The Crawl, The Charge, The Truth

Abandonment, Art and Fame

Every year, right around the time, I go to The Crawl.

Not necessarily the anniversary, but right around the time.

Some years I just wander The Crawl, look at my brother’s art, other people’s new art, art in progress.

The Crawl once employed four thousand people when it was Crawley Automotive.

Now it’s a shell, the skeleton of a five-story structure with enough flesh hanging off for artists to make it a full-spectrum dissection.

My brother’s art is on display here, this abandoned factory turned guerilla gallery.

Some years I cross the street, stand right in the spot where he OD’d.

Talk to him. 

Some years I’m just not up for it. 

This year I was up for it.

My mom has this luncheon, this brazen lie of a smile and back pat fest for the art scholarship she endowed in my brother’s name.

I’m glad they give money to deserving kids. Just wish they would have given some to my brother.

This year I left the luncheon early. I knew I would, but I left early early. My mom is gonna-complain-to-me-about-it-for-six-months early.

I went to The Crawl. People will tell you to avoid it if you’re not part of that world. I wish it was a city park, a steel and cement city park. I wish everyone would go

My brother’s most famous piece is on the third floor. 

It’s a charging green elephant that is becoming a locomotive, or a locomotive going back to nature and becoming a charging elephant, depending on who you talk to.

I never saw it until he after died, so I never got a chance to ask him which

I know. 

I feel way guiltier about that than leaving any luncheon early.

Across the street is just known by the address.

It’s two stories of basically nothing, some gang tags, some discarded WhipIts, some puddles.

I wandered in, walked toward the spot. 

A kid filmed my brother’s body being lifted onto the gurney. That’s how I know. I’m glad I know, as morbid as it sounds.

Today there was a kid sitting there. Not near there. Right there.

I couldn’t breathe for I don’t know how long.

The kid moved and I almost shrieked.

He was young, stoned, so obviously stoned. 

I really hoped he was stoned on something harmless.

I said hello. 

He just stared at me.

“Are you okay?” I asked him.

“Nawww,” he said. “Okay is Mexican and way smaller than me.”

It took me a minute. OQue’s work was in The Crawl.

“What’s your name?” I asked him. I thought I was being nice, at least polite. 

He hung his head.

“Nobody knows my name,” he answered.

I wasn’t sure what he meant until he spoke again.

“One day they might. One day I might be as big as Lockdown, or Morph.”

“I know Morph,” I told him.

The kid rolled to one knee, then stood.

I stepped back.

I really thought he might charge.

“No you don’t, lady. Morph is dead. That’s why I come here. To get his energy. He died, right here.”

The kid looked down at the spot, then back over his shoulder at me.

“Get out of here,” he said.

I put my head down.

I started to tell him.

I don’t know if he would have believed me.

As I walked away, I heard him say  “Everyone is so full of shit.”

He’s right, of course.

Some of them are at a luncheon, celebrating themselves, pretending they’re celebrating a life they knew nothing about.

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