Eraser :: 05

Eraser :: 05

It would be a few good hours before the sun came up. Sleep was too far beyond him. he turned to his wife, but she was fast asleep in a dream. Whatever was on her mind, it had her grinning ear to ear. She giggled in her sleep, the way she used to when they were young. Unable to tear her from her dream, he left her be. He slipped out of the bed and wrapped himself in the bathrobe.

He turned the knob on the door as he closed the door, ensuring that he wouldn't make a sound. He tiptoed down the carpeted hall in his loafers. The carpet was worn and stained, and he knew his wife wanted it replaced, but she hadn't said anything about it. He put a note to call the carpet people on the refirdgerator, along with their number and possible times they could come to get it done. He stood in front of the fridge. There was a pie in there. His stomach was about to pull on the door on it's own- but his knees ached. He walked to soothe them, and his stomach turned at the lost oppertunity.

"What do you say," He said to his knees. "Let's take a walk in the night air, hm?"

They agreed with him. he left a note to his wife on the kitchen counter next to the coffee maker. He set two bowls and two spoons on the table, a promise that he would be back for breakfast. He sighed a smile. The past forty years of practice was paying off. He shuffled himself into some decent clothes in the laundry room, skipping the tie.

On his way out, he noted his camera on the living room table. In his youth, it was his pride. After they had gotten married, it became less and less important to the both of them. After some years it was put away, and didn't see light for a very long time. However, in recent days the wife had taken to looking at old photographs. There were photographs from their dating days, then their wedding. From the wedding it flowed into photos of thier children growing up. Soon after their youngest had turned fifteen, the pictures became sparse, and then stopped all together. All the other photographs were in different albums, taken with those half-rate digital cameras. There were some albums taken with those disposible cameras, msotly pictures sent by family and friends.

And now the camera sat on the coffee table, a decoration and memorial. He picked it up, inspected it. Not in the best condition, but it would still work. He wondered if that old shop was still around. He set it back in the photo album. He could think about that later. He picked up his coat and stepped outside, careful not to make a sound with the door on his way out.

The night air didn't get a grip on him. The chill was trapped outside of the warm weave of his coat. All that reached him was the fresh, crisp smog of the city that he loved so much. There was simply nothing like a city's personal smog. Each city's smog was different, he would know. He and his wife traveled often after the children flew the nest, and they had always enjoyed these nightly walks together in the cities. They would quietly walk, hand in hand, describing the city through it's smog, and of course, it's public art.

Public art wasn't something he was able to grasp until he started traveling. He had taken it all for granted, until then. It was graffiti, and detestable. Back then it was proof of a decaying community. It was art that had lost it's luster. Yet, when he began to travel, he had the oppertinity to see how this cultureless art was not only in every culture, but it was so different. In his study he found himself connecting Indian graffiti to anchient Indian arts, and the Chinese graffiti to ancheint Chinese caligraphy. It baffled him in those years, so when he came back home again, he began to look at the graffiti around his own home.

And he was doing just that, analyzing the smog and the public art around him, when he saw the artists at work. Their faces were covered up, cans in their hands. They had noticed him before he noticed them. They had stopped painting, staring in anticipation. He couldn't see their expressions, only thier stillness. He remained still. He knew they were more than likely to have something on them, and he had nothing. He was glad he didn't bring his wallet. He was glad he didn't bring his wife. He decided that fear wasn't going to help him. He eased himself and folded his hands behind his back.

"Hey, Pops." One whispered out. The kid's hand was on his back pocket. "A little late, innit?"

"That's Proffessor Pops, to you." He answered back. He gave them a warm smile. They seemed to ease up a bit, but their hands didn't move from whatever they were stashing. He didn't move either. "I was actually just out on a walk to ease my knees. Terribly inconveninent, but I've always been more of an owl."

"Walk. To ease your knees." The kid straitened up. The others followed him. "That doesn't sound right to me."

The proffessor sighed. "Most say that. But what can I say- whatever makes the pain go away. I'm sure you understand that."

They took a quick glance at the wall. They looked to their shoes. Some of them put thier hands in thier pockets. Their shoulders slouched. The proffessor relaxed. The tension dissolved in the air, and the crisp refreshing smog settled upon him again. The kid nodded. "Yeah. I do."

It almost shattered the proffessor. The kid's voice was too heavy to be without experience. He wondered what kind of lives these boys lead. The kid sank to a moment into whatever was consuming him- but he quickly snapped out of it. Whatever it was, he wasn't going to let it get at him while with the guys. Some of his company sat down. The proffessor took the moment to walk to the them, and he stared up at the wall they were working on.

