FICTION | Felicia Rivers Tagger Down

FICTION

TAGGER DOWN

By Felicia Rivers

He still had her backpack.

He had it and hadn’t looked inside since.

Since.

He heard the paint cans rattling.

He felt the weight of it.

He should turn it in.

He should call the police. He should call and tell them he had her backpack. He should tell them what happened—no, he should call and tell them he found it. That she left it at his place. Oh Hell, she had never even been to his place. They’d probably be able to figure that out, right? No, he always went to her place. Her place. With the neon light shining, blinking through the bedroom window. He should leave it. Outside her building, or outside the tattoo parlor—no, in the bar. What if someone saw him? What about his fingerprints? He should throw it away—no, you fucking coward—he should tell them exactly what happened.

But what happened?

He should tell them that she was Tagger B? Yeah, he should tell them about the tattoos and the graffiti, and how he figured it all out, how he figured her out, her secret, her talent, her genius, her skin, her tattoos, how they shifted in the blinking neon light, the texture of her skin, gardenia scented, wild, wild,

hair, bright eyes, wide mouth, her tinkling laugh like that little fountain in the park where they sat on the grass eating tacos— no that wasn’t part of the story, or their business. But he should tell about her art because the story didn’t make sense without her art. How she was beautifying the city—a public service, really—just like she beautified her body, transferring the art that decorated her skin onto the skin of the city, and he had figured it out. He had cracked her code. And now he had to tell. But what if they suspected him? They always suspected the boyfriend, the husband, the lover.

Was he? Her lover? Yes. It more than sex, sex and talking and laughter, and he had met her friends, her boss, for Christ’s sake, he wanted to meet her parents. She looked at him like he meant something. She let him in. He let her let him in. She designed a tattoo for him, and he stood up to her needle. Just like he had climbed up on that roof for her—well, really for him—climbed to see Brynne become Tagger B.

After her shift at the tattoo parlor, after she finished inking a vintage Cadillac with the name, Reginald curled around it. On the fat guy from East Passyunk, they drove north with the windows down and her dreads rose in the warm night air and he asked her what she was going to do and she said wait and see and he started guessing, wracking his brain for the tattoos on her body that he hadn’t found on the walls of the city yet. See, since he’d figured her out, he’d been playing a game with her, mapping the ink on her body to the paint on the streets, and driving around town became a treasure hunt for Tagger B, so that night he guessed: the pentagram with the candle in the middle? (No.) the white roses with the drops of blood? (Nope.), the emerald ring with the inscription: He loves me not? (Ha! No.) And he’d said: Who broke your heart? I’ll kill ‘em! (Ha—no one.).

The sandcastle that looks like the Linc? (No, I kind of regret that one), and then she said we are here, and here was a decrepitlooking brick building up in North Philly and he asked which wall and she said we are going to the top baby! What top? Up there? and she said yes because way up there on the roof was a big ol’ white tank that she’d had her eye on for a while, and now she had her trusty partner—he said sidekick because all the glory was hers—okay, trusty sidekick to accompany her on her quest, and now the tank was hers, and he asked but how were we going to get up there, it was what? Six stories? and she said seven, and that she had good intel because her uncle had worked here when it was a brewery back in the day and everyone used to smoke on those fire escapes, see? But are they safe? And she said yes, and he believed her. And he was the guy, so he insisted on going first and he carried her backpack because that’s what a guy does too and they zigzagged their way up it to the top, seven creaky flights, and the view of the city was spectacular with the vast field of pinpoint lights burning in the darkness and the black band of the river winding through, and he could breathe up here and he shouted into the night, and she laughed and shushed him at the same time. Then she went into her bag and pulled out a head harness with a light on it and a camera and he asked if she was a spelunker and took the camera and said sidekicks do the filming and she grinned at him and he captured her smile through the viewfinder but she told him no faces so he pointed at the tank and she began painting cats.

She was so quick and accurate and amazing, and he immediately knew which tattoo she was tagging, freehand, not drawing, not tracing, no preliminaries, just painting, amazing cats that emerged from the white of the tank as if conjured, and

soon there were cats climbing, dancing up the side of the tank, black silhouettes against the white she painted them, with so much character, so much expression, each cat its own self, she was so brilliant. She painted them as high as she could reach, and he surprised her and lifted her up, and her shout became her tinkling laugh, and that was worth everything, and she did all five cats, five black cats like the cats that climbed up her leg, and then to the left of the string of cats she painted:

October 5 and he asked her what the date signified, and she showed him her watch and it read: 12:07 | Oct 5.

Then he pointed to her leg, to where the cats climbed next to the words October 5 and said but that date is tattooed right next to the climbing cats on your leg, and she said falling cats. What? The cats are falling, she said, not climbing, ‘cause, you know, cats always land on their feet, and he said but it’s the same date. How did you know? How did you know we would be up here, on this date, and she said she didn’t know, the date just resonated with her, but when he asked why, for the first time since he met her, she became distant and quiet. She turned and looked at her work, then spread her arms and let out a Whoooo! like she had just crossed something off of her bucket list, and then turned to him and laughed and was Brynne again, and she thanked him because he made this all possible and people would be able to see the cats from the river, they were so high, and now it was time to go, so he helped her pack up her bag.

He heard the breaking glass from down below. He looked and someone was by his car, someone was breaking into his car, and he shouted down, Who’s there? and You there—stop! not at all meaning to sound like guy in one of those old black and white

movies she loved, and What the fuck! and she said Shhhh. We don’t know who’s down there, but he was pissed and told her to wait here, then he stormed down the fire escape and he saw the man and the man saw him and started jogging off—not even running because how much of a threat could a white guy who drove a Honda be?—and he chased after him—oh, why did he do that? Because he was pissed—and he lost him in the dark and he didn’t know that part of town and he went back and called for her to come down—no answer—but he heard a noise, a door slam, and he called again—no answer. Why? Then he climbed the seven zigzags of creaky black metal and—where’d she go? Backpack still here, her, no—door slam? —where’s the door? Found it. Locked. Brynne, where are you? Silence, lights in the darkness, Brynne? Brynne? What’s going on? Come on. We’ve gotta go. Cold lights in the darkness, hoisting her backpack, walking the roof, walking the roof, trying the door, Brynne. Brynne! silence, descending, zig, zag, zig, zag, zig, zag, zig, should he zag, or should he zig? You down here? What the fuck? unlocking the car, glass on the seat—fucker—turning on the headlights, beeping the horn, silence, Brynne? calling her cell, ringing in her bag, tossing her backpack in the back, driving toward the building, asphalt with grass straining through the cracks, nature’s gonna nature, circling, headlights on brick, around the corner, around, out into the street, circling, how long? back to the building, the streets, an relentless beat of helpless tire on asphalt, waiting, can’t leave, waiting, daybreak, circling, heading home.

Didn’t know. Did she suffer? Didn’t know. Was she alive when he? Didn’t know, God Damnit! Didn’t know. Until.

Earnest 8 o’clock news anchor: Jane Doe found dead base of an abandoned brewery North Philadelphia.

Fallen?

Accident?

Pushed?

Anyone with information.

He never saw. Never saw her. Someone saw her. Someone found her. Didn’t know.

Never saw. The sixth cat had fallen. Couldn’t explain. Had to try. Didn’t he?