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Description
The Old Man and the Graffiti Artist

Henry stared at his TV, which was telling him of murders, sports, and the trophy wives of stars. He wondered if anyone cared about anything else these days. He gazed out the window upon hearing the daily screaming of Ellen, who lived five doors down.
She beat her walker furiously on the sidewalk, “No, no, NO, you can’t make me!” ,audible even from his second-story window.
Pedestrians stared at the “crazy old woman”, whispering to each other. The newly-hired pretty, young nurse tried to quell Ellen, taking blows to the face from the woman’s bony hand, and probably to her spirit as well.
He sipped his coffee and looked at his dark reflection in it. As all faces do, his has changed and lined over time, blond hair fading to a light silver. But he always had those crinkles around his eyes, they’re in every single high school yearbook.
But the eyes themselves have never, ever changed. Green gray and rimmed with gold, “elves’ eyes”, as his mother called them. The eyes that convinced his father(if he really was his father) that he was a bastard, the eyes that insured beatings from him and smaller portions of dinner, as well as flirting and pretend swoons from girls around his age.
He has stopped looking at Ellen, his sister, with envy as he did when he was younger, replacing it with pity.
The absolute favorite in the clan of his five siblings, preening and beautiful, witty and cutting, charismatic and bold to an excruciating degree, her parents let her get away with everything, especially his father. Any teasing she did resulted in laughter, any he did to her resulted in punishment(she was quite talented at bringing on tears).
She was the most popular girl in school the second she came in, even as a freshman, an astounding feat. She was the debutante, the Prom Queen, the cheerleader, the baton-twirler, the valedictorian, the love-to-hate object of her numerous girlfriends. By the time she had graduated, she had left a trail of hearts (some his friends on the team) inflicted with jelly-fish stings and still enamored.
It was impossible to compete with her.
He had hated her sometimes, but he also hated to see her fall. Fall into depression when she saw her stunning features begin to fade, fall into madness when she saw there was nothing she could do to stop it, no matter the face lifts, age was inevitable.
As he checked outside the window again, he saw Ellen sit down, crumpled in a ball, rocking back and forth.
Henry took another sip from his black coffee(made by a nurse, as they apparently thought he was too incompetent to make a damn cup of joe, just because he lived in a nursing home).
Just another regular day.

