Chapter three : Groen Fingers, Mesembryanthemum

Humdrum neighborhoods down on the coast in the somewhat very last sweet drops of summer. Bring out a certain type of sunlight for the occasion and which stand out to some individuals who seek a specific asceticism in their lives, such as of beach palms and vast panoramic views of seemingly endless oceans.

Especially to one individual in particular, whose backdrop consists of all these perfect little things.

This individual is named Rowland.

And to further identify this amateur photographer, slash graffiti artist; who would spend most of his time defacing walls and billboards where ever he could get a chance as he walked the sandy streets on his own, being one of many of his favorite pass times. Being a young messy-haired, fair and yet dopey looking coconut *coloured kid from South Africa, he lived in a quaint apartment with novels and comic books and strange nit-picks that which he fancied, staked about him and plastered on walls.

Working for minimum wage at a café and carrying the burden of hope as he too, toils numbly along with the masses. Dreaming of a dream wanted by so many within the mass itself, floating like so many others within this typical rat race so to speak. Running around in a maze looking for the cheese but ultimately finding a dead end, with just a measly block of Cheddar backed neatly against it as reward.

That idea to him will never be satisfying...

And although, he was well aware of our dire circumstance as creatures on this planet, he still would probably admit that he simply just wanted to do what he loved for the passion. With the possibility of even being paid for it, maybe with even his photography being the reason for this 'better life' and using the happiness like a spoon to dig under the glass wall...

He did indeed feel that his graffiti was more freeing in motion and apart from the heart racing duty of doing it secretively, he enjoyed what little life it gave him. But he wasn't too sure if that would in any way make it artistically better or in some way more appealing to him, for now it was just his style really and truly made for himself. He couldn't quite comprehend what it was that he didn't like about his practical work which he felt was always a few dimensions short of something truly special, using that he has to watch his back, as an excuse. Oppose to his photography, which he admired for it's power within it's simplicity, and how he could simply add on to it if need be. He firmly believed that it wasn't him that made the picture look good, it was simply the subject and it's contents and the way they were, and he was just lucky enough to see and to capture the artistic prowess of the world and a few of his favorite things.

As the twilight sky grows, the shadows of objects and people across the streets stretch. As streetlights with their yellow tints flicker on as the day ends and the night begins, putting the beautiful sun set back in it's pocket.

Earning one last glare of admiration by the dark olive green eyes of the luxury-deprived student as he walked to his night classes at a community college slightly further in land, about walking distance from his humble abode.

Three blocks sounds short enough...

As cars pass Rowland by and their lights illuminate the road beside him along with the warm glow of lamplights that unknowingly switch on as the sun goes down, and as he walks, he noticed yet another light from behind him slow down as it approached him.

'Not today of all days.', he thought, hoping he wasn't just about to be stopped by the cops or worse.

He looked back, with his best "don't fuck with me" face, at the shaded vehicle as it came at a slow and steady pace. The mysterious black vehicle rolled towards the now nervous Rowland as he stuffed his hand in his front pocket for his switchblade, for this was definitely like no other police vehicle that he knew of. And he was aware that he was never to make the mistake of stopping in such instances. Wondering what a stranger with a car would want with him:

'I don't know, my kidneys, to lock me up in a basement... Directions..?', he was getting a bit a head of himself as the car finally slowed to a stop.

And as the car's window rolled down, a rather fair stranger wearing dark round rimmed shades spoke up; "Want a lift?"

Rowland scoffed,"No... Thanks.", and carried on walking. The man in the car said something else before he drove off, but Rowland didn't hear it, in the hopes that the stranger wasn't being rude about his decline. Feeling no need to care about that stranger, as Rowland made his way up the steps of the university and possibly moving on with his life.

Class was uneventful, and as always was informative as ever with it's supposed essential studies, yet dullard as hours seemed to crawl like days.

Doodling in between notes and staring into space, Rowland noticed the familiarly bored faces around him...

Except for one, and all he wore was black, with a black ribbed long sleeved vest that had holes in his collar here and there; his short black hair although untamed looked silky as the light of the auditorium bounced off of it. Rowland couldn't see this new stranger's face as he was in the first few rows but as he lifted his right hand (obviously paying attention in class); Rowland could see that he wore shamanic looking beads and wristbands than what looked comfortable accompanied by some shiny thin rings, bobbing his head as if listening to music and yet no one seemed to notice him or maybe rather, Rowland hadn't noticed him before but either way he was bothering him, who by this time was just waiting to be dismissed from class.

Twenty minutes go by and the class can finally go home, not a word of his lectures seemed to stick in his mind. Nachos and a bag of weed was all that sounded good to Rowland as he walked down the stairs lazily and into the parking lot; he decided to take his time by stopping for a moment to light a cigarette, when suddenly he heard a voice say;

"Want a lift... Stranger?"

Smooth, calm yet familiar and what he found when he turned around was the tattered-tee-wearing stranger, and what a fair stranger he was. With a stature of aestheticism one would rarely see in an everyday Joe as though he had invented fashion.

