The Hitchhiking Effect

Graffiti Sonata

GRAFFITI SONATAFor a moment after McKay opened the door of his Oakland apartment and saw Elise standing there, he felt his spirits spike. But in the next instant he realized his wife hadn’t brought their daughter Ty along, only some folded-up cardboard boxes under her arm. His elation quickly faded. Before he could say anything, Elise held up her hand, reinforcing his inference. “I’m done talking, Mac. Just here to pack up a few more boxes.”

He nodded and said, “It’s good to see you,” knowing any weak arguments he had left were preempted. Three weeks ago Elise and their six-year-old daughter had moved out to a friend’s vacant apartment over on Lake Merritt. In a week, they were taking off to Elise’s sister’s place down the coast at Pismo Beach. Watching Elise unfold the packing boxes, McKay yearned to tell his wife how much he missed her flute playing, her classical CDs, the three of them laughing together—the essential joyful sounds of his life. But he said nothing, realizing the time of effectively pleading his case had already passed.

Deflated, McKay left Elise packing, not able to stand the smell of her scent. He took the nearby pedestrian overpass across the freeway to the park to collect himself. On the way down the enclosed steps to the playground, he stopped after he saw a drawing freshly chalked on the concrete wall. He had visited the park often in the last three weeks after fleeing the silence of the apartment, but he had never noticed anything drawn on the wall.

It was a man wearing an indigo pea coat with his collar turned up and a black stocking cap rolled down almost to his eyes. He was standing looking back over his shoulder, the shadows not completely covering his square jaw, penetrating eyes, or grim expression. Unlike most graffiti McKay had seen spray-painted on freeway columns and walls, there was no tag on this one. Looking the drawing over with a technical eye, he realized this wasn’t an amateurish cartoon at all. A competent artist had taken time to carefully outline, shade, and highlight, using minimal colors to make a startling life-sized figure. Although cartoon-like, the drawing was not bigger than life, unlike many of the caricatures in comic book art. In fact, the damn thing was realistically menacing, raising the hair on the back of McKay’s neck. An image of a lowlife with bad intentions, about to step out away from the wall and create havoc.

Turning away, McKay shivered, glad he’d taken half a Valium along with his Seropram earlier in the evening.

He continued down the overpass steps with more important things on his mind. His wife and daughter were moving out of town in a week, perhaps out of his life forever.

The playground was unoccupied at this time of night. McKay wiped a bench off with a piece of paper from the nearby trashcan and plopped himself down. Sucking in a deep breath, he tried to center, clear his mind, and focus, like Dr. Havlicek had taught him. He stretched his hands out along the bench back, noticing the trembling wasn’t too bad this evening, only a slight tremor.

The debilitating condition had developed after he’d experienced a seizure at his drafting table last December. The Kaiser doctors initially thought it was an early onset of Parkinson’s disease. But Dr. Havlicek was not so sure now, thinking the seizure and subsequent tremor might have been related to an undiagnosed fever from last fall. Despite the medical help and Elise’s support, McKay had sunk into a black funk, a depression that only regular doses of medication helped partially alleviate. But nothing seemed to help the trembling in his hands. He was incapable of writing clearly, much less doing fine art. For eight months he’d done little more than sit and watch the same movies over and over again on TV.

Then, a month ago, Elise had admitted she was fed up with his wallowing in self-pity. “If the shaking were really something physical, they wouldn’t have referred you to a psychiatrist,” she’d argued. “Besides, there are other things you could do with your MFA. Teach, maybe…? Anyhow, we need a break, Mac. Ty and I are moving to Jamie’s apartment on Lake Merritt; then, after her dance camp, we’re heading to my sister’s. When you get yourself back on track, call us.”

McKay glanced absently around the empty park. His biggest concern was that his wife and daughter would remain permanently down at Pismo Beach. Elise and her sister were again composing music and concert touring, like they’d done before McKay came into their lives. Lauren had always been jealous of him, thought he’d been a leech on Elise from the beginning of their marriage six-and-a-half years ago. And in a way, McKay was forced to admit to himself, it was probably true. His art income had been unreliable at best, fluctuating dramatically. Elise’s Oakland Symphony and several other part-time gigs had mostly supported the family, especially during the last eight months. Hell, he thought wryly, after the seizure he couldn’t even draw unemployment.