"It reminds me of the Netherlands." Proffessor said. The kid looked up at him and nodded.

"I was born there." He replied. The proffessor nodded this time. The kid looked back to the painting. "Ain't finished."

"That's fine." Proffessor said.

One of the other kids spoke up. "Yo, Proffessor. What do ya teach in them colleges?"

"I'm an Art Proffessor." He grinned. "I get to tell people what real art is for a living."

The boys laughed. "Sorry we ain't got none of that here."

"What do you mean?"

The boys looked to one another. Now that he could see thier eyes, he could watch the confusion bounce between them. It was settled quickly, and they turned back to the Proffessor. The first kid spoke for them all, as he was accustomed to doing. "You wanna say that our tags are some kind of art? C'mon, proffessor. You know as well as we do that this ain't shit."

"You're right." He proffessor sighed. "So much tagging is just pollution. This, however, truly is not shit. I have to say it really is impressive. I look forward to seeing it finished."

The boys didn't answer at first. They jsut stared at him. Eventually their spokesperson spoke up. "Thanks."

"Your welcome." The proffessor let his mind wander from the art in front of him back to the art on his coffee table. His eyebrows went up with exclimation. He turned to the boys. "Do any of you know if Orion's Photography Shop is still around? Ought to be down on the corner of 45th and Regal Ave."

One of the boys nodded. "Still there. Doubt it's open at this hour, though."

"I suppose so. Thank you." The proffessor chuckled. The boy nodded, then vanished into his hoodie again. The proffessor put his hands in his pockets to warm them up a bit. "I'll let you get back to your work. I ought to get home before the Mrs. wakes up."

The boys let out a smile. "A'ight. Good luck with that, Proffessor."

He headed home.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The sun had just rose over the city. The peace of day was missing. The usual calm that would spread below the horizon as it flared up into the sunrise never enveloped the people. Instead the already bustling city rushed with their hair on end. Some were late, some were simply rushing. Rush hour would be in play soon. Now was the most inconvienant time to be handing out tickets. Now was one of two peaks for people making mistakes or illegal moves while hoping for the best. He hated doing this, but he had to get his quota overwith for today. He had work to do.

He didn't feel bad for handing out the tickets, really. Most of the people he handed them out to were hoping to get away with things. Of course this started off a bad day for every ticket he wrote, but maybe if these people followed the actual law this wouldn't be a problem. If they gave him a hard time, he pointed out about three other things illegal about their car. He told them to be thankful and they all drove off with a huff. He did each one efficiently, quickly, assertively. He had to get this all overwith so he could simply camp somewhere.

That was his plan. Camp with a radar for the rest of the day. His work was usually done for him by people coming the other way. They'd warn the oncommers to slow down, or take a detour. That left him working with nothing to do. Most officers brought crosswords, or sodoku nowadays, but he brought a file. In his glovebox sat an unlabled file of copied documents. He was in trouble if his overlord of a boss found out about the copy, but he knew too well that the cheif hadn't thrown away the original copy.

He had also taken the liberty of borrowing some closed and cold case files. Some of the files he just couldn't get his hands on due to the fact that the cases had been removed from their precinct to fuel higher officers. What he could get was of smaller theiveries. They were paintings missing from traveling or minor galleries. They were artists that no one ever knew. Still, they were unsolved cases. There were a lot of them, and though the basics were explained, like how they left the galleries in the first place, the ultimate question was never answered. No one knew what happened to these vanished paintings. Strangest of all, the paintings were of so little value- yet the expertise was present. Someone who was used to stealing DaVinchi was stealing a semi-modern no-name.

Now graffiti was being stolen and there was absolutely no explination. Where the hell had they gone? They hadn't been cut from the wall- and you can't just take them down. The only logical reason didn't fit within the physics of time and space- so what the hell was going on? If only there were more cases being brought to attention. Maybe then he could find things that could really connect the cases, find a method to all of this. He had to- it was driving him to madness.

Finally, after the case drumming in his mind all morning, he found a place to camp. He clipped the radar to the steering wheel so that he didn't have to hold it. He shut down the daylights. He turned down the police radio so he could think. He reached under his passenger seat and pulled out the file. He looked up at the street, but the light was red at the corner. No one was moving- and with no one moving there would be no one speeding. Perfect.

With a case file that could connect so many other cases, there was absolutely no reason for the cheif to throw such a file away. There had to be something he wanted for himself. Whatever it was, it had to be some big fish to snag the cheif so hard. Officer Roderick flipped oven the file and dived into the reading. He was determined to catch the fish before the chief did.