'Art beneath the City'

a short story/memoir I wrote for one of my classes. It's about 1 of my last wild adventures in NY with my high school friends with a little love story mixed in. {Names have been changed.}

“125^th. Riverside. Noon. Don’t be L8.” I read the text message over and over again as I sat patiently on a cement ledge just outside of Manhattan’s Riverside Park. It was a calm Sunday afternoon: my last in New York for the next several months. The steady breeze mixed with the heat from the sun made the weather pleasantly cool and aided my wandering thoughts. Then one by one, my friends came cautiously stepping down the steep, branch-hidden path that lead to our meeting point: the deserted Amtrak tunnel entrance directly adjacent to the highway. 

After our various greetings, the four of us stood silent for a moment, as we knew the beginning of our journey would be the most difficult. We all turned to face the tall metal fence that blocked trespassers like us from gaining access to the subway tunnel. That daunting fence seemed to stare right back at us with its shiny barbs gleaming, daring us to challenge its undeniable authority. Fortunately for us, a small opening had already been cut into the bottom of the fence, just large enough for us to crawl through. Clearly we hadn't been its first rivals.

We each took turns awkwardly shimmying our way through the opening without injury. Jensen, Aleks and I had made it with little trouble, but Kaden’s burly athletic build proved detrimental as his shirt snagged onto a sharp piece of metal from the opening. In fear of being spotted by one of the many drivers passing by on the highway, Jensen and Aleks quickly ran for cover in the shadows of the tunnel while I went back to Kaden’s aid. Paranoia struck all four of us as the sound of a siren wailing on the highway became increasingly louder. 

"It's stuck!," I shouted, frustrated by the gripping threads of his vintage Bob Marley t-shirt. I grew defeated as the sirens drew closer and the knot only seemed to grow between my struggling fingertips.

“Just rip it!,” he said decidedly, and the booming tone of his voice shook me even more severely. Without hesitating, I tore the shirt from its captive grasp and we ran to join our friends in shadowed safety.

A sudden chill, either of cold or fear, seemed to hit us simultaneously as we reached for the flashlights in our backpacks. The darkness of the deserted tunnel was overwhelming and my heart was still racing from the complications of the first phase of our journey, but I fought to maintain some level of composure. I switched on my flashlight and began to survey my new surroundings. The elaborate, brightly-colored graffiti on the concrete walls seemed to give us an eerie but welcoming greeting as we slowly paced forward. A sign just above our heads read “The Freedom Tunnel: Home to true New York Artists.” The train tracks alongside of us shone even in the darkness and rattled every now and then to alert us of an oncoming train. We slowly ventured deeper into the darkened abyss, feeling like we had just fallen down the rabbit hole and into Alice’s Wonderland. This strange new world was not home to mysterious talking animals, nor was it led by a hierarchy of ill-tempered playing cards. Rather, it was the dwelling place of rats, vagabonds, and some of the most amazing artwork one could ever witness. 

My heart no longer pounded; it seemed instead to ebb-and-flow like a calm low tide beneath a brisk sunset and I finally felt at peace. Kaden, on the other hand, trailed a bit behind us and seemed frustrated. The detailed portraits, anonymous tags and elaborate, brightly-colored murals that covered every inch of these stone walls left no bare space for newcomers to leave their mark. Kaden, who I had affectionately nicknamed Kuma years ago for his obsession with the brightly-colored Puma sneakers he still wore to this day, was determined to find a little room to leave his mark.

We continued on for almost an hour with no way of knowing exactly what street we were on. Finally, we spotted flashing lights ahead of us that signaled another group of teenagers taking pictures. Kaden, whose hand I had now been holding without realizing, ran up to them and asked if they had also come for the performance.

“Yeah,” one boy replied, “It’s about four blocks down. We’ll show you.” 

We allowed them to guide us, casually exchanging introductions and talking about the show that we were about to see. 

“We were lucky to even hear about this. It’s a pretty big secret,” Aleks remarked to one of our new companions.

In the distance ahead, we spotted a crowd of about 50 people standing inside a circle of small, candle-lit lamps on the ground. There were several wooden stools lined up, but many people seemed content to sit on the dirt-covered ground. We had arrived just as a tall, fair skinned man with thick dreadlocks got up and tried to gather everyone’s attention.

“Tonight, I’m honored to present to you the great Saul Williams, who has chosen to put on this very special show for us in the legendary Freedom Tunnel. We thank you for coming out but most importantly we thank you for keeping this a secret. Otherwise the cops would’ve found us, no doubt.”

The audience clapped softly as Kaden grabbed a stool and I sat on his lap. Saul stood up and took his place in front of the crowd. His frail, lanky figure, tattered jeans and heavily-bearded face lead me to believe that he was no stranger to darkened, desolate places like this. He pulled out a scroll of paper from his back pocket and let it fall, rolling onto the ground. 

