The old colonial on the corner lot started spitting new problems at Andy Kawling the minute he turned the key in the lock and the neighborhood was less savory after dark than during his repeated daytime visits.
He knew the place would be work, and he knew the neighborhood was, as his cousin described it,” lively.”
He just didn’t know how quickly his patience would run out for both.
Sitting on his back steps at dusk, smoking a cigarette two days after he quit, listening to pieces of cement fall from underneath him as he shifted his weight, he saw a guy in the alley tagging the garage of the abandoned home behind him.
His lungs filled with air, his shoulders hunched, and just before “Hey!” bellowed from his diaphragm, Andy caught himself, almost biting his wrist like a Stooge seeing a pretty blonde in a tight dress.
Guy looked, even in the waning light, like someone Andy could take in a fistfight, but ya just never knew.
To the tagger's credit, he didn’t toss his dead cans but threw them in a mesh potato bag.
It was full dark by the time the tagger was finished, maybe twenty minutes, Andy guessed, and as the guy ran off, his headlamp briefly illuminated the dirty white siding of Andy’s garage, then Andy himself.
At dawn the next morning Andy began prying the white siding off the garage.
It was two and a half car size, and all Andy owned was a motorcycle. He assumed he’d eventually be buying a lawnmower.
Andy exposed brick that he quickly realized was a pale orange that was almost as taggable as the siding.
After he had removed a few slats of ugly vinyl, he wandered into the alley to look at the new artwork on the wall of the neighboring garage.
He put his hands on his hips, starting annoyed and rapidly getting madder that he couldn’t figure out what it was.
If it was a gang sign, which he never imagined it to be, it was elaborate for one.
Andy shrugged, took a mental snapshot, went back to pry more siding.
As he exposed more brick, he saw the faint remnants of paint on it.
Snapping off more siding, he realized that it was the ghost of an advertisement.
According to the deed the property had been zoned mixed-use until 1972 and the realtor believed the house itself was once used as a beauty salon.
Andy carried some siding to the front curb, returned through his yard into the alley.
The painting was still very abstract to him.
Saw a guy cut through the alley wearing a backpack.
Thought it might be the tagger.
When he hopped a fence he didn’t seem to be running from anyone or unwelcome in the yard into which he hopped.
When Andy fully exposed one side of the garage, he stepped back a few feet.
He had a second paint mystery to deal with.
It was letters, for sure, near the bottom, but the top of the image was gone, save for green streaks of paint, no more than glorified flecks, as though they were painted with a whisk broom.
Someone shuffled in the alley behind him.
As Andy turned, the guy said “ Ulch. Wow.”
Andy was 99% sure it was last night’s tagger. The one percent that was unsure was the one percent that was afraid to ask the harmless-looking guy if he was the tagger, and if the answer was yes, what the hell did he paint on that garage.
The guy sat against a neighbor’s garbage can as though a backrest was its primary use, and pulled out a sketchpad and colored pencils.
He chuckled. “Ulch. Cool.”
“Bro,” Andy said, and the squint the guy gave him made Andy regret the greeting.
He hesitated, then finished.
“Umm, what is Ulch?”
The squint morphed into a smile, almost friendly.
“The red letters at the bottom. Ulch.”
Andy turned back.
He had seen the paint, known they were letters but hadn’t deciphered them. Plain English.
U.L.C.H.
Ulch.
“Wonder what it means?” Andy said. “Like maybe a dentist or something? Dr. Ulch?
The guy with the sketchpad squinted again.
“Pretty sure it’s Nortown Landscape and Mulch. Or was. Now it’s Ulch. You own the property now, or you just working on it?”
“I own,” Andy said.
The guy with the sketchpad nodded, made some marks on the page.
“Got any plans for Ulch, Andy?”
“You mean the garage? Umm, well… No. You have any idea who tagged that abandoned garage?”
“Tagged? the sketcher said. “Ummm, someone tagged it? Where? The sketcher stood.
“I painted it. I hope nobody tagged it.’
“I meant painted,” Andy said.
“I painted it. You like it?”
“Umm, yeah, I mean it’s…”
“You don’t have to say yes. I was gonna paint Ulch, too, before I knew it was Ulch. It was just siding. I was gonna make it better. Put an Aural Kraken on it, like that one.”
The guy pointed in the direction of the abandoned garage.
Andy saw it.
A sea monster made entirely of musical notes.
“I was gonna fix up that garage, run power to it. Have some little parties.”
“Is that legal?” Andy asked, and immediately, fruitlessly tried to think of a way to take it back.
The artist laughed.
“It’s not really illegal if no one complains. And I don’t think anyone that lives in this neighborhood would complain. Anyone I know, anyway.”
Andy laughed, nervously.
“I, I wouldn’t complain. I mean, I…”
“You sure, homey? “
“If you’re asking me if I would call the cops if you threw a party in that yard across the alley, the answer is no.I won’t call the cops.”
The sketch artist walked toward Andy and held out his hand for a fist bump.
Andy bumped fists with the guy, awkwardly.
“I go by Like, opposite of dislike. Spelled L-A-I-K.
“I’m Andy, “ Andy said. “You totally have my word I won’t narc on your parties across the alley.”
Laik smiled.
“Dog, it would take me months to rig that shizz up for power. Ulch already has power. When I saw that space was already named, I just knew. Let me throw parties in Ulch, Andy. “
“Let me think about it, ok? This house is already a lot of work, I mean…”
Laik reached into his sock, pulled out a knot of bills. Peeled off five hundreds and handed them to Andy.
“That’s a good faith deposit, homey. Ulch. It’s gonna drip, homes. Trust me. Ulch.”
Laik sat back down against the garbage can and kept sketching.
***
.
The first party could be interesting.
The age old question is on the horizon, how much fun is too much fun?