With the kind of face you'd find in a magazine advertisement for cologne (or rather a face they couldn't afford) leaning on a black '71 wolkswagen Beetle and possibly the same one that had tailed him earlier, it didn't make any sense to Rowland on how he could have missed someone like him before, he himself wished to take a few photos of him, the man had eyes that Rowland had never seen before, somewhat like a cosmic latté except using silvers and greys dimmed by the street light above them both and his deepened brow - which gave him an intense glare.

"Er...do I know you? 'Cause I think we met earlier...", Rowland asked quite cautiously as he half expected a rowdy confrontation for his rude dismissal. But instead, the stranger smiled ever so softly.

"Nick.", The newly named stranger stated as he pulled out a light for Rowland's cigarette which was now loosely clasped between his lips as he pats himself down for his own lighter, Nick gave a sly grin beaming with confidence.

"Yeah, that was me. Would have saved you the walk.", Nick continued with a deep throated chuckle, which was what he had also said earlier.

As Rowland thanks Nick and gets ready to part ways Nick stopped him as he said,

"You didn't really answer my previous question, though."

It seemed as though this newly acquainted stranger, Nick, had a way with expressing persuasion with a few words, having Rowland think twice about the offer. And although quite persuasive, he was still someone Rowland had just met, ergo, he responded;

"Er..nah, dude I'm cool. Thanks for the light, though."

Slightly raising the hand that held the now lit cigarette symbolically.

"No problem-", Nick held the 'm' in a manner that would indicate the need for a blank to be filled; which Rowland understood as he just remembered that he never told Nick his name.

"Rowland.", He said with a rushed and awkward grin as he felt that he needed to get home.

Now, home and alone, Rowland thought about the week ahead and it deflated him.

He put on a lo-fi podcast and gathered a more positive attitude before settling down by his night stand, taking out a bag of Marijuana and his crusher shaped like a sushi roll, along with his favorite pipe which looked like the property of an elderly gentleman and stuffed it to the brim, lied back and let his mind take him where it may.

Once he found his allusive lighter, he resumed his recreational activities on his shabby balcony overlooking the horizon, now black-blue with pale moonlight unfortunately cloaked by street lamp lights below.

It was going for two in the morning, but he simply could not sleep.

Sound of the music and the sound of his thoughts mingled peacefully, enjoying the ambience.

Sinking to the floor and following gravity as he sat down on an old lawn chair he found...comfortable.

Thinking of a story he heard on the news of a another missing persons case the day before and wondered if wandering the streets was worth the risk considering how far he was from anyone he knew, he was certainly a long way from home, home being on an entirely different continent.

He had decided to go anyway, out on the town. Rowland at the time believed that he needed the excitement, staring at the waning moon through the bars of his balcony like a prisoner would through his only window - a morose pale blue with the wind creating a rhythm that which the Palms danced to under the moonlight's shy glimmer that made the leaves shimmer and found himself thinking of Nick.

'Who was this person and why did it matter, what was so significant about his presence...apart from the fact that I've never seen him before.', He thought.

'What a lift, stranger? '

The words echoed as Rowland admitted he did indeed feel that it really would have saved him the walk, he thought to himself laughing a little for getting weird vibes from the stone-jawed stranger and figured he was just being sceptical.

'Who gives a shit?'

Rowland thought as he stood up and had one long inhale and started putting on his sneakers, grabbing his other bag -appose to his school bag which he resents, this bag was full of spray cans and a few small stencils he had made the day before. Slowly easing his way up from the ground as the dizziness from the weed overtook him.

As he moved towards the door and upon opening it, the smell of herbs and spices filled the short and narrow corridor of the apartment complex. And as Rowland walked past each door he found himself unknowingly eavesdropping as his curiosity compelled him instinctively as it always has. He constantly heard loud arguments and music almost on a daily basis, children crying , the unwanted screams and grunts of sex. The walls were paper thin to him, to him it was a miracle that he could even sleep.

Loud sirens screech by on the street as Rowland descends down the stairs to the outside world, rubbing his stubble-covered face subconsciously while scoping the skyline for plain white walls and slightly out of sight billboards, checking the coast for any lingering law enforcement.

Where to begin when you plot to paint the town red, blue and other bold and bright colors.

He stood in a dark alley facing the city skyline, pondering thousands of things at once like

what to do with all this time between midnight and the next day..?

It was a eerie peaceful night and so Rowland took his time as he walked past strangers, hookers, thieves and possible homicidal maniacs as well as victims (including himself, the real question was which one) as he imagined the worst. kicking stones and thinking of his new day job at a bistro up town as a dish washer.

'Just four days left and it's the weekend...', he thought.

He repeated to himself over and over again, blankly staring at a billboard a few blocks away from where he stood. And as he started again to walk, his phone rang. And to his surprise, it was his girlfriend :

"Hey, Char! What are you doing up so late?"

"Are you thinking too much..?", the voice was sweet yet groggy as a sign of just waking up.

"Because I think you're thinking too much.", Charlotte continued followed by a heavy sigh of exhaustion.

"Damn, yeah I-",

he was cut off by Charlotte.

"I should ask you the same question, young man.", cutting Rowland's train of thought in two.