“This,” he began, “is my list of demands.” 

As he recited his lengthy poem about the corruption of politics and modern capitalist society, the initial tension within his audience about being caught by the police clearly eased as we all gave our undivided attention to the powerful and mysterious figure before us. He spoke with an intensity that seemed to compliment the beautiful mural resting behind him of an orange sunset falling behind the shadows of skyscrapers. Each time the sound of an oncoming train became too loud, he paused momentarily to let it pass and the crowd sat quietly with eyes unwavering, waiting for him to continue. A few homeless people living in a nearby shantytown had wandered over and stood several feet away, shyly listening to him speak. The sound of rainwater dripping from the storm drains above seemed to produce a beat to which his words flowed. About halfway into the performance, Kaden stood up, walked over to the wall next to Saul, and began to spray-paint. Kaden had finally found his spare bit of space and excitedly tagged his alias in deep purples and blues. People in the audience began to snap pictures of the men blending two mediums of art so beautifully. As Saul said his final words, “It is time again, my people, for us to open our eyes,” the headlights of an oncoming train flashed towards the group, adding emphasis to his words. Everyone in the audience began to snap their fingers in poetic applause just as Kaden put the finishing touches of pink and silver to the 3-foot letters on the wall that elegantly spelled out the name “Kuma.”

The performance had ended and several audience members, including our journey companions, went up to Saul to shake his hand. To Kaden’s surprise, many of them approached him as well, saying “Sweet work, Kuma.” Then, the mob of approximately 50 people all began to head towards the exit all at once, sharing stories and laughing loudly along the way. Aleks and Jensen were at the head of the crowd talking to the dreadlocked man who introduced the performance, leaving Kaden and I alone to walk hand-in-hand once more. Now the old, childhood nickname that I had given to my first crush was forever inscribed on the walls of New York’s most legendary underground art gallery. The journey out of the tunnel felt very different than the one coming in. I was no longer frightened by the mysterious tunnel but rather comforted by it. Walking out of the tunnel and back into the flaming sunlight, I felt as if I was leaving my home and entering a strange and unfamiliar world; a feeling that would become all too familiar to me, as I would soon be leaving New York for my first year of college. The only bit of comfort and familiarity I now had was Kaden’s hand holding onto mine.

Author's Note

Still working on character/plot development for intro. Does it flow well? Also, please point out any grammer/syntax issues. I'm looking to lengthen this so any kind of advice would be great.

Reviews

[Review]

very nice. although, you may want to mention earlier in the story than the narrator is a girl. I didn't realize that until the end.
great imagery and flow though. I enjoyed it!

[Chiga]

Really nice! I love your imagery--now, writing this review, I REALLY want to go to the New York underground! The tone was excellent, and I enjoyed the personification of the fence, daring you to enter. You may want to add some more imagery--such as what you see on the walls, your flashlights illuminating the scene...

There were a few typos here and there, but nothing major. I just want to point out the way you used dialogue.

You wrote, '"It's stuck!," I shouted...' You don't necessarily need the comma after the exclamation point. One punctuation mark should be enough. (That's the way I learned it anyway--it's not necessarily incorrect.)

Really enjoyed it overall. I'd also love to see another version of it.

[pia Z]

This is a nice piece! You've got a great sense of mood and a talent for setting the scene. I'm from "New York Lite" myself (Toronto) and I know the kind of places that your setting is reminiscent of. Thank you for sharing this last high school adventure with me. It has actually given me the space and time to think about my own highjinks. :)

That being said, there are a couple of things I think you could work with to really give this story a push. First, watch the adverbs. Adverbs are alright every once in a while, but they can be distracting at times. For example (this one isn't distracting per se, I'm just using it to illustrate a point) - when the narrator says he/she waited patiently, perhaps you can write a few clues to give the reader the impression that the narrator is impatient. Perhaps he/she is tapping his/her foot or wringing his/her hands. Also, try and stay away from passive verbs, like "was overwhelming"; rather, you can say "overwhelmed us" or something. That way there's an immediacy to the story.

The last thing I want to say is, while the story reads beautifully and really captures a nice mood, there isn't much of an emotional crux to the plot. We find out at the end that Kuma is the narrator's first crush. Why not try to work that knowledge all the way through? That way you can give more weight to the ripping of his t-shirt, and when he decides to get up and let the poet's words guide his art. You could even throw the audience for a bit of a loop - imagine if the poet had a bad reaction to someone "interrupting" his writing by decorating the wall behind. There could be another moment where the audience gets to see what kind of person Kuma is, and if they're crushing on him as much as the narrator is.

You've given me a lot to think about with this story, and thanks again for sharing! I'd love to see if once you've extended it. :)

[theopenbook]

hey this really was in flow:) so are you planning on continuing this story into more chapters? let me know:) nice work by the way.

theopenbook