“Risk, Taking” (excerpt)
By Adam Mansbach
Risk wanders back into the kitchen, turns the TV off, consumes a cashew and a filbert, returns to the landing just as the old man appears around the bend.
“Ah,” Tristan calls. “Good to see you, boy.”
“Hey, Grandpa.”
He reaches the bottom and lays a hand on Risk's shoulder. “So,” he says, and cackles. “What the hell have you done to your old lady?”
Risk shrugs. “I was drinking.”
Tristan raises his eyebrows, then an index finger. “Good idea.” He points toward the living room bar, and Risk backs out of his way. Tristan makes a slow beeline for it, and pours them each a Scotch. “Have we got some nuts or something?” he inquires, handing Risk a glass. The old man assumes everyone to be better acquainted with his kitchen than he is.
“Yes, sir.” Risk darts to the kitchen, dumps the contents of the tin into a wooden serving bowl, and reunites with his grandfather on the living room couch.
“I thank you.” Tristan tosses a few into his mouth. “Now. Really. Why has your mother deposited you here? Not that I mind, of course. We don't see enough of you.”
“Where's Grandma?” Risk replies, by way of changing the subject. What else can he say? We haven't exchanged a civil word in I don't know how long? I remind her of you?
Tristan gestures with a handful of nuts. “Off teaching or something. I don't recall. What day is it?”
“Saturday, Gramps. I don't think there's any class.” He reaches for a yellow legal pad lying on the coffee table, fishes a red Sharpie from his pocket, and absentmindedly begins to trace the outline of a piece.
“Yes, quite right.” Tristan peers at the leather-banded watch slung loosely around his waist. “I imagine she'll return shortly. The dinner hour grows near.”
“Right.” Risk looks up from his sketch and points toward the staircase with his chin. “How's it going up there?” he ventures.
Tristan weighs the question for a moment. “As well as can be expected,” he admits warily, as if committing an act of hubris sure to result in violent retribution. “Although I can't say how long it will last,” he adds. “I'm greatly diminished, you know.”
“How do you do it?” Risk asks, emboldened. Never before has he heard his grandfather offer even this much. Tristan usually just shakes his head, as if the gradual death he's dying in his study is too gruesome to verbalize. Or else he smiles and says terribly. “I mean, do you know the whole story when you start, or-”
Tristan grimaces. “For God's sake, let's not get into all of that. Talking about it will do me in for sure.”
Risk smiles an apology, sits back, and finishes his drink. He's through talking, ready to endure the thirty seconds of awkward silence that will pass before his grandfather conjures a topic of his own.
“You know, it must be two weeks since I left the house?” Tristan volunteers. “It seems to have only just occurred to him. “How do you like that?”
“Sounds like you need some excitement.”
“Absolutely,” the old man agrees, fist arcing through the air. It is a joke, an evocation of some vigorous-adventurer archetype and Tristan's distance from it. Having successfully amused himself, he takes it further. “But what?” he asks, throwing up his hands. “What challenge could possibly be worthy?”
“You could climb Everest.”
“I've given it some consideration, dear boy. And I regret to say that it is cost-prohibitive. You have to hire an army of Sherpas, that's the main thing. And then you've got to feed the miserable bastards.”
“Hmm.” Risk taps his index finger to his chin. “We could rob a bank to finance the expedition.”
His grandfather chortles. “It would take me a full year to compose the note, dear boy. I'd go through twenty drafts.”
He runs a palm over his full dome of soft white hair. “I could, however, do with a haircut. It's either that or buy a violin. Say, what have you got there?” He shifts to look at the legal pad in Risk's lap, now home to a semi-wildstyle outline embellished with half-shaded 3D effects. Risk holds it up for him, not sure he likes where this might go. “Pretty nifty,” Tristan says. “What does it say?”
“Risk. My alias.”
Tristan squints. “I don't see it.”
Risk traces each letter for him. “It's supposed to be hard to read,” he explains. “Another graf-” He stops himself, not wanting to utter the word. “Another writer would be able to read it.”
“Writer, you say?”
“Yeah. The guys who do this stuff, they call themselves writers. Because the medium is, you know, words.”
“I see,” says Tristan. Then, after a moment, “The subways in the city used to be covered with this sort of thing, you know.”
Risk can't help but smile. “Yeah, I know. Guys figured out that if they wrote their names on trains, a million people would see it in a day.”
“And you actually do this sort of thing?” the old man asks, replacing the bottle on its shelf and turning to hand Risk a second Scotch, larger than the first. “Or do you confine yourself to paper?”
“No,” says Risk, feeling his face flush. The burn of the liquor draws the heat away. “I mean, yeah, I actually do it. I'm pretty good.”
“It can't be legal, of course.”
“Well,” says Risk, unable to believe he's having this conversation with his grandfather, “getting away with it is half the fun. And there are rules. Private property's off-limits, more or less.”
Tristan sits back down, crosses his legs, and palms his cheek, considering this. A smile creeps across his face.
“Come with me,” Risk blurts. “There's a freight yard ten minutes from here. You can see what it's all about.”
“I'd need a new name, wouldn't I? I couldn't just write Tristan Brodsky, or they'd come straight over and arrest me.”
Risk nods. “Plus, it's too long. Three to five letters is ideal.” He can't tell yet if his grandfather is just humoring him, fucking around. But Risk is already wondering where he can score some cans, and whether Tristan is ready for the next hard truth of the graf game: that only toys buy paint, and the accepted method of acquisition is racking.
“How about 'Bronx'?” the old man asks. “That sounds suitably tough, doesn't it?”
“That's so perfect I can't believe nobody's used it yet. Especially since the Bronx is where hip-hop was born.” Risk winces, realizing his mistake. What's hip-hop? He doesn't want to derail the momentum by trying to explain. It never takes less than twenty minutes to get through the speech, finish linking Kool Herc to Robert Moses, graf and breaking to school budget cuts. Friends of his parents and grandparents have forced Risk into the role of cultural translator often enough that he has the recital down. It's his duty to distinguish rap from hip-hop, describe the iceberg submerged beneath the visible tip of Young MC and the Fresh Prince, because Risk is safe to ask. Not to mention available. They'll never get the chance to query a black kid.
But Tristan lets it pass; he either knows what hip-hop is, or doesn't care. “I imagine we'll need some spray paint,” he muses, finishing his drink. “There should be some in the tool shed.”
Risk nods and bounds outside to find it. The tool shed is really a tool chest, rotting into the soil of the side yard. Risk opens the hatch, and there, huddled next to bags of potting soil and Miracle-Gro and rusty hand tools, are four cans of Red Devil brand spray paint. Zone would shit if he saw them: Red Devil has been out of production for years. Writers fiend for it, trade five Krylons for one can. It's some of the highest quality paint ever made, and the colors are off the hook. Risk picks the cans up one by one, shakes them to gauge the contents. White: full. Emerald Green: half full. Flat Black: almost empty. Risk picks up the final can, shakes it, and pumps his fist in triumph. A full can of Bermuda Blue, the rarest, hottest Red Devil of all. A shame to waste it on throw-ups, but what the hell.
Fifteen minutes later, the cans are in a knapsack, thumping against the small of Risk's back as he and his grandfather stalk briskly toward the freight yard, through the weak light of the waning afternoon. On the foyer table lays a note for Amalia: Out vandalizing trains. Back soon. Love, Bronx and Risk (T. Brodsky & T. Freedman). P.S. Don't tell Linda.