A click, a turn, and Aidan came into the “living quarters”, with his loping, stumbling walk. He sat next to Henry and asked, “Are you really watching that?”
“No,” he said, picking up the remote and flicking it off.
Aidan watched as Henry took a whiff of his inhaler.
“I have come to save you from the bingo and the crappy food, as per your request,” said Aidan, handing him a bag full of a burger and fries, as well as Coke.
“Though there’s not really much I can do about the bingo…”
Henry took the bag wordlessly, taking three big bites out of the burger.
“Did you ever wonder why?” Aidan asked.
“Pardon?”
“I mean…I have the state-mandated counselor and all that, but they never once asked my why I did it. No one asked me why. Isn’t that kind of important?”
Impatiently, he swiped away his reddish-brown hair that has an annoying tendency to always fall past his forehead.
This “why” thing has been bothering him for a while. I mean, sure, he spray-painted the big fat rose dripping with water, and the little skull by it, and the words “The world is fucking coming to an end” (the obscenity only made matters worse), but no one bothered to ask what on earth would bring him to do something like that. He’s pretty sure that was what they were thinking, though.
Why can’t people ever ask what they think?
Henry took a satisfactory slurp of Classic Coke, and replied, “No, I haven’t…but I’d love to hear it.”
Where should he even begin?
“Okay, so… I take art class. I go the art club after school. I love art, you know? And the teacher never gives me advice, just says they all look like cartoons and I need to take it ‘more seriously’. But I do to take it seriously. I mean, it’s what I DO. How can I not? Then my parents see my drawings, and refuse to pay for the paper and paint, say they don’t want to waste their money on it, and I tell them ‘it’s my money‘, and they say no because they’re my parents and everything I have is theirs. Then they say they don’t want me to waste my own money, which contradicts what they said, but whatever.
I guess I just didn’t know what to do. There was nowhere for me to draw, really. Maybe part of it was rebellion, but most of it was just needing a place to draw. I didn’t really think about it. And I STILL don’t know what to do.”
Henry sighed and offered him a fry. Aidan chewed the salted potato strip, not really tasting it at all.
“Steal.”
“What?! Aren’t I supposed to be here to pay off my crime in community service, not do more crime?”
“You heard me. Listen, I know art class teachers. I had one. Yes, maybe a few decades ago, but still. They buy too many art supplies. You have to do projects in any case, so take extra whatever you need. Draw when no one’s around. Show them to me if you need critique. I have a major in art.”
“A major in art…and you were an engineer?”
“Yup.”
“Another story?” he asks, brightening.
“Aidan…I’ve told nothing but my stories every single day since you’ve come here. I want to hear some of yours.”
“But…”
“But first, you really do need to get to school.”
Aidan got up from the couch and walked towards the door, somewhat confused by this, but happy nonetheless.
“Aidan?”
He turned around.
“Yeah?”
“You know…your time for community service ended two days ago. Why did you still come?’
“I don’t know. I wanted to.”
“I see.”
“How did you know it ended, anyway?” he asks suspiciously.
The old man rolls his eyes.
“I’m omniscient.”
“Dude, you know I have no idea what that means, right?”
“All-knowing.”
“Oh.”
When Aidan turned the doorknob, Henry starts their inside joke.
“Bye, hoodlum.”
Aidan grinned,
“Bye, geezer.”
And left.

Henry noticed something on the leg of his table that he could’ve sworn wasn’t there before…
An intricate looping of what looks to be a vine, complete with brown, wooden delicate leaves works it way up the leg of his table. Henry squints and makes out the initials, “A.M.”
Aidan McFord.
He laughs.

Description
The Old Man and the Graffiti Artist

Henry stared at his TV, which was telling him of murders, sports, and the trophy wives of stars. He wondered if anyone cared about anything else these days. He gazed out the window upon hearing the daily screaming of Ellen, who lived five doors down.
She beat her walker furiously on the sidewalk, “No, no, NO, you can’t make me!” ,audible even from his second-story window.
Pedestrians stared at the “crazy old woman”, whispering to each other. The newly-hired pretty, young nurse tried to quell Ellen, taking blows to the face from the woman’s bony hand, and probably to her spirit as well.
He sipped his coffee and looked at his dark reflection in it. As all faces do, his has changed and lined over time, blond hair fading to a light silver. But he always had those crinkles around his eyes, they’re in every single high school yearbook.
But the eyes themselves have never, ever changed. Green gray and rimmed with gold, “elves’ eyes”, as his mother called them. The eyes that convinced his father(if he really was his father) that he was a bastard, the eyes that insured beatings from him and smaller portions of dinner, as well as flirting and pretend swoons from girls around his age.
He has stopped looking at Ellen, his sister, with envy as he did when he was younger, replacing it with pity.
The absolute favorite in the clan of his five siblings, preening and beautiful, witty and cutting, charismatic and bold to an excruciating degree, her parents let her get away with everything, especially his father. Any teasing she did resulted in laughter, any he did to her resulted in punishment(she was quite talented at bringing on tears).
She was the most popular girl in school the second she came in, even as a freshman, an astounding feat. She was the debutante, the Prom Queen, the cheerleader, the baton-twirler, the valedictorian, the love-to-hate object of her numerous girlfriends. By the time she had graduated, she had left a trail of hearts (some his friends on the team) inflicted with jelly-fish stings and still enamored.
It was impossible to compete with her.
He had hated her sometimes, but he also hated to see her fall. Fall into depression when she saw her stunning features begin to fade, fall into madness when she saw there was nothing she could do to stop it, no matter the face lifts, age was inevitable.
As he checked outside the window again, he saw Ellen sit down, crumpled in a ball, rocking back and forth.
Henry took another sip from his black coffee(made by a nurse, as they apparently thought he was too incompetent to make a damn cup of joe, just because he lived in a nursing home).
Just another regular day.

