The Mark of TORGO
bomb: [bom] (n) the physical mark left behind by a graffiti artist SYN: tag (v) the act of leaving such a marking; “to drop my bomb”
throwie: [throh] (n) slang “a throw-up;” a mark left by a graffiti artist distinguishable as his or her name in large bubble letters as opposed to plain script
beef: [beef] (v) an act wherein one graffiti artist inscribes his or her marking over that of another graffiti artist in an act of disrespect
buff: [buhf] (v) to repaint or clean property in order to rid it of graffiti, typically done by non-graffiti artists; “I dropped my bomb on that store, but they buffed it the next day.”
As we drive around, he occasionally sniffs his fingers. “Man, that smell! Don’t get me wrong, I don’t inhale aerosols recreationally, but when I’m out here, the smell really gets to me. It gets me going.”
The buzz and hum of adrenaline in his ears, or perhaps the dizzying spin of fumes, has instilled a rhythm in Fernando. He drums his fingers on the steering wheel, swaying his head as his eyes scan the storefronts and facades, licking his lips in anticipation.
I’m struck by the emptiness of the streets, the bleak desolation. I’ve seen fewer than five other people then entire time we’ve been out. The tags left by Fernando and other artists are the few features that humanize these bleak vistas, marking them with the work of human hands.
Fernando’s voice swells with pride as he points out his own tags like a hometown hero giving a tour to a visiting dignitary. That gated store. This electrical box. The side of that white delivery truck.
He cuts himself off mid-sentence as he slams on the brakes. “That spot’s getting hit tonight,” he says, jerking his chin in the direction of a blank red brick wall at a large intersection. “I’ve wanted to do it for a while, but I forgot about it.”
He throws the car into reverse, nearly backing over the No Parking sign as he veers to the curb in front of it. He leaves the engine running as he bounds from the car almost before it’s stopped moving. I pour myself onto the sidewalk, a bit addled from the whiplash-inducing ride.
Fernando’s already finishing the second O of TORGO by the time I get to the wall. A car abruptly rounds the corner, casting its lights directly on us, but it’s too late for him to stop. He has to finish this one. Now. He does the three dots, and we’re out of there. The other car’s taillights still cast a crimson glow on our dashboard as we pull away.
Fernando is flying. He takes his eyes off the road for a disconcertingly long time, watching the tag grow smaller behind us. “Man, that is such a sexy fucking spot!,” he screams. “Everyone’s going to see that one. That was probably one of the most exhilarating spots I’ve ever hit. Everyone, everyone is going to see that on their way to work tomorrow!” He acts out a scenario, doing voices to indicate a man and a woman. “‘Torgo? Who’s Torgo?’ ‘Gee, I don’t know, honey.’” He pounds his fists on the steering wheel and explodes with laughter. “Damn!”
As we continue to drive, though, the high begins to lag. Fifteen minutes, twenty minutes, a half hour go by, and yet, he hasn’t found another suitable spot. He says he wants to climb something, to put a tag somewhere that will make people wonder how he managed. But the neighborhood we’re in is lousy with police and other obstacles.
I take the downtime as an opportunity to ask him slightly more personal questions, biographical stuff. As he answers, the pride of the hometown hero vanishes from his voice. The fire is gone, the passion and the candor he exhibited when talking about his art. He spits out responses. Answers about moving to Texas for a while after his dad lost his job. About school and work, bars and clubs.
But he’s not quite the same person he was a moment before. The deflation is almost visible. A wall is thrown up and the naked honesty in his eyes is somewhere behind it.
I catch myself. He’s just a guy. And we’re out here tagging. And that’s it. I dismiss my momentary lapse into analysis as just a misinterpretation of his fatigue and let it go at that.
He, too, catches himself beginning to ebb, and steers the conversation back to the topic nearest to his heart.
“It’s like, you drop three or four tags, and you think it might be time to call it a night. But then you see another blank wall and think, ‘Nah. Nah, I got time for one more.’”
As he revs himself back up, the excitement he creates is contagious. I’m beginning to realize the temptation of tagging. The rush of it, the satisfaction, and the thrill. It’s like stealing when you know you won’t get caught, doing it just because you can. But, even for a veteran like Fernando, there are certain limits that usually remain unspoken. Unless you ask.
“I won’t do a church,” he says. “I won’t do a school. And I won’t do a private home. Like, I wouldn’t just walk up to that house there and hit it. That’d just be wrong.”