"Well what can I say, I'm a night owl.", completely forgetting what it was he was going to say, now standing in front of the building that the billboard stood upon, looking for ways to get to the top all the while watching his back.

"You went a little quiet there, Row..."

" Oh, shit sorry I'm just...trying... To find a way up.", his mouth agape, looking upwards and along the walls for a fire escape or some sort of stair case.

"Up where..? "

"To the hoarding. "

"A what? ", He sighed and smiled knowing very well that very few people knew that word, it was his bad;

"A billboard, Char."

"Whatever, chochotte.", Charlotte giggled then continued, "Where are you anyway?"

" Why d'you wanna know? ", he held the phone with his right shoulder.

"I just wanna make you a blunt...just a special delivery if you're close.", she said playfully, Rowland could hear the smile in her voice.

"Well...I don't think now is a good time...", biting his lip as he now stares at the shoddy fire escape ladder that leads to his destination.

Her panted breathe could be heard on the other side as she tossed and turned before she began with playful suspicion in her voice,

"Are you cheating on me."

Rowland laughed at the question and answered while he examined his tool kit and opted for spray paint this time,

"Yeah, she's big and broad and doesn't mind getting dirty with my paint roller."

"What..?", said Charlotte, genuinely concerned, it made her sound cute to him as he broke down in a chuckle.

"Still talking about the billboard, babe.", he said condescendingly almost losing his footing as he laughed at her.

"Oh shit... Almost fell."

"For fucks sake, Row."

They both laughed which was soon followed by a strange silence due to Rowland's concentration on his footing as he climbed the rusty ladder, stopping every now and then at the sound of passing sirens.

Once he made it, he put his phone on hands free mode and the sounds of aerosol cans and ruffling fabric could be heard on Charlotte's end, she waited until finally:

" Ah, I made it... Sorry, where were we..?"

"You were cheating on me with a billboard..."

Charlotte responded, giggling at the thought of her boyfriend dry humping a large advertisement stand.

"What's so funny?", he asked, catching her contagious bout of laughter

"Oh, just... Thinking about this whole billboard business, talk about getting wood."

"It's industrialised steel, apparently I have standards.", and they both burst into laughter as the night sky grew lighter above Rowland.

" I wouldn't be surprised if you were gay."

"Hell, I don't think all the way gay, I mean..."

*gasp* " Rowland DeVile, are you telling me...you're bi-curious..?"

Charlotte always refused to use Rowland's full surname for reasons that she would never say for she believed that he knew exactly why not. When she uttered the last few words, her voice went an octave higher as if she was about to hear gossip of the century.

"Hey, I mean...being gay isn't a choice, Char. "

Rowland chuckled consciously.

"No it is not, honey. No it is not.", slowing the pace of each sentence as if meaning what she said with laughter bubbling out of her throat. An amusing conversation topic but a rather gloomy one when or if relationships are tested, he thought.

Charlotte halted for a moment and sighed heavily,

"What? What's on your mind?", Rowland asked.

"No, I'm just catching my breath...and I've been thinking about how frustrating it is to be the only one who knows your artwork around town, y'know...you really need to get in touch with artistic circles, Row."

"I guess... I hope you're not the only one who does, though. Besides, it's not about the publicity it's about the art... Like giving your hometown a voice or like comic strips on the walls, they tell a story... I mean", he sighed "I'm no old master, here. And I'm pretty sure I'm not the only one out there, you know.", he exhaled softly, thinking to himself as if realising his own insignificance but had a supposed moment of clarity and inhaled deeply as if about to speak.

"Spit it out, Row... "

"It's just funny, how knowing how much of a nobody you are can really put things into perspective..."

*sigh*"Rowland... " Charlotte started, having always said his name like that when he had said or done a particular thing that otherwise would bother her. But he continued :

"No, no just hear me out, I mean... I was just thinking that, if nothing I do really matters then I have the ability to do whatever I want... I mean...some people will be like 'nothing really matters, so why bother.'. But I say 'hey, nothing really matters so why not. ' y'know." and all the while he was saying that, he had dropped his paint can and started pacing unbeknownst to himself while Charlotte listened.

" Well fuck, I never thought about it like that, Row Jeez.", she said with a huff of surprise, then continued :

"It's like...four in the Fucking morning, Row." which immediately reminded Rowland that he needed to get a move on for multiple reasons, one being the police.

"Hey, it's kinda nice hearing from you after two days."

"kinda..?"

"Well, apparently you're not the only one... I mean I could even have a list... Maybe.", he shrugged his shoulders and held back a laugh ,trying to pull a straight face for an imaginary audience as he heard her gasp cartoonishly and whimper like a child obviously crying wolf.

"Hey,this is awkward buuut... I got to go. I kinda have a date...", he continued humorously imitating the roll of the board lover.

"Smoke up before we hang up..?", he asked while he looked for his inter dimensional space traveling lighter that came and went as it pleased.

"I was about to ask the same thing."

And so both, Charlotte and Rowland smoked their own joints together. Saying their good mornings, their good nights and good byes. With Rowland bracing himself for the week to come.

*******

*Coloured=referring to the South African term for biracial.