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Goody Two-Shoes

Daniel

Talk to anybody from my childhood, and they’ll all say the same thing. Daniel Hollingsworth is a rule follower. Prone to panic attacks if he so much as puts a toe out of line.

While my friends were sneaking out to parties, I was at home, wrapped in a blanket and doing my homework.

When they were getting high, I was getting straight As in AP Chemistry and volunteering at the local animal shelter.

When everyone else was hanging out at the skatepark or skinny-dipping in the city pool after hours, I was taking piano lessons and learning how to speak fluent French.

All my life, I’ve been a Goody Two-Shoes. Never in a million years did I think I’d be here, spray paint can in hand, staring up at the pristine wall of a condominium owned by Harrison’s parents.

A thrill runs through me at the thought of finally shedding my angelic image. To finally be someone different. Someone daring.

A rebel.

Charlie clears his throat. “Uh, what are we supposed to draw?” His voice wavers slightly; if there’s anyone who’s ever lived on the straight and narrow more than me, it’s him.

“Anything that represents the excess and greed of the wealthy,” Harrison says.

“Think of all the ridiculous things rich people blow their money on—designer clothes, fancy cars, lavish parties. We want to make a statement.” He rises to his feet and slaps his palm on the wall.

“You could show a fat cat in a suit lounging on a pile of cash. Or a bunch of rich snobs sipping champagne while the world burns around them. The sky’s the limit, boys. ”

“H?”

Harrison glances at us from over his shoulder. “Yeah, McManus?”

“One little problem with all of this.”

Charlie sweeps his hand around and almost smacks me in the face. “Watch it,” I hiss.

“Danny Boy and I aren’t artists. The most I can draw is a dick.”

Harrison snickers. “That could work.”

“Really?” Charlie and I ask in unison.

“Oh yeah. A big ol’ dick could definitely symbolize what I’m talking about.” He strides over to us, his blue eyes practically glinting in the moonlight. “Think about it—what’s more emblematic of their selfishness and entitlement than an obnoxious, in-your-face phallus?”

I can’t help but chuckle at Harrison’s crude but oddly apt metaphor. Leave it to the eccentric artist to find deeper meaning in a spray-painted schlong. Charlie still looks skeptical as he turns the can over in his hands.

“I don’t know, man. Seems kinda juvenile, don’t you think?” He glances at me, seeking backup.

I shrug. “Hey, if Harrison says it’ll work, who are we to argue with the expert? Besides, it’s not as if either of us has a better idea.”

Charlie’s shoulders slump in resignation. “Fine. One dick coming right up.”

He shakes the can vigorously and steps up to the wall. The hiss of the aerosol cuts through the still night as he paints. His tongue pokes out the side of his mouth as he concentrates on his penis—er, not his penis, but a penis.

Before I know it, a misshapen oval takes form, followed by a long, slightly crooked cylinder.

After a moment, Charlie steps back and tilts his head as he appraises his work. “Quick question. Should this thing be circumcised or what?”

“Ha!” Harrison throws his head back as I snicker at my best friend getting hung up on the minutiae of graffitied genitalia. “Definitely circumcised. We’re not cavemen, McManus.”

Charlie nods thoughtfully, as if he’s received sage wisdom, and turns back to his masterpiece. With a few more quick sprays, the deed is done.

I shake my head, amazed at the surreal turn this night has taken. And the craziest thing is…I’m enjoying myself.

Charlie steps back to admire his work, and Harrison gives him a congratulatory pat on the back. “Not bad, McManus. Not bad at all. I think you’ve genuinely captured the essence of the bourgeoisie’s depravity.”

My best friend beams at the praise, puffing out his chest even though I know he has no idea what the hell bourgeoisie means. Or depravity, for that matter.

“All right, Hollingsworth. What’ll you spray?” Harrison asks before getting cut off by Charlie shouting.

“Spray! That reminds me…”

Charlie shakes the can again and steps back up to the wall, a man on a mission. His arm moves in broad, confident strokes. Two rudimentary stick figures soon take shape—one with a triangular dress, the other with a square torso and what appears to be pants. Classic man and woman bathroom symbols.

But Charlie doesn’t stop there. Oh no. He adds a little something extra. Squatting, he rifles through the other cans for a different color. Then he pops back up, and an arcing spray of white paint erupts from the penis, splattering across the male and female figures .

I press my lips together to stifle the incredulous laughter bubbling in my chest. The moonlight bounces off the fresh white paint as Charlie turns to face us with a shit-eating grin.

“You know, I’ve been thinking. All this talk about greed and excessive wealth—it’s a big mess, isn’t it?

A big, sticky mess.” He gestures grandly at his stick figure money shot.

“And this right here? Vandalizing a building that screams Richie Rich has gotta be a long time…cumming.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. Beside me, Harrison howls with laughter. The sheer audacity of the pun and the ridiculousness of this entire situation are almost too much.

“Jesus Christ, Charlie,” I mutter, shaking my head when all I want to do is laugh my ass off.

Harrison doubles over with one hand braced on his knee as he gasps for air. “McManus, you beautiful bastard,” he wheezes. “That was inspired. Not even I could have come up with that.”

Charlie waggles his eyebrows. “What can I say? I’m a regular jizzus of modern art.”