Slumping back on the bench, McKay realized he was emotionally drained, really exhausted. The silence in the apartment had disrupted his rest since Elise and Ty had moved out. Looking around, he thought it was peaceful here, the hum of nearby traffic a pleasing background, like one of Elise’s flute CDs. He closed his eyes, drifted off.

(1st Movement)

Lake Merritt, the lights in the windows of the apartments along the shore shrouded by heavy fog. A few people out along East Lakeshore Drive, apparently anxious to get in out of the misty night…All except for a lone figure, dressed in dark clothes, lurking in the shadows of the four-story complex on the corner, spying up at a lighted second floor apartment. Standing, just watching.

McKay awoke stiff and chilled on the park bench. It was completely dark now, the fog having moved in from the bay, settling around him like a fallen cloud. He stood up and rubbed his bare arms. Better head back to the apartment, he thought. Elise would have the last of her stuff packed and be long gone by now.

Climbing up the stairs to the overpass, McKay stopped at the spot where the graffito had been chalked. The figure had disappeared; the concrete wall clean and gray. He spread his fingers and cautiously placed his hand where he thought the drawing had been. He rubbed his fingertips. No chalk dust. And the surface was dry. Nothing on the steps indicating the wall had been washed clean. It appeared the indigo man had just walked off the wall into the night. That’s weird, McKay thought as he climbed the remaining stairs, checking to make sure he had not just made a mistake in location. But the wall was completely clean of graffiti clear to the top near the overpass. He walked home wondering if perhaps he’d taken too much medication.

Half an hour later, McKay got a call on his cell phone.

“Mac, you have to come over, right now. There is a man loitering outside down on the street, spying up at the apartment. He’s been there since dark.”

“Have you called the cops?”

“No; what can I tell them? Some jerk is down on the street looking up at my window? Scaring my daughter? They’ll think I’m a paranoid crank or hysterical doting mother.”

“Okay, I’ll be right over.”

By the time McKay got to Lake Merritt, there wasn’t anyone hanging about in front of the apartments. He carefully checked both side streets of the corner building. But he found no one suspicious along either street. He made his way back to the front of the complex and buzzed up to Elise’s apartment on the intercom. “Nobody’s here, babe. I’ve checked around the building for a block each way.”

“Oh, great; that’s such a relief, Mac,” Elise answered back. “Actually, the last time I saw him was just before I called. Maybe my nerves have been strung too tight lately. Sorry for the trouble.”

“You want me to come up?” he asked, his fingers resting on the intercom button, a sense of hopeful anticipation making his breath catch in his throat.

There was a brief hesitation, before she finally answered, “No, that probably isn’t a good idea. I’ve got to clean up and get Ty to bed. But thanks for coming by, Mac. We appreciate it…Goodbye.”

Dismissed, he stood there for a minute or so, staring absently at the intercom. Finally, he nodded his head. “Bye, babe,” he murmured to himself.

The next morning, McKay found the graffito back in a different location, about three-quarters down the steps to the park. Jesus, he swore to himself. The indigo man stared back at McKay with his same piercing gaze, but there was something slightly different about the pose. It was the angle of the body and head, a little more face exposed now. McKay felt a slight stir of recognition. He felt he knew this man. No, he wasn’t sure. He shook his head with frustration, not quite able to pull up the memory.

During the next week McKay had limited contact with Elise. He saw her only briefly after church, when he picked up Ty for a Sunday outing.

“Hi…Keep her sweater on…Bye.”

They went to Fairyland, his last visit with his daughter.

Tomorrow afternoon Ty and Elise would both be gone.

On Sunday evening, down at the park, the mysterious drawing remained in place like a sentinel, no one daring to erase or vandalize it. Of course McKay couldn’t help wondering who had chalked the graffito in the first place? Was the face really all that familiar? But most of his time at the park he spent trying to figure out some way to prevent his wife and daughter from going to Pismo Beach.

In desperation, two days before, on Friday, he’d even gone over to Merritt and Peralta. He’d filled out applications for a teaching job. But McKay was too late, there was nothing available for an art teacher of any kind for the next semester at either nearby community college.

