Governor’s School Application Piece — Philosaffiti.

Many thanks if you read through it!

I’d very much appreciate Comments&Criticism.

It isn’t often that inanimate objects choose to speak, so when they do it is wise to listen. Sometimes it’s something mundane: a rock commenting on the weather or your dishwasher asking the time. However, on some infrequent occasions, they have something worth hearing.

Such was to be my own fortunate case as I stepped back from a concrete wall just south of Gardener Street to appraise my work. It was a chilly night, and my fingers were bare and numb. My breath repeatedly bloomed like an atomic explosion, dissipating quickly as it strained for the heavens. I ran a hand through my coarse blonde hair. “Not bad,” I murmured, raising my eyebrows with admiration. Looking back at me with bloodshot eyes, my own caricature of Uncle Sam stood on a stool with a noose about his neck. Behind him, poised to knock away the stool was another Uncle Sam, red pinstripe trousers and all. Grinning smugly, I turned. The rest of the wall was painted with countless other examples of my creativity. This wall was mine. My wall, my world, my kingdom that I ruled with a skillful hand and a cynical mind.

“My kingdom,” I said out loud.

“You’re a fraud,” a voice spoke.

My eyes widened with surprise and I spun around. “Say that again…” My voice trailed off. Devoid of life, the streets seemed almost stifled with emptiness. Taking an involuntary step backward, I peered into the shadows cast by the near-full moon overhead. An abrupt clatter violated the silence as my foot struck my only other light source, a small electric lantern. It fell on its side and sputtered.

“I said you’re a fraud.” A man’s voice. Behind me. He was definitely behind me, whoever he was. I spun around again, this time with fist in flight. The wall was closer than I recalled. My clenched hand grazed across the rough surface, leaving a smeary crimson mark. A muffled curse escaped my lips as I sucked at my knuckles.

“Well, that’s disgusting,” said Uncle Sam, drawing a sleeve across his face to clean it of blood.

“Hey, help a guy out?” whined the other depiction, looking rather vexed. “This noose is making me nervous. What am I doing up here in the first place? This is-” He was cut off mid-sentence as the stool was kicked out from under his feet. The perpetrator – the Uncle Sam that had first spoken – grimaced, then shrugged. “I’d rather there was one of us – for simplicity’s sake.”

I blinked slowly. “Am I trippin’?” I said. No answer. “Dreaming?” Silence. “Hallucinating, then. The Government is experimenting on its guinea pig population…” I paused to gawk in disbelief.

My blank stare was met by a frown and a cocked eyebrow.

“Can I help you?” I asked incredulously. There was a moment of awkward silence.

“No, not really,” he said matter-of-factly. “I just wanted to let you know that you’re a fraud.”

I couldn’t speak. Instead, I sputtered like a dysfunctional faucet. “You are not real,” I finally said, emphasizing each word. Uncle Sam again raised a painted eyebrow.

“Well…well of course I’m real,” he said, feigning confusion. “I’m walking.” He took a step towards me and grew in size, presenting the illusion that he had come closer, while still maintaining his two-dimensional form. “I’m talking as well, and you can also see me. Seems like pretty concrete proof.”

I winced at the terrible pun and tried my best to ignore it. “That’s not enough,” I said. “This is simply not possible.”

Uncle Sam sighed and massaged his temples. “I’m not here to wax eloquent on what is and what is not what you call ‘possible,’ my friend. I am simply here, and that is that.” He paused. “And you’re a fraud, and that is also that.”

Anger blazed in my chest like a flash fire. I couldn’t stand back-talk, even if it was coming from a hallucination in a concrete wall. “Say it one more time!” I seethed. “I dare you! What’s your problem, huh? You’re such a bigot! What makes you think I’m a fraud?”

The man stroked his chin hairs impassively. “‘Bigot’? Please, please: I prefer ‘Sam.’”

I cursed at him. “I’ll call you what I want. Now answer me.”

He frowned and looked at me expectantly, shoving his hands into his pockets.

My eyes narrowed. “Right. Why am I a fraud, Sam?” I spat the last word venomously.

His visage brightened substantially, and he hop-skipped down along the wall a step. He spread his arms in an encompassing gesture. “This is why you’re a fraud. I am why you are a moron, a clod, a complete and utter nitwit.”

I clenched my bloodied hand, resisting the absurd urge to strike at him. “What do you mean by that?” I asked, subduing my rage. “I don’t know what you’re on about; I’m not some kind of pushover hoodlum. I know things. I know the world. I know society. I know the injustice to human freedom that we call Government. I also know that you’re some punk chauvinist who thinks that just because I vandalize and break the law, I don’t know squat. Well I’m standing here and telling you that you’re wrong.”