Another round of groans and laughter echoes through the alley.

“I guess it’s my turn?” I say once Harrison has gotten a hold of himself.

“Sure is. Give us your best, Danny Boy!” Charlie smacks my ass, the sound ringing out like a gunshot. I whip around to glare at him, only to find him with his hands behind his back, rocking on his heels and whistling a jaunty sea shanty.

Flipping him the bird, I turn back around and get to work.

The possibilities are endless, but I want to create something meaningful. Something that speaks to the very reason we’re out here rebelling against the status quo. After a few minutes of thinking, an idea takes shape in my mind.

I grab a can of gold spray paint and outline the shape of an ornate crown. Then, switching to a deep, rich purple, I add embellishments such as jewels befitting royalty.

But this crown isn’t meant to be admired. No, it’s destined to be crushed.

I crouch down, snatching up a can of brown paint. In stark contrast to the regal crown, I spray the outline of a foot. But not just any foot—this one is large, imposing, and bare.

The foot of someone who has walked a hard road, who has known struggle and hardship.

My foot.

With each press of the nozzle, the foot takes shape, poised above the crown, ready to stomp down and grind it into dust. I add detail to the sole—the rough edges and cracks telling a story of resilience in the face of adversity.

It’s not the most technically skilled piece of art, but it carries a weight that resonates deep within me.

I turn around and see Harrison appraising my work. His brow furrows in thought, and his foot softly taps the pavement. Under his intense gaze, a warmth blooms in my chest and spreads to the tips of my fingers that are still wrapped around the spray can.

“Not bad, Hollingsworth,” he says after a minute. “Not bad at all. I dig the symbolism.”

“Symbolism?” Charlie pipes up, cocking his head. “What does it mean? Aside from, you know, fuck the rich?”

I chuckle, shaking my head. “It’s a bit more nuanced than that, Charlie. See, the crown represents the wealthy elite, the so-called ‘royalty’ of New York. People such as Harrison’s parents, my parents, all those socialites who thumb their nose at everyone else.”

Charlie nods in understanding. “And the foot?”

“That’s the common people—the ones who’ve been stepped on and ignored for far too long. But now, they’re coming together to stamp the bullshit out. The bare foot symbolizes their connection to the streets, to the real world that exists outside of penthouse suites and gala events.”

Harrison steps closer, his shoulder brushing against mine as he examines the piece further. His proximity sends a shiver down my spine.

“Drawn to scale?” he muses, glancing down at my sneakers.

I’m grateful that it’s nighttime because I’m sure I’m as red as the TKTS steps right about now.

“What are you going to draw, H?” Charlie asks.

I take the momentary distraction to return the spray paint cans to the ground and compose myself. Once I feel as if I’ve regained my senses, I walk back over to Charlie.

Harrison has one hand on his hip and the other tapping a spray can against his chin as he surveys the wall.

“All right, boys. Time for the master to show you how it’s done.

” He flashes us a cocky grin before setting up the collapsible ladder and shaking a can of electric blue paint as he climbs to the top.

His hand moves confidently, an image taking shape before our eyes. He works with laser focus, his forehead creasing as he moves fast but efficiently.

First, he outlines a muscular arm, the bicep bulging and veins popping. Then, in quick succession, he adds highlights and shadows, giving the arm an uncanny realism. As he moves down to the hand, he adds a middle finger. A bold “fuck you” to the world.

From there, he paints an entire body before climbing down and swapping out the blue for a can of vivid green. With deft flicks of his wrist, he transforms Charlie’s crude penis into a monstrous, veiny behemoth, complete with bulging balls and a few stray hairs.

Charlie lets out a low whistle. “Damn, H. My dick looks hot now.”

Harrison smirks. “I’m not done yet.”

He retrieves the can of brown from my discarded pile and returns to the wall. Crouching down, he starts spraying beneath the giant cock. Slowly, a second foot takes shape beside the one I made. Except now, they’re gargantuan, hairy monstrosities with yellowed toenails and gnarled bunions.

As he adds more details, I realize what he’s doing.

He’s tying all of our pieces together to create a cohesive narrative.

The feet—the downtrodden masses—support the pulsing, throbbing phallus of unnecessary capitalism that belongs to a hideous ogre, which represents how high society views those beneath them.

It’s a striking image that’s raw and unapologetic in its vulgarity.

But Harrison’s still not finished. He snatches up a can of red paint and, with quick, angry bursts, adds a splatter of blood beneath the impending stomp—a visceral representation of the violence inherent in the uprising of the oppressed.

When he finally steps back, the mural is complete. It’s a glorious mess of color and crudity, a fiery indictment of the social hierarchy we’ve all grown up around. Or, at least, Harrison and I have.

“That’s…intense,” Charlie murmurs, his eyes wide with admiration.

I nod in agreement, transfixed by the mesmerizing image. “You’ve got some serious talent, Price.”

Harrison shrugs, but I can tell he’s pleased by the compliment. “It’s not about talent. It’s about having something to say.”

As we gather up Harrison’s belongings and make our way back to the subway, I realize something else. I have as much to say as Harrison does about the life I live.

And for once, I want to find my voice and say, “No more.”

No more predestined future.

No more trying to change myself for others.

No more denying what I truly want.