On Monday, the day Elise and Ty were scheduled to head south, the indigo man mysteriously disappeared again in the late morning.

In the afternoon, Elise swung by McKay’s place in her packed golden VW Jetta to let Ty say goodbye.

“Bye, Daddy.”

“Bye, sweetie,” he said, reaching in through the opened door and hugging her tightly.

“Goodbye,” Elise said, thin-lipped and grim.

McKay nodded, too choked up to say anything more, and closed the door. Families should stay together, especially during tough times, he thought.

That evening McKay skipped his medication, wandered into his studio and dug around in the desk next to the dusty drafting table. Finally he found the Jack Daniels he’d hidden from Elise after Dr. Havlicek had warned him about drinking while on medication. He settled down in front of the TV and drank from the bottle, the whiskey burning his throat, but washing away the stiffness from his neck and shoulders. One of his favorite movies, Blade Runner, was showing again on TNT, but was almost over. Only the last few minutes remained: the chase and the great ending in the rain on the gothic building. White-headed Roy, the last of the escaped replicants, was dying but had saved Deckard, pulling him back up onto the wet roof. And then Roy sadly delivered the famous monologue, telling Deckard all the amazing things he’d seen working as a slave out in space, and that those remarkable memories would soon disappear like teardrops in the rain. Finally, he bent his rain-soaked head to his chest, and in a matter-of-fact tone gasped the concluding line, “Time to die.”

(2nd Movement)

A lonely stretch of 101, just south of San Luis Obispo, the bright yellow Jetta speeding along in the night, no cars in the southbound lanes, only occasional headlights in the northbound lanes, suddenly looming for a moment in the mist, looking like fuzzy Japanese lanterns.

Then, super-slow motion:

A figure appears unexpectedly ahead,

right in the middle of the highway lane,

standing tall and dark, pea coat and stocking cap, arms raised overhead;

braking, the VW veers right in an attempt to avoid hitting the man,

skids on the loose shoulder, and flips over the fence,

before slamming with a dull thud into a live oak tree;

upside down, wheels spinning, but doors closed, nothing exiting the car.

McKay awakened in a clammy sweat, his heart thumping, his pulse racing, his head feeling like it had been squeezed in a vise. The phone had jarred him from his drunken stupor.

“Mr. McKay?” A calm female voice.

“Yes.”

“This is Lieutenant Melendez of the California Highway Patrol, San Luis Obispo. I’m afraid there has been a serious automobile accident down here, involving your wife and daughter…ah, Elise and Tyler McKay?”

“Yes,” he repeated stiffly, his hangover forgotten, the highway patrol officer’s words sobering him, as if ice water had been splashed in his face.

“Your wife and daughter have been taken to Sierra Vista Regional Medical Center, Emergency Services. That phone number there is 805-548-7700.”

“Both of them are hurt?” he asked in a hoarse whisper, writing the number down, finding it difficult to grasp the exact meaning of the officer’s words. “How badly?”

“Mr. McKay, you will need to personally contact the hospital for all the medical details and updates on your daughter and wife’s status. At this time I am not privy to that information. Do you understand?”

He cleared his throat, focused, and answered, “Yes, I do.”

“Someone from the CHP-Oakland branch will get in contact with you during office hours tomorrow with more information on the accident, the condition of the car, what is required of you. All right?”

“Okay,” McKay said, feeling kind of detached now, like he was actually listening and watching some kind of dark B movie.

“You sure you understand all of this, Mr. McKay?” the woman asked kindly. “Got the hospital phone number written down?”

“Yes, thank you. I’ll call the hospital right now.”

He sat there with the phone in his hand. This can’t be real, he thought.

The phone rang again.

It was Lauren. She made it all too real.

She had called the CHP when Elise and Ty hadn’t shown up on time at her place in Pismo Beach. Naturally, she immediately called the hospital when she learned of the accident. “It’s horrible, Mac; they are both gone,” she said, her high-pitched voice grating on his already tightly strung nerves. “Ty at the scene and Elise on the way to the hospital.” Then she continued on and on, “The funeral…and the church…making necessary arrangements tomorrow…”

They are both gone—it’s true! There must be something he could do. Some way to bring them back. Families belonged together.

The next four days were a blur. But somehow, on Thursday McKay managed to make it to the funeral down south in his Honda.

