Tires for a lifetime

These are Harry’s streets. They carry his name throughout every neighborhood. From the glass buildings of Jefferson Avenue down to the detritus of Delray, he cannot be stopped. He is a graffiti phenomenon, able to bust out giant fill-ins on the most patrolled blocks in the city.

Harry Toluski skidded to a stop on his BMX bike and surveyed his surroundings. Small shrubs and dense grass cropped up between sidewalk cracks. The sidewalk slowly sunk into wilderness; nature reclaiming its territory after a short hiatus. The empty warehouses still stood tall, though. Abandoned rowhouses lined the streets and the moon hung over him with an illuminating presence. Harry wished it’d been darker that night.

Harry had been biking for most of the night and his legs burned. His backpack was full of paint cans, clinking together every few seconds with the hollow sound Harry came to cherish. He was dressed in black jeans and a hoodie, which he wore every time he went painting. These nights were Harry’s. The city was at his fingertips. Every possible surface waited to be painted over with his tag, SONE, announcing his presence. On these walls Harry was visible and in control. It was as though he was moving the cogs, instead of just watching them turn.

The field Harry arrived at was an anomaly. Just across the horizon three skyscrapers towered over the rest of the city, and here was Harry in a place nobody bothered to go to. An oasis among the blight. A haven among heathens. Here Harry could do as he pleased, yet all the bullshit in his life was so close he could touch it. It was a comforting thought. This was the fifth time Harry had come to the warehouse. He would sit on the roof, sometimes not even painting, just looking out onto the city and listening to the silence that surrounded him. The building had a powerful presence in its immediate area, its dark figure looming amongst a tangle of weeds. The few streetlights that were on cast shadows into the broken windows, revealing the desolate interior.

As he trudged toward the abandoned Firestone plant in front of him Harry knew he had to be careful. Though his wide frame lent him a menacing look, a desperate junkie probably wouldn’t stop to consider his features. He could’ve been a football player if he’d wanted, but things end up the way they do for a reason. Harry had had his share of close calls: crazy winos chasing him out of tunnels, a small misstep on a foot-wide ledge 6 stories up, and the occasional scurrying rat.

None of these things ever discouraged his obsession. He didn’t have time for girls or parties or anything like that. The only time he had come close to giving up the late-night adventures, which at this point were inexorably tied to Harry’s life, was when his father said to him, “Son, in every man’s life there comes a time when he’s got to step up to the plate and take responsibility for his actions. And you know what? I don’t think I’ll ever see you do that.” He’d said this at Thanksgiving dinner, after one too many egg-nogs, when the whole family was swapping stories. Harry’s Aunt Cindy quickly pushed her chair back and stood up, giving her brother that look of disappointment and sisterly-worry Harry had seen come towards his father so often.

The table was silent and Harry’s dad kept saying, “What? It’s true!” Harry could feel all the eyes searching him, but he chose to inspect the contours of his turkey breast instead of having to acknowledge the table around him. Harry had been starting to paint more and more at that point, coming home at 6 a.m., paint on his hands and face, dirt in his ears, with his dad just getting ready for work. He never said anything to Harry, but that was even worse. It was always the same: those weary eyes hardened by years of drudgery looking at Harry without any sign of recognition. After the initial shock of his father’s statement at Thanksgiving, Harry could only think, “Well, screw it then.”

Harry climbed the stairs of the warehouse, inspecting the withering safety notifications on the walls. He imagined the bustling factory in its heyday, workers rushing around, trying to get America its tires without delay. When he got to the top of the stairs the rusted door swung out halfway, rushing in cold air onto Harry’s face. Outside Harry prepared his paints and was just about to begin when he heard a voice behind him go, “Hey kid, you know what this place used to be?”

Harry turned around to see a man in his 60’s sitting against the brick wall that overlooked the city. Harry didn’t immediately feel threatened by the man who had an almost fatherly look about him. He didn’t really look homeless, but he certainly wasn’t going to any fancy restaurants lately. His clothes were a bit ragged and loosely hung off his body as if they didn’t want to be there. He was lazily slouched against the wall but his brow was furrowed in deep thought. Usually Harry would just ignore these types of people. Tonight was different.

“Yeah, I do,” Harry replied. “It was the tire factory a while back, right?”

“You bet your ass it was. It was the biggest Firestone plant in America. 1000 workers, 50,000 square feet, and the best damn manufacturing line in the country.” The man got to his feet with some difficulty and started to walk along the edge of the roof. “Nobody could touch us.” Harry wanted to keep his distance, but at the same time the man intrigued him. He knew these kinds of places like the back of his hand, yet had never bothered to find out the history.

“Now look at it. Look at this whole fucking city. You know people used to say we were the center of it all. It makes sense if you think about it. We’re in the middle of the country and we got what everyone needs: cars. Or at least, we used to. Now all you see are these crappy chink cars with their stupid bells and whistles. After this place closed down, it was one after the other.” Dogs barked in an alleyway behind the factory.

Harry’s dad said similar things. He would go on and on about how great Detroit used to be, how back when America wasn’t on its decline, everyone came to the Motor City to find a job. Harry’s dad still had a job, but he’d seen all his friends lose theirs and he was always on edge, always anticipating another 500 workers to be laid off tomorrow or another factory to close. To Harry, the city’s decline was his playground. The warehouses and factories that colored Detroit were his canvas.

“That job was my life. They were everybody’s lives. And Washington. They couldn’t give two shits about what goes on out here. The whole city is dying and they barely even notice.” The man looked down at his feet for the answer to his grievances, and in the absence of a response turned around to look out across the city.

“Why did you come up here? Seems like it’d be easier to just forget about it all, doesn’t it?” Harry asked.

“Yeah, you’d think so.” The man stopped talking for a moment to figure out where this was taking him. Without anyone to hear his complaints before this, the man really didn’t know where to start. “Son, I’ll tell you. Just when you think you’ve got it all figured out, the ground drops right out from under you. I just want to get out of here. Forget this whole country and just leave.”

The pair sat in silence for a few minutes, both enjoying the absence of conversation, or obligation. Harry could see that the conversation had made the man uncomfortable. He kept darting his eyes between the street below and the top of the roof. Harry hadn’t asked his name, it didn’t seem necessary. They were nameless in the presence of each other, and both enjoyed the guilt-free anonymity the encounter provided.

Harry looked up again at the man, only to see a strange expression of smug satisfaction creep across his lips.

“Tonight I have a way out of it. After tonight, there won’t be any more reminders.” The man went back over to where he was sitting and picked up a gasoline can that Harry thought had just been some trash. He strained under the weight of the can, yet held his composure as if this was some noble act he was committing.

“What are you doing? What is that?”

“This is the only way out.” The man started pouring out the gasoline while walking across the roof. The gasoline splashed onto the tarred roof, quenching its arid cracks. At this, Harry knew he had to get out. He grabbed his paints, ran towards the door, and down the stairs.

What had been the point? Was this guy crazy or was he onto something bigger and better than Harry had ever imagined? He ran down the stairs, passing the fluttering signs without hesitation. On the ground floor, the random pieces of machinery that still remained looked prophetic in the dim moonlight. He grabbed his bike in the grass outside, faintly hearing the light trickle of liquid above him. Harry sped down Nostrand Avenue with thoughts swirling in his head. He looked back at the warehouse, not wanting to see, but having to. The flames licked the sides of the building and the painted script slogan proclaimed, “Firestone- Tires for a Lifetime.”