A click, a turn, and Aidan came into the “living quarters”, with his loping, stumbling walk. He sat next to Henry and asked, “Are you really watching that?”
“No,” he said, picking up the remote and flicking it off.
Aidan watched as Henry took a whiff of his inhaler.
“I have come to save you from the bingo and the crappy food, as per your request,” said Aidan, handing him a bag full of a burger and fries, as well as Coke.
“Though there’s not really much I can do about the bingo…”
Henry took the bag wordlessly, taking three big bites out of the burger.
“Did you ever wonder why?” Aidan asked.
“Pardon?”
“I mean…I have the state-mandated counselor and all that, but they never once asked my why I did it. No one asked me why. Isn’t that kind of important?”
Impatiently, he swiped away his reddish-brown hair that has an annoying tendency to always fall past his forehead.
This “why” thing has been bothering him for a while. I mean, sure, he spray-painted the big fat rose dripping with water, and the little skull by it, and the words “The world is fucking coming to an end” (the obscenity only made matters worse), but no one bothered to ask what on earth would bring him to do something like that. He’s pretty sure that was what they were thinking, though.
Why can’t people ever ask what they think?
Henry took a satisfactory slurp of Classic Coke, and replied, “No, I haven’t…but I’d love to hear it.”
Where should he even begin?
“Okay, so… I take art class. I go the art club after school. I love art, you know? And the teacher never gives me advice, just says they all look like cartoons and I need to take it ‘more seriously’. But I do to take it seriously. I mean, it’s what I DO. How can I not? Then my parents see my drawings, and refuse to pay for the paper and paint, say they don’t want to waste their money on it, and I tell them ‘it’s my money‘, and they say no because they’re my parents and everything I have is theirs. Then they say they don’t want me to waste my own money, which contradicts what they said, but whatever.
I guess I just didn’t know what to do. There was nowhere for me to draw, really. Maybe part of it was rebellion, but most of it was just needing a place to draw. I didn’t really think about it. And I STILL don’t know what to do.”
Henry sighed and offered him a fry. Aidan chewed the salted potato strip, not really tasting it at all.
“Steal.”
“What?! Aren’t I supposed to be here to pay off my crime in community service, not do more crime?”
“You heard me. Listen, I know art class teachers. I had one. Yes, maybe a few decades ago, but still. They buy too many art supplies. You have to do projects in any case, so take extra whatever you need. Draw when no one’s around. Show them to me if you need critique. I have a major in art.”
“A major in art…and you were an engineer?”
“Yup.”
“Another story?” he asks, brightening.
“Aidan…I’ve told nothing but my stories every single day since you’ve come here. I want to hear some of yours.”
“But…”
“But first, you really do need to get to school.”
Aidan got up from the couch and walked towards the door, somewhat confused by this, but happy nonetheless.
“Aidan?”
He turned around.
“Yeah?”
“You know…your time for community service ended two days ago. Why did you still come?’
“I don’t know. I wanted to.”
“I see.”
“How did you know it ended, anyway?” he asks suspiciously.
The old man rolls his eyes.
“I’m omniscient.”
“Dude, you know I have no idea what that means, right?”
“All-knowing.”
“Oh.”
When Aidan turned the doorknob, Henry starts their inside joke.
“Bye, hoodlum.”
Aidan grinned,
“Bye, geezer.”
And left.

Henry noticed something on the leg of his table that he could’ve sworn wasn’t there before…
An intricate looping of what looks to be a vine, complete with brown, wooden delicate leaves works it way up the leg of his table. Henry squints and makes out the initials, “A.M.”
Aidan McFord.
He laughs.