Lauren had taken care of all the arrangements, the church service, memorial, even the Lutheran minister for the burial ceremony. McKay just stood off by himself, staring down at the side-by-side graves in San Luis Cemetery, located just off Highway 101 south of San Luis Obispo, across from the Madonna Inn and next to the Old Mission Cemetery. He struggled internally, forcing himself to accept that his wife and daughter were inside the two ornate caskets that were being lowered into the ground, here in this public spot by the busy freeway, so far from home.

Someone nudged his arm. “Mac, time to go to Lauren’s.” He numbly followed.

More blurred faces, inaudible whispers, and tasteless food.

Finally it was all over.

Time to go home, he thought, trying to pull himself together, but instead picturing the replicant dying with such dignity in the last part of Blade Runner.

He got home late Thursday afternoon and immediately went over to the park, still wearing his dark blue suit. Sure enough, the indigo man was back on the wall, positioned above the last few steps before reaching the playground, his features only slightly shadowed. McKay touched the drawing, absolutely certain now that he knew the face. But he sighed, just too tired and numbed to expend the effort to recall details. He spent the early evening on the park bench, dozing in his rumpled suit.

Later that evening, McKay searched around the desk in his studio, looking for another bottle of booze. There was nothing more to drink hidden anywhere in the apartment. Sucking in a deep breath, he decided he’d have to make a trip down to the nearby liquor store. McKay walked the two blocks, then on impulse, he swung by the overpass to the park before heading home. He wasn’t surprised to find that the figure had again left the wall.

(3rd Movement)

Midnight at San Luis Cemetery.

Overcast, stars and moon completely screened by cloud cover, the two fresh graves visible in the darkness because of the dim light cast by a distant streetlight from the adjoining Old Mission Cemetery.

After a few minutes, a figure, wearing a roll-down cap and coat, and carrying something under his arm, moves quietly through the darkness, approaches the graves, pauses, and peers at the headstones. Then he withdraws the item from under his arm and sets it aside on the ground. The figure kneels for a few seconds atop first one grave, then the other. Still shrouded in darkness, the man moves to the side and retrieves the object from the ground.

For a moment the clouds divide and this part of the cemetery is illuminated by the moon…Only then, for just a moment, is the nature of the object clear: The figure has brought a spade to the gravesites.

Friday afternoon McKay returned to the pedestrian overpass. Coming down the steps, he thought the concrete canvas was completely clean of graffiti. But on the wall over the last step, he spotted a distant scene, two tiny figures, barely thumb-sized, a woman and a child. Their features were vague, but McKay knew their identities. They seemed to be striding purposefully with a location in mind.

“Jesus,” he whispered, breathing heavily now, as if the air had been knocked from him by the observation. For a few minutes McKay closely watched the figures, but, of course, he could detect no actual movement. “That would be impossible,” he murmured to himself unconvincingly, “absolutely frigging nuts.” He finally decided that he needed to get home right now and take his medication, perhaps even double up.

Back at the apartment he couldn’t sit still, wandering around nervously. After a few minutes, he went into his studio. Idly, he flipped over his sketchpad on the drawing board, and to his surprise discovered new work. Still standing, McKay thumbed carefully through a dozen pages of faces. “Oh, my God,” he murmured, studying the chalked drawings. They were actually sketches of his own face being gradually transformed through the series, changed from a mirror image of himself on the first drawing to the rugged features of the indigo man on the last sketch. McKay focused on the man’s eyes, which seemed to be peering back at him knowingly. Absently, he glanced down at his fingers holding a piece of chalk, his grip tremor-free, his hand steady as a surgeon’s.

(4Th Movement—with Flute Solo)

Sometime long after dark McKay is awakened from where he dozes in his recliner by the haunting sound of a flute. Then, a moment of quiet, followed by a sharp knocking on the front door…And down lower on the door, he hears a lighter rap.

(Coda)

The next morning, a mother taking her two youngsters to the playground stopped halfway down the steps from the pedestrian overpass, noticing the graffiti chalked in dark colors on the concrete wall adjoining the steps. Three life-sized figures, but with their backs oddly turned to the viewer, giving the impression they were striding away off into the dark distance. All holding hands—a man, a woman, and a young girl.