Graffiti Uprising in the Slope

One night a couple of weeks ago, I was working out in my living room to an episode of House. I was in a relatively good mood, too, minding my own business, when a knock interrupted my sweat session. I don't get visitors, let alone unannounced ones. My control issues take care of that for me. So, confused, I walked to the door and looked through my lame excuse for a peep hole.

I opened the door to see a bespectacled woman on the tall side who, it seemed, needed to visit her hair stylist because of the sun-damaged blond mop that sat atop her head. I don't think she knew she needed this visit, because this was a Park Slope woman. Not sure if she was a mom, although if she were, I have no doubt that she would be pushing her baby in a stroller.

She took me in, adorned in my sweaty white t-shirt and Spurs shorts along with weight-lifting gloves, and prepared to deliver her speech. You see, there is graffiti on the side of our apartment building. When I first noticed it, I will admit I made a mental note to call the super and ask him to paint over it. But I simply forgot.

So two months later, here is blond moppy-headed woman, telling me how unsightly it is. That while she doesn't live in the building, she and all the others who live near it do have to see it every day. And that if it doesn't get painted over, well then surely others will follow, inviting the bad element into the neighborhood, which would invite more police around, which would, of course, make property values drop and the world come to an end.

OK, so most of that was running through my head as I listened to her, newly released endorphins running through my body. I did interact with her, mostly assuring her that I'd call the super when I got a chance. She thanked me, being the well-mannered woman that she was, and told me she'd check back in a couple of days. I couldn't wait.

But I'd have to wait. And finally, two nights ago, as I was putting stuff up on Craigslist to sell, deep in the minutiae of what's involved with that, there was another knock at the door. (Oh, Nevin, where are you?! Drat, the roommate's on vacation!) I pushed aside my camera and my laptop and walked to the door, with no endorphins to speak of, and without the energy to look through the peep hole. And there she was. I saw only her glasses and her mop.

"Hi, I'm sorry to bother you. Bu-," she looked to her left and pointed at the trashcans. She seemed nervous. "I- I'm not sure if you had a chance to talk to your super." I nodded. "I just saw him tonight, you know, he was taking out the garbage, and asked him to paint over it."

I stood there and just listened to her with no movement on my face and even less desire to make her feel comfortable by speaking to her. "He got kind of belligerent with me. He was talking about catching the people who did it rather than painting over it." I finally broke my silence.

"I did let him know. If he didn't get to it, then I'm sure he had a good reason."

"Yeah, well, you all probably don't see it. You know, those of you who live in the building. But all of us on this side you know, and they'll just put more on the wall."

"Yeah, we can't have Park Slope starting to look like Crown Heights now, can we?" I baited her and she almost took it.

"Ye- well, you know, it should just be painted over, because it just doesn't look good. And I know you can't see it, but we can and- do you have a landlll- a landlord?" No we don't have a landlord, you nincompoop. We're squatters. Yeah, that's it. We're graffiti-loving, Basquiat-worshiping squatters.

"We do have a landlord."

"Can I- do you think I can have her number, and I can-"

"How bout I give her a call, and let her know that the neighborhood is restless?" I still hadn't broken a smile or any kind of warmth by now; that would wait until after I shut the door so I could let out my frustration in a more passive-aggressive manner.

"OK, I can do that." But this meant that I'd have to turn around and expend my own effort. "I'm sorry to be such a pain in the ass," she said as I turned around to find paper and a pen. No she wasn't.

The exchange ended and I took Lisa's numbers and threw them in the trash. The next day, the super knocked on my door to tell me he painted. And we had a little discussion about the crazy bitch in the neighborhood.

I get it. But just leave me out of it.