Eraser :: 04

Eraser :: 04

An old analog clock ticked above the refridgerator. It measured the length of the awkward silence in sharp, even clicks. Each click gave off a ring of irritation, as if in judgement of the four people below. If you can't think of anything to say, it seemed to think, than go to sleep so I can rest! But no one budged. The clock ticked on. The still silence persisted; tense as the air between Mr. Tolon and the children. The only other sound in the room was the flickering blue flame on the stove beneath the teapot.

"What are you?" Dustin stepped into the kitchen, and slammed his hands onto the table. He looked strait into Mr. Tolon's gentle face. "We saw what you did. How are you doing it? Why?"

The teakettle began to whistle. Charles got up, taking his time. He crossed to the stove and took down three mugs from the shelf. He turned to the three, and with a warm smile he said, "Tea, Coffee?"

"Coffee." Ricardo gave in. He took a seat.

Courtney took the stool for herself. "Tea."

"Coffee." Dustin sighed. He sat in the remaining chair. He couldn't believe this. He rested his forehead on the table. When Dustin finally picked up his head, he was face to face with a ceramic mug with an old style Mickey Mouse on it. He was wearing a sailor's cap. The coffee was rich and soothing. He stared at it for a moment, but as Ricardo chugged it down, he mimiced him. It wasn't very long until the coffee was gone.

Courtney sipped at her tea, as it was far too hot. Charles eased back into his seat. He was weary. He slouched in his chair so that the plastic backing bent back beneath him. He folded his empty hands on the table. His veins stuck out a little. The three quickly put together that he wasn't doing so well. His eyes lacked their luster and his smile was heavy. He was pale beyond complexion. He was fit for his age, but a little on the thin side, a bit mishapen.

"Aren't you going to have something?" Courtney asked quietly.

Charles shook his head. "I don't eat and drink the same way you do."

"Huh?" Ricardo looked into the bottom of his empty mug. "You don't eat?"

"I do, just not food as you think of it." Charles explained. "I eat art."

The children stared at him. Dustin shoved the mug aside. "So, what we've been putting up, you're eating."

"But what about the police?" Ricardo leaned in. "About keeping the place clean of stuff so they can finish their work?"

"What?"

Dustin leaned back in his chair. "That's the conclusion we came to."

"Ah." Charles laughed. "Well, to be honest I stay away from the police. They don't know what to think of me, so they don't know what to do with me. Or rather, they wouldn't should they know I existed. I'm sure they're happy with graffiti vanishing, so they dismiss the whole thing. I never liked the police, really. They're supposed to be the embodiment of justice, but they're just as currupt as the crime lords. To be honest, I've met crime lords with more sense than the force. In a lot better shape, too."

"You've met crime lords?!" Ricardo and Dustin flew across the table. Courtney cowerd behind her mug. Charles leaned further back, simply out of shock. Ricardo leaned closer with a wide, bright expression. "What were you doing with-"

"Quiet, quiet, please." Charles urged them. "It's still the early hours. Maybe giving you coffee was a bad idea."

The two boys took their seats again. Who was this man? Dustin's brow knitted together. "I told you we shouldn't get involved."

Ricardo snapped toward him. "Whaddya mean, 'I told you'?"

"I mean just that!" Dustin stood up and walked across the room. "I told you to leave it alone. We shouldn't get involved."

"Hey!" Courtney slammed her cup down on the table. "How was he supposed-"

"Oh quiet!" Dustin stared at Courtney. She shrank back. "You're only making it worse. He wouldn't have gone if you didn't back him up!"

"Don't blame this on me!" Courtney slid off the stood and marched to where Dustin stood. "Friends back eachother up! That's what we do!"

"She's right." Charles lay relaxed in his chair, his arms folded over his chest. Ricardo stared into his mug. "And right now, there is nothing to blame anyone for. Please, sit. Have respect for my neighbors. There's nothing to get worked up over."

Dustin and Courtney obeyed. They slouched in their seats, hiding thier faces. They couldn't agree with him, however. They had to at least admit to themselves, if not anyone else, that they were in over thier heads. Ricardo picked his eyes out of the bottom of the mug.

"So, you eat art to live?" He smiled. "Does it taste good?"

Charles smiled. "The three of you are like candy. It tastes wonderful, but it doesn't help me that much. Unfortunately. I'm sorry for stealing it, actually. It's hard to refrain, though. The usual tagging is not only empty, but tasteless. That's almost worse than tasting bad, not having a flavour at all. That's why I took the time to find your work, and others like yours."

"Others?" The word tasted bitter to Ricardo. Again, that concept of the hole being deeper than he was tall. "You eat other people's art?"

"I have to." He sighed. "Does one spoonful of bubblegum keep you sustained? Or do you have to eat more than that?"

"Why don't you take from the museums?" said Courtney. "Those must be a feast for you."

"Oh, they are." He smiled. He closed his eyes, remembering the wonderful feeling of museumed arts. "Filling, too. It's like thanksgiving in a frame. It's fun to eat the ones that are actual paintings of food. I always found that amusing. Every now and again I try to make a steal for them, but they're hard to get yoru hands on. The security there actually secures things, oddly enough."

"So that's why you know Crime Lords." Dustin grinned. He ran his thumb over Sailor Mickey's face. The mug was poorly crafted, handmade by an ammeture. "That's why you don't like the police. those paintings stolen from museums. You'd buy them. You kept it all worth doing."

"Go ahead." Charles leaned in with a pirate's glare and grin. "Give away all my good secrets, why don't you. You must do well in school."

