Even the photo reveals its enormity. Not as impressive as the real painting, the largest in Bakersfield: On the left, the thinker. The well-known silhouette. On the right, another. A close facsimile of its neighbor, especially in the impoverished lighting. A man props up his head with both hands, sunken body, collapsed forward into itself—a black hole. A man who’s given up, wishing sweet escape from his own form. As if he’s praying in reverse. Webbed-winged demons perching upon his taught scalp wouldn’t be out of place. I feel his weight—his head in caged fingers, his thoughts, ten pounds of unnecessary weight. His shortness of breath, resignation. About to start my trial, this double image also holds personal significance—the time is extremely fucking nigh. Thinker or Depressive. Your choice, Sam.
Juxtaposition is good. It’s always juxtaposition with these people. If it were simply an image of another pandemic-ravaged dude, I’d never come back. In fact I wouldn’t even think of joining them. But what the image truly shows is how technically easy change is: an adjustment of posture, attitude, thought, position. Like the second note of a triad, a subtle shift from minor to major. The parallel images are brothers, twins, born a complete package, contained wholly within each of us.
“You like our latest action?” comes a voice from behind.
I look back and am pushed into a gathering crowd. We round the corner. There he is—the murine Dardonne. Widely regarded as a ferocious speck, the leader speaks from under his flat cap in non-negotiable squeaks: “Welcome friends. You have all become sick with hypocrisy, with the doublespeak that surrounds us: deception dressed as truth; rape dressed as aid; armed soldiers trained to kill and maim in the guise of humanity. We accept this. We accept that these lofty concepts no longer hold meaning, and therefore we turn to the absurd, the illogical. Because we know that to be true. No more Trojan-horse language. We embrace our chaos, the world’s chaos. Absurdity can be trusted. Your confidence in yourself—and your fears—will be ruthlessly tested today.”
We are directed to stand against the pocked wall. His beady pupils scream.
I taste must. The wind groans against the warehouse. A woman stands beside him, her long boots like a tree trunk at night. Respectfully quiet, but she does nothing to diminish her height, which makes the wiry man beside her even smaller. Before them sits a long, scarred wooden table; its wounds can’t hide from the two orphan light bulbs hung from the gaping ceiling. A translucent plastic container filled with coffee and an eight-ounce mug sit atop the table. This all might seem normal if it weren’t for the intermittent screams of those dragged away.
The line of initiates snake to the table, myself among them. We know the consequences of not passing. I practiced, and was able to pass alone, but would I be successful under such an assembly of eager and terrified eyes? I haven’t come to this decision lightly, but I now know this absurdist gang is my home. It all has come to a point—my dreams, signs. Will I be able to impress this mouse with the proud sideburns? I have to pass. I shiver at the thought of failing. My mind reels as I imagine the gruesome fates of both the dribblers and the splashers who moments earlier stood before me.
The two hanging light bulbs, tentacles from some amputated beast, compete for her body, marking her here and there with their Exacto light, dissecting her form into shards—a butcher’s diagram, each serrated triangle and trapezoid a variously priced cut. I make eye contact with her as she steps further into the light, her eyes surfacing from their dusky rings.
“Next.”
Just like the others I step behind the table.
“Pour when ready.”
I inhale deeply, hold my breath and exhale. My hands shake. One shot. I raise the unlipped container, tilting it towards the mug. It all goes in, except…my heart stops as a stream rushes down the mug’s side and pools onto the table below. I should have been more deliberate. I really should have been more deliberate. Cool air suddenly brushes my forehead, trailing a bead of sweat.
“You dribbled.” She stabs me with her glance.
“I’m terribly sorry. I was just nervous. That’s all. Really.”
“He’s done.”
“Wait. Wait, please. You must believe me. I used to be a dribbler, I admit it. But that’s the old me. I’m a new man, really, I was just nervous. You must understand.”
“You know the test. And you know the consequence,” she concludes. A thin man in trench coat materializes from the shadows—a civilized beast. His half-shaven head, sandpaper beard and multiple piercings do nothing to alleviate my fear as I consider what he might be capable of. He takes hold of my upper arm like a wet vise, tugging me to his shadowy lair. I plead with the mouse for clemency.
***
Back in North Kern State, one thing was certain. Digging for hours. Come back to our cells sore, aching, needing baths, needing love, god needing touch, but that wasn’t what stopped us cold. Was the sting of knowing all escape routes were blocked, that each our foreboding paths were crossed by rifles and small men who had been taught well the laws of zero-sum, knew their places in the great rolling pink flesh of human hierarchy…expected us to know our places too. Always happens like this, starts with a sting, then comes to the stinging is routine, the flesh become numb, we dig and see how close to the earth we really are. Hard to imagine a human ever get to a point, an acceptance, of metal biting flesh. But fear can only hold for so long. Fear can be starved. And so…day by day builds, rises, fear less important than freedom, than escape, than demonstrating that yes, I too am worthy of respect; I too am just as deserving of freedom as the man in the hat, the man in the wide hat – shading – holding the rifle like a baby. God didn’t put me on this earth to live as a vermin. I hold myself. I accept the bullet’s bite if that’s what it takes. Foolish, yeah maybe. But I never understood bravery. They always said foolish. What was foolish was waiting around. Afterlife? What afterlife. So when they said run we didn’t have to think. The spirit was behind our legs, our pelvises, our lungs, heart. The world didn’t care. When they said run, did they mean it? For good?
