Writing exercises

The man with the Blue Spray Paint

12/20/21

Your Character is 80 years old, a graffiti artist, and still in search of the meaning of life

Prompt taken from '642 Stories to Write'

There comes a point, where you can't do anything. Alright, you can do something if it was necessary, but the greyed man hunched by your newly painted house gripping a blue spray can with white knuckles doesn't seem particularly deadly right about now. Especially with all the stories about actual Bonafede crime skyrocketing, this geezer has the same danger as a toothless chihuahua. Still, the fresh coat of beige that your partner painted before they left on a business trip is brand new, and you don't want them to come back with it ruined. But this old man has been staring as if there were something you couldn't see on your wall, and maybe, you think to yourself, he'll leave eventually. But he doesn't. So, you gather up your courage, grab your phone, keys, and pepper spray and head out your door.

Immediately when you step out into the sunny day the man acknowledges you. Looking closer, despite his age, he still has a long grey ponytail that goes past his shoulders. There's an unmistakable shine to his eyes as if you are a friend who he hasn't seen in a while. When he finally speaks, his voice is raspy yet warm, and you wonder if, in some other life, you knew this man.

"wasn't this the old pink place just a week ago?" He scratches at the beige paint, revealing a sliver of dusty pink. You were never against the rose color, but your partner was concerned it looked drab. They offered to paint over it themselves though, so you didn't complain. "I think it looks rather drab now. Would you be opposed to sprucing it up a little?"

You clicked your tongue as he hopefully held up the canister of blue spray paint. He was so old, you almost felt that you should say yes. But your partner just painted, and you could picture them getting upset at the shoddy spray paint job. Instead of answering the man's question, you drive the subject elsewhere, hoping to distract him. "Who are you? And why are you wanting to spray paint my house."

He laughs an oddly charming sound. "Why, I don't know how to answer that question, the first one. It may be linked to the second, however. I don't know who I am. Never have. I dodged and weaseled my way out of so many things in my life. Jobs, the draft, relationships. So much that I never got to solidify my identity. Now, here I am, eighty years old and nearing closer to death, and I still don't know where I stand in this world."

"I still don't understand how that justifies you trying to graffiti my house though."

"Well, it's simple really." He coughs, and you jolt at the harshness of it; his spirit seems young, but the physical state is truly deteriorating. "I'm just trying to find a little bit of meaning in it all. If I can't leave a mark on myself, I should leave a mark on the world around me."

You slowly nod, finally realizing what the man is getting at. "You know," you speak in a low voice as if your partner can hear you across four state lines, "You can mark the back of the house. I know it won't be as public as the front but it'll-."

Already the man scrambles to your backyard and cautiously you follow. Watching him, he creates a mandala of shapes of all proportions on a small chunk of wall, not only utilizing the blue paint but carving smaller details that pop out in the dusty pink your partner once despised. As soon as he is finished, he leaves without any word, and your partner comes home to confusingly accept your mythical tale of the man who found a purpose in marking down your wall.