He stood there for a moment with a dumbfounded expression before erupting into cackles of laughter. His top hat flew from his head as he doubled over, overtaken by some unseen hilarity of the situation. The humor was lost on me. I stood helplessly, red with embarrassment and fury.

“Any day now, Gramps,” I growled, trying to make my displeasure apparent.

Sam recovered quickly, donning his hat once more as he wiped his eyes with the sleeve that wasn’t already starched with my blood.

“Sam. It’s Sam,” he reminded me, wagging his finger. He continued quickly before I could respond. “I suppose you’d like an explanation.” I shot him a baleful look but allowed him to continue. “Like I said, I am why you’re a dunderhead. Tell me, what do I and Brother Sam over there…” He motioned towards the other Uncle Sam, who swung in some unseen breeze, “What do we mean?”

I blinked. “What do you mean?” I repeated.

Sam nodded.

“Well…” I paused. What did they mean? It had definitely made sense while I painted it. I figured it was pretty self-explanatory. “You know. You’re hanging yourself. The Government is destroying itself.”

“Why?”

My fists tightened, and the congealing cuts on my knuckles bled anew. “What do you mean, why? Because the Government is full of self-defeating twits! It oppresses its citizens! What ever happened to ‘We the people,’ huh? The Government’s very well-being is entirely dependent on the people, so what happens when it turns against them? It destroys itself!”

Sam frowned and began walking down the wall, forcing me to follow. “I’m oppressing my people?” he asked in an insultingly piteous tone. “I wasn’t aware! Please, tell me just how my fist of iron rests upon the back of the Nation!”

His thinly disguised mocking stung my pride. “Listen, you idiot. I created you. I own you. Treat me with some respect.”

He gave me a withering glare and seemed about to say something, but didn’t. “You still haven’t answered my question,” he said. His steps had taken him to another one of my works: a pig in a suit, being carried on the back of a gaunt man clothed in rags. With one trotter the pig was applying lipstick to itself; with other it shamelessly beat at the man’s side with a wooden switch. Behind them was a trail of humans, sprawled out like rag dolls with backs broken and mouths contorted in silent screams of anguish.

“How are we an accurate representation of Government?” the fallen bodies suddenly cried in unison, their words accentuated by the sharp crack of the pig’s whip.

The pig continued of its own accord, dismounting its beleaguered underling. “Why am I portrayed as an overbearing slave driver? I mean, all you people ask for is more Governmental control. You beg and plead to depend on me. Rather obnoxious that you simultaneously gripe about Government intruding in people’s lives.”

It paused and turned. “Sam! Long time no see, good soul! Last time I saw you, you were recruiting for the Army!”

Sam grinned as they embraced. “You know me, always the patriot. At least, until recently…” They both turned back to my direction. “Oh, right,” Sam said, “Sorry to break it to you, but you don’t govern me in the least. You didn’t create me; we graffitis have something of a continuous existence. I am eighteen Uncle Sams…and that’s just in the tri-state area.” He frowned. “I hope you understand why we’re so frustrated with you. You see, I’ve borne witness to countless misguided fellows who call themselves ‘revolutionaries’ who feel they’re ‘going against the grain’ and ‘sticking it to the man.’ Emphasis on ‘misguided.’ All too often, you punks have less of a clue in regards to what you rave about than I’ve hairs on my balding head.”

I gritted my teeth. “Are you calling me stupid?”

The back-broken man spoke up. “Were you even listening? ‘Misguided.’ Embarrassingly close-minded. Cripplingly biased. Obscenely cynical. Painfully un-informed. And yet wholly unwilling to adjust your position, enhance your understanding, or take any definitive action besides trivial and immature drawings portraying your empty yet immitigable defiance towards ‘The Man.’”

I was speechless. I was being lectured by pigment, binder, and solvent dried onto a wall of mortar and plaster. Every ounce of common sense was telling me that what was happening was entirely impossible. And yet here I stood, here I saw, here I heard. I scowled. Even if this was a hallucination, I figured that maybe the best way to return to reality was to beat them at their own game.

“Who says I don’t know my stuff?” I challenged. “I’ll tell you what. If you can convince me otherwise, then hey, you win, I’m a reformed man. But if you don’t, you stop talking. To me, to each other, to any-”

“Deal,” Sam said, interrupting me. I hesitated, then grinned slyly. I was nothing if not strong-willed. It would be easier to convince a charging bull to change its way. And yet something bothered me. What they said had unsettled me, if only a bit.

I shook it off. It was hardly noticeable – a meaningless twinge of doubt, nothing more. And yet, I was forced to suppress a sudden shiver. They were all smiling. My grin began to fade.