We adjusted underground. Depression Pandemic turned our world upside on its godforsaken head. I can’t condone our violence or any violence of the other gangs. We follow the City Turf Accords, so we too agree to clip off a body piece of any unsuccessful initiate. A way of marking those unworthy, discourages any initiate who’s heart’s not in it. Sick to see individuals walking around with no earlobes, sometimes with no ears at all. The worse though are the ones missing multiple pieces – ears, fingers, toes even. The rules aren’t mine. I wish we didn’t have a need for the gangs, but it’s a way. A way to get back to the basics.
Don’t know why I convinced Dardonne to accept Sam into our family. I saw in his pleading eyes that his heart was good, was in it, committed. We need men like Sam to change this world. After all this time in recruitment, it’s plain what they’re made of. Anyway, he’s in his provisional and will be cut if he doesn’t work out. Truth be told I couldn’t stand a smooth face like his mutilated. I suppose I still have a heart beating somewhere underneath this survivor’s skin of mine. It all happened so quickly – people walking through with artificial kidneys, political collapse, the collectives, gangs that sprang up like weeds through all this depression. Change is what we’re used to now.
***
My eyes adjust to the dark. I feel the tightness. My breathing is labored. There are no streetlights here. We march, band of Banksy fans, to the rendezvous at the intersection of Mohawk and California. I know the place. Next to the Stockdale Tower, the Petroleum Club, where the wealthy Liar’s Club come to dine and brag. I recall the “Bots World” sign, displaying an image of the earth in the grip of a giant robotic pincer. I feel the squeeze in my chest.
We fall into character as we approach the van, where they hand out standard safety vests, reflecting any stray street light. A flock approaches, hovering and redirecting together, shimmering in the moonlight, an angry cloud. Nearly as intuitive as a flock of birds—it’s gotten hard to tell the difference with the naked eye. The turns are just a dash sharper. It’s true that bots imitate nature.
“Sam, don’t worry. You made it this far, right?” she says. She’s not wearing a vest; maybe there aren’t enough to go around. Or maybe her eyes are sufficient. Dressed in black, with her dark hair momentarily tamed into ponytail, her green eyes shine like a set of taillight reflectors.
“Do I look like I’m worried?”
“Yes. Stay cool. They don’t have any reason to think we aren’t legit. Don’t give em one,” she says.
“Right. Nothing out of the ordinary. Sarah, isn’t it? Let me ask you—is that eyeshadow or are your eyes just naturally that weird and gloomy?” I follow up with, “I should add your eyes are actually very charming.”
“Sam, look at me. Don’t. Fuck. Around,” she says, her features charged.
“How about a drink after this?” I ask. I may have seen a passing smile.
The drone flock shifts overhead—Great Eye in the sky—until they become again just another artificial flock, not flying north or south, but a routine beat over the Bakersfield skyline. From the van we’re given twenty-four inch paint rollers. The mouse is within. I see his pinhead eyes under the cap, mouthing orders so fast, I can almost see whiskers pulsating from his cheeks, blurring his ferocious sideburns.
It’s already two in the morning when we stop traffic, set up cones and lines, and spread our stencils on the intersection’s pavement. We have other action teams, three more, spread out in Bakersfield. Our group of approximately fifteen work as traffic comes and goes. We all know the risk, but we’re in it together. I feel like I almost belong. We roll the wedding white paint over and into the colossal stencils, which shine like partially-wrapped patients under the three-quarter moon and streetlamps. With every paint-meets-pavement slurp, my heart grows.
Car lights approach. The vehicle stops. The driver leans out. “What kind of work’s this?”
Sarah takes the lead. “Routine.” She steps back and motions for him to continue.
“Oh yeah? Looks like you’re making some kinda picture.”
“That’s the job. Like everybody else trying to make a buck here, we do what we’re told.”
“Is this for an arts festival or what?” the driver asks.
“Sorry, we’re not allowed to give details,” replies Sarah. “Check the Department of City Planning tomorrow.”
The car inches down the street, caressed by hovering lamps. Just as I’m ready to breathe a sigh of relief, its brake lights glare. Sarah looks down the street, then shuttles to the van and speaks with Captain Gnawer, who exits under his oversized duffer cap, like a lampshade. I smell skunk as he walks to the parked vehicle. I can’t hear from this distance, but I see their excited movements. The driver gesticulates as enthusiastically as the dormouse. His hands flutter close to mouse’s narrow face. It’s not a question of if. Only of when. I roll paint, my ears perked for…
The car moves on.
“Let’s pack up!” says our rodent leader as he walks back to the van.
We carefully remove the stencils. The naturally-reflective white sparkles in the night. We leave behind two easily-recognizable images.
