eviscerated the beauty of our parks, our plazas, and illustriously lined streets until the road maps of SkyFall were torn down. Everything went gray! It was the industrialization of New York all over again. As I moved through the city, against the mirrors, glass, and windows, there was something monstrous passing by, outrageously fiendish—borderline ugly, provoked, and the sight of skyfall plummeting out of its glory only made it angrier. It looked like it grew up in the sewers—in the gloomiest part of town, and it loved it. It was the kind of creature you’d see on the road and flinch in disgust, locked up in a box and cast into the depths of the sea. Its hair ruffled and scattered like a giant mole rat, its eyes deeply etched into its sockets, its lips cracked, stretching from one cheekbone to another—all it needed to get its day going were 3 extra layers of cosmetics and an exceptionally large hoodie. Let’s assume that God never liked it enough to give it a personality that doesn’t react to sunlight, and even more importantly, other people. And perhaps a penchant for something that won’t get them stoned or killed. But it had little care in the world to be moved even by its own emotions, but still burning Skyfall was one of them. “They stink; they all stink.” I said, gazing around the cardboard box Skyfall had turned into. My sight drifted to the abandoned lot on the corner where kids would ramp up and joyride along with their skateboards—laughing; it was now a dusty expanse fenced off and forgotten. Its chain-linked fence salted the pain even more; it was a reminder of how rapid skyfall was swallowed. The revelry of those kids had long been seared in my memory enough to prod me to do what was required so that, later in the evening, the news would buzz of the ever-growing rebellious art of vandalism. I stood inside the miniature pub face-glued to the flat screen hanging against the wall; the journalist had erupted into his regular jabber all while being ego-fed by his co-Anchor. Occasionally she would nod in assertion to fuel his resolve, loading his rifle with precision and care; he was a powder keg, and every day he never failed to blow out. "PUPPETS," that’s what they were. It irritated me; those two were the worst kind, because they ordinarily didn’t know they were being used. My confidence grew even more as soon as the photo of the jacked-up fence popped up on the screen. I could feel a smile running across my face. The whole pub went wide, sending the still air into a frenzy of great disturbance. It went from endorsement of such acts to an interscope of this “anonymous spray slinger...” Who would have known that this giant mole-rat would be fed with this level of applause? My ego was inflated, my head on the verge of exploding. It was, perhaps, my greatest battle yet—fighting the urge to step into the light and declare myself as the anonymous spray slinger. But that wouldn’t have been mole-like of me now, would it?!. “You're damn right." Eugene said satisfactorily, his hollow voice bouncing off the walls in the pub, “Someone has to stick it to those corporate losers.” He puffed his cigar, his bald head gleaming under the light, his small mouth twisting into a grin as he clanged his beer bottle against another. “Hell yeah,” someone else shouted; he had flipped a bird against the TV as the entire pub laughed behind him. It was a small victory earned... “It’s one for us, and zero for those tie-wearing d**k suckers,” a pudgy short man called as he mounted a round table, tearing his shirt off and whirling it over his head. “Drink on me... everyone.” The still pub had now erupted into flames; everyone’s heart was ablaze as they enjoined into merriment, piercing the air with loud country music. It was my cue to leave, for this giant mole-rat detested loud music. I slipped into the still night, burying my hands in the warm comfort of my pocket, slightly amazed and profoundly proud of myself. I smirked while running down the line of every event that had happened up until this point. I was startled back to reality as my phone buzzed to light, sending a mild haptic shock round my skin. The music soon began to fade quickly behind me, paving the way for the humming of crickets and the distant rubble of the city. I couldn’t shake off the feeling that this night would transform into many longer endeavors; it was a chance to level the ground. At least people will now have a direction and a voice. The Tower of Babel lingered in the distance. It is a beveled construct etching straight, unavoidably, into the consciousness of everyone that dares to stare. It was against my health and best interest to conjure up any idea at this point. But I was already driven mad by the applause; I swear I couldn't help it. My phone buzzed to life again; it was a text from Alex. “This you?” It read, and attached to it was a picture of a brightly colored fence with a dispassionate mural of a 3D skating frenzy bursting through. It had every feature of my nostalgia: kids in colored sweaters grinding, slicing, curving, and twirling all in motion. It was Joy. It was happiness. It was a skyfall all over again. I smirked. I was proud of myself. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” I quickly punched in and sent it back. “Funny you…” He replied, “Meet me at the old bell tower; we’ve got something for you.” I tucked in my phone. I couldn’t help but stare at the tower of Babel. “Obviously, this would make a statement; it definitely will.” But how do I pull it off? I said as I wandered into the distance.