"We get D's." Ricardo admitted. "So no, we don't."

"Huh." Charles leaned back again. "You seem like apt kids. I've eaten your work- you've got a good spark. A raw, undeveloped and highly misguided spark, but spark nonetheless. Maybe you should just pay attention in class."

"We hate school." Courtney rolled her eyes. "No one gives a shit anyway."

"You know, there was a day where we didn't swear in front of women. Now the women swear in front of the men." Charles sighed. "I'll let you all have seconds in those mugs if you promise to keep calm."

The three cast glances between one another. They passed around a smile and a heavy tug of interest. "We promise."

~*~*~*~*~*~

They spent hours over the mugs. It was a real struggle to keep the volume low consistantly. The night started with tales of the underground. Charles, a decent storyteller, told them of some of the most delicious paintings he ever set his hand to. He described the most extreme, oddball, talented people he ever met who fell into the crime rings somehow- ususally despondant stories with a thriller's edge. Some stories were just downright terrifying.

The trio ended up telling their own stories. They each told how they first got into tagging, or rather, their own art just beyond claiming a space. Charles kept refilling their mugs as the stories kept rolling- stories they rarely shared but often dwelled upon.

Courtney told about the Local Gymnastics Tornament that she failed so miserably, which sparked her to be as agile as she could be. After watching her friend play as a spy in a game, she was so enthralled by the spy's ability that she began to practice the same thing, though not intentionally. It wasn't long until she was able to really succeed in Gymnastics. If her mother ever found out her inspiration, she would loose Gymnastics- the only thing she was really good at.

Dustin said a little about his first painting spree with some of his brother's friends- and how wonderful he felt telling the world that something was his. He told them how territory was most important to his brother, and when he went into the military, he passed that virtue onto him to carry out. He always believed that the territory around home would always belong to his brother, so for the longest time while his brother served- he painted the brother's name instead of his own.

Ricardo talked about his father, or rather, the man that just never came back. He started tagging after watching some older kids do it. He hated how ugly it was, so decided to show them up. He had never used spray paint before, so naturally whatever he did was by no means as good as it was in his head. Those older kids never respected him afterward, even after he grew. But everyone else saw how good he was getting he was sure, and if his father was around- he did too. And maybe he'd be so good that his father would ever regret leaving him.

They went on to tell of how they developed their own style- what taggers and painters they admired. It flowed between them, sometimes faster, sometimes slower. Courtney got sleepier, the boys grew more wired. Charles ended up getting a blanket for her, and moved her to the deep violet guest room that was down the hall. He told the boys that was the end of the coffee. The three laughed, and he stayed awake with them until they too were eventually drifting off.

The boys settled in the livingroom for the night. Charles looked at the clock. It was about eight in the morning. Only then did it dawn on him that these kids ought to be in class, not his guest and living rooms. He took what Courtney had said to heart. Maybe one day wouldn't be so bad. As long as this didn't become a habit, they could stay for this one day. And from the stories, it didn't seem as if the parents would care.

Charles climbed into his own bed. He wondered if this was what it felt like to be a father.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The officer chugged the last of his cold coffee. He crushed the hotcup against the side of his desk before shooting it toward the trash. It was a perfect shot, for the trashcan hadn't been moved for years. He took a cigar out of the box, and despite the "No Smoking" sign on the door, he lit the cigar and puffed away.

"I really don't see how this is my problem." He waved the cigar around, not bothering to look at the subordinate. "Actually, I don't see how this is a problem at all."

"Right now, it's not." The officer had only joined the force a little less than a year ago. "But this could quickly develop into-"

"Bullshit." The senior replied. "If it's not headline, I don't give a shit. How many times do I have to fucking tell you-"

"More art theivery!" The underling finished. "Big stuff! Dig up some real people once and for all."

"Get your nose out of the damn books and focus on what you're actually paid to do!" The senior bellowed. "You're a damned police officer, not some 'Mercenary of the Blue Force' or some shit! Give out parking tickets and patrol the main streets. That's your job. It ain't glamorus, but it's a damn job. Do you understand this yet?"

"Yessir." He muttered. "Of course sir."

"Now get the hell out of my office." The subordinate fled, more or less. The Senior looked at the file on his desk. He flipped through the pages. Each one was of little importance in pieces. As a whole, well, the officer smiled upon it.

He unlocked the bottom draw for him to set aside the file, but he decided to eye it further. He liked it. Vanishing Vandalizim, slective in the stealing and unexplainable methods of doing so. It wasn't typical, but it looked fun. As his underling said- it was a small start. Art theft had been big in the past, and paintings were vanishing faster than they could be discovered. They were knicked in transport, or on daring occasions, in the middle of the day while on exibit- carried out like a copy from the gift shop. There was a hell's portion of money in it, back then.

And maybe, even though it had quieted down a great deal, there was still cash left to be claimed. Maybe even more. The Officer dug around for any names that he could look up, but there was precious little to go on. There was only a few locations, and no witnesses as far as the actual act was concerned. Art, precious social art, was being thrown into a track, bound up with pathetic taggers. Not that he cared- it just seemed to be almost ironic for some pesty paint to be categorized with brush strokes of the genius.

If he found the right cards to play, this would get him more than a promotion. To solve a case was one thing. To dig up the roots and dry them out in the sun on your sidewalk was another. He locked away the file and threw out another- just in case someone decided to come and get the file for themselves. This case was his and his alone, and no one was going to know about it. No one else was going to get in on it. With a fish so big in the sea, there was no way he was going to allow anyone else to have dibs on it.


In the morning, he would start digging up his leads.