Distant sirens roar and pierce the night. Mouse allows about half the group to enter the van. It’s clear that there’s no room for the rest of us. For the first time Sarah and I lock eyes—a look of mutual attraction, one that establishes a play date for our souls, broken artificially by her closing the van’s barn doors. I saw empathy in those reflector-eyes—maybe even an apology. All you need is love rushes to mind. If this is true, then how to begin? It may start with exactly this kind of eye communion. Is this the way to save the world?
We should have moved faster. Most of us clearly expected to fit into the van. At least they took our safety vests. We are six and walk quickly down the sidewalk. A police cruiser spins around the corner and blinds us with headlights. A policeman steps out, weapon drawn.
“What’ve we got here?” he asks.
None of us respond.
“Nothing? No words of defense? You just got lost out here at three in the morning? Just wandering around,” he says.
“We were out for a walk,” I say, as if my terrified comrades are friends.
“I suppose you don’t know squat about that painting up there on the street either,” he says, as he holsters his gun and speaks into his handheld. “We found the perps. Yup, got ‘em for civil destruction.” He re-holsters his device and places his right hand on his pistol.
“Slowly, very slowly, place your hands above your heads and spread your legs. I cannot emphasize enough that under no circumstances should you make any sudden movements. Clear?”
We assent, generally. I consider running. The cop seems to sense it, and locks me in his gaze. “Don’t even think about it, son. I would much rather today not be your last, and I’m pretty sure you’d prefer the same.” I lower my eyes and try to catch my labored breath. But I can’t kick the thought. I could catapult over the small wall to my right, then escape behind some trees, running until I was safe.
“I want you all to know that, contrary to what you may believe, vandalism—now prosecuted as civil destruction—is indeed a crime and very much punishable in the glorious state of California. Now I can’t tell you what your punishment will be, but I can tell you you may have the opportunity to experience one of the state’s many correctional facilities from the inside. If you make it through tonight, that is.”
Torture or death. Hums of streetlamps, clicks and pops from his vehicle and handheld, and even a cricket chirp fills the void. A comrade with a ponytail—a dying bouquet—shakes slightly.
“Now I just want that to sink in. Ask yourselves, was it worth it?” the officer asks.
The streetlights coil around a newly parking police car, collecting like metal shards under a magnet. The new officer steps out. White and male, both ostensibly stemming from the same stiff-necked and grim lineage. Multiple eyes fall on us. My arms and wrists ache atop my head.
“What should we do with these boys?” says the first officer
“10-32. 10-32,” cracks the handheld of the second officer. “10-17,” he responds before returning to his vehicle. “Take care of ‘em quick, and let’s go,” he says, a disembodied voice, echoing in the silent street.
“You boys. Did you do this? Tell me the truth now.” The first officer’s index finger rests too close to the trigger.
I can make it. I just need a distraction. I feel my body stiffen.
Someone in our group speaks. A thin newbie with a pony tail. “Officer, I can honestly say we had nothing to do with it.”
“So, the innocent one says I should just let you go.” I hear the hum of nearby machinery. I watch his pudgy finger oscillate over the trigger. “Today you can count yourselves lucky. Go home, and don’t you dare do any of this shit again. Next time, I come after you personally.”
I hear multiple gulps, and a series of mumbled thank yous. Lucky. A damn lucky dribbler am I. The police cruisers practice their Doppler droning as they drive away. The sirens penetrate deep into the night, like a Philip Glass etude of freedom, diminishing in the distant Bakersfield streets. I find myself alone. I walk back to our street art to admire our night’s work—
I’ve never seen anything like it. My heart lifts a half step, from minor to major. John and Yoko in an office, sitting across from one another in separate cubicles, backs to each other, facing separate screens, wearing computer input headbands. John’s long hair is greasy, tucked sheepishly behind his ears. He looks like just another stressed, ill-postured hippie. Yoko looks frustrated and annoyed. They stare mostly ahead. But. The wet white of their eyes fixes their unpainted irises in just the correct off-kilter positions. They each possess one of these plaintive eyes—each searching for each other across that office corridor. The stencil designer nailed it. The screens in front of them are white and empty. The whole scene could have been purgatory, or Hades.

Beneath the images of the broken lovers giant letters spell, “ALL YOU NEED IS FEAR.”
***
If I felt bad about leaving them there like that, I don’t know it. The heart’s sensitive, but buried, like when they made us dig. Sam’s a good find and if he’s alright that’s good. I never learned to keep balance – the fear, love, passion. It’s work, but the heart does tell, whispers when it needs to. When I went back to our action the next day, before they took up the paint, I saw it in its glory. Yeah, love may be the answer, but it’s work that takes down the barriers. When they said All you need is love, they didn’t mean it to apply to our world. We take down barriers, we dig to get to something close to love, but Bakersfield is addicted. Addicted to all the things that tear us apart from the insides. Art is good, has the power to convert, upset the natural cancer from the insides. We need it, disruption, focus for a minute on something real and intangible. If Sam is really interested, then let him put in the work. We all need to dig sometimes for gold, even if the chances are a thousand to one.