Following the fumes of a prolific graffiti artist

My hands tremble with a surge of adrenaline. I shove them into the pockets of my jeans and draw a sharp breath. The brisk night air chills my lungs.

“Car!” I bark, a moment too late. The vehicle rounds the corner, driving toward us. I squint in the glare of the oncoming headlights, pivoting into the shadows of the overpass. Between a stroll and a sprint, I’m trying to look nonchalant, but also wanting to get the hell out of there.

Animal instincts take over: leave Fernando behind. Run if necessary. Damn the fact that he drove me here and I’ll be stuck in New Jersey without him. Better to figure out another way home than to spend the night in the back of a police car.

I steal a glance over my shoulder. He’s tucked the cans of spray paint into the waistband of his jeans and is pulling at the bottom of his striped sweater, covering the nozzles. He affects my same clipped stride, but in the opposite direction; he’s headed uphill and I’m going down.

My mistake is obvious. What an idiot I am! Why would I walk toward the oncoming car?

Fernando’s headed in the direction we came from, where his car is parked in the desolate open street. I, though, have trapped myself under an overpass with 15-foot retaining walls on either side. There’s nowhere to run. No one else around.

I freeze, bracing myself for the blare of the siren and the glare of a police searchlight.

The car keeps rolling. Maybe the driver slows slightly, but if so, it’s only to eye me with confusion: a kid in a dark green hoodie standing frozen on the sidewalk with his fists clenched at his sides and his eyes squeezed shut.

Then, car is gone. My heart still flutters in my chest, and I haven’t been breathing. I allow myself a sip of oxygen, crestfallen and a bit disappointed in my nerve. I meekly turn and wend my way back, only to find Fernando finishing his tag.

He adds the final flourish, three dots to the lower left, then turns and calls to me from across the street as I approach, “Shit, man! That’s what I’m talking about!” His smile beams in the twilight of the streetlamp on the suburban street.

My eyes dart to the Neighborhood Watch sign posted on the street lamp above his head. This whole graffiti thing may be new to me, but I’m pretty sure shouting on a quiet street at 1 a.m. on a Monday night isn’t the greatest way to avoid drawing attention.

Fernando seems unfazed.

The tag is a beauty. Letters at least three feet high on a prominent wall that drivers can’t miss. The evening is young though, and he still has plenty of energy.

On the way back to the car, he pulls out a fat permanent marker and tags the side of a utility box at a large intersection. That makes four for the night, the first two hits covering the side wall of a grocery store. He’s riding high on a wave of bliss and paint fumes.