Rough Draft 1 Word Count: 1845

Wrong or Write
It was hesitation and fear that kept me locked in mom’s basement, driving myself crazy, over analyzing the world around me, so afraid to take leaps and bounds and step on new territory. I was beginning to settle down, slowly growing into the 25 year old man that I was ‘supposed’ to be; mature, responsible, and independent, but in a flash of...I decided to buy the ticket and enjoy the ride. I was keeping a budget holding in my money, playing the safe side, and swearing not to repeat history by becoming my father, a gambler, and a bad budgeter.
I came home feeling invincible again. I took a wheelchair for a spin, started smoking, drinking, and getting back to the reckless habits that I had when I was a teen. I was on the edge and it felt amazing. I understood the psychology of it, or at least had a grasp on the idea of why I was so drawn to the edge of my existence, and why I felt so compelled to do such outrages things. Though despite knowing this all, I still continued to feed my ignorance.
...
Two weeks after i came home from Montreal, my mother came home from her month long trip from the Philippines. She brought back the usual; boxes full of desserts that I will probably never consume, clothes that i will never wear, and other handmade goods that we can’t get here in Canada. Of course, she also came home with a stack load of Photos. Of this large stack of photos, there were only three that spoke to me, so I pulled it out of the deck and kept it with me.
One of the photos was of my god daughter, who had the cutest devilish grin known to man, the second was my mother in a ”you are under arrest, hands on the head”-pose underneath a waterfall, beside a topless mermaid. The third photograph was of a large mama pig, and her babies drinking her milk.
Talk about irony. I look at the photo of my God daughter and think, oh wouldn’t be nice to be that young again? So innocent, where the worst thing that could ever happen to a child spray painting a cop car, is a spank on the bum, and a lecture about what is right and wrong. The pigs in the picture to me, reflected family struggle. Here they all where, these little pigs feeding off their mother. That was a “real” pig. Here in Canada, the culture that I surround myself in, will consider the term pig as a term used to describe an officer in a navy blue uniform who drives around town dunking donuts into a coffee mug from robins while so much is going on. They give the term to the corrupt ones, who aren’t doing their jobs, or making stupid mistakes like barging into an apartment with a false warrant, and realizing that they’ve got the wrong people. The last photo of my mom doing the pose, was very strange to me. She had a gigantic smile on her face, in her speedos. It I guess it’s because im so used to seeing her in more classy shots. In any case, I still things its strange how these photos tie into my encounter with the police or as counter culture members would say, pigs.
Our worlds are so different. In the Philippines, the pigs stink. They wreak. The pigs here are in navy blue uniforms with guns and handcuffs, and a mouthful of rights ready to be recited to the next offender.
The small talk between Gumshoe and I was interrupted by the fresh smell of a Spanish omelette served right to my table. While enjoying my dry tasting meal, I continued on reading the biography of Hunter s Thompson, who upon reading the first fifty pages of his book, became an instant hero. He was an admirable writer, with a wild edge who was beginning to inspire the beast in me to be comfortable about showing itself to the world. By the time that I was finished with my meal, 4 police officers had come into the Nook. They sat at the table directly across from me. Every now and then I would observe their mannerisms while redirecting myself back to Hunter’s biography. I thought nothing of it really. They were talking amongst themselves waiting for their food. I thought nothing of it until of course I made my way to the parking lot, and that’s where it all fell down.
I stepped inside my vehicle, put the book down beside me, and upon doing so, I noticed a pink spray can that been sitting in the passenger seat. Instantly an idea popped into my head. Directly to my left (evil ) hand side was a police cruiser with no one inside, and all I could picture in my head at the point were the facial expressions those officers would make when they came back to their vehicle only to realize that their car had been decorated in pretty pink. Initially, I wanted to paint the whole vehicle pink, but I realized that I didn’t have the time. It was also broad daylight, and the chances of getting spotted were pretty not as slim as I, so I settled for words, and bolted out of there.
No matter how you flip the coin, in this society, painting the words “oink oink!” in pretty pink along the sides of a Police cruiser is deemed as “wrong”. It was the first time I felt that cold steel wrapped around my wrists. They don’t give you much leg room in there. Room number four. Nothing to look at but white walls and a sprinkler, and yourself from the neck down. Ou noticed the simple things, like the little specs on your sin, or how long your toe nails are. I sang and recited poetry, and freestyled about how stupid it was, hoping that they if for some reason they had hidden cameras and a microphone propped inside there somewhere that they would hear me, and scratch their heads wondering what the hell on earth possessed this kid to do such a thing. I noticed that there were some carvings along the door. The worlds “hel me” were carved into it, along with some other words like native killa, and others I couldn’t quite make out.
I admitted to my wrongs. If there wasn’t enough evidence to support the case I would have fought or played mindgames with them, but I was no where close to having enough. I was not prepared to go to war. It was pretty obvious who the vandal was.. Red Honda civic with matching license plate numbers, a toolshed painted from top to bottom, a pink can in the passenger seat... I was caught pink handed. Apparently there was a surveillance camera, and someone had taken down the license plate. I’ve head about scare tactics before, and part of me was sensing this coming on to me. We’re going to take you to remand, we’re going to hold you in custody for as long as get that information. We want you to cough up your story, and we’l leave you alone. I was being threatened to be taken to remand. I don’t know why, but It didn’t phase me. Not until things happen, does it really strike me. I just wanted to go home so I could finish my painting.
They showed me the photos, and so I went against the words of the legal aid, because I felt it was necessary to take responsibility for my actions. Even if it was a lapse in judgement, it was my doing, and playing games wasn’t going to help. You caught me!! I wasn’t proud of getting caught, but it happens. They listened to what I had to say when asked “what compelled you to do such a thing”. I wanted to tell them that it was Hunter’s fault for being so damn inspiring but I had the hint that they wouldn’t view that as a rational answer.
They gave me an opportunity to share anything else.They said to me do you have anything to say for yourself? because “now is your chance”. Those words only influenced one thing, and that was to rap! So I did!...
I used to say fuck money with a passion
Back when there was nothing but drinking, smoking and rapping
Laughing life away like there was no price to pay
For staying out late writing my name out on the train
Never played the game instead I went against it
Raised fist and all splashing war paint on walls
Breaking laws with a smile, mamas lost child
Who used to run wild with a low profile
Playing at my own risk paying no mind to the mileage
Living like I was next on Gods’s soon to die list
But oh how it changes how shit rearranges
How clear and present dangers suddenly seem safer
Forced into a corner
Taking orders chasing paper
Thinking to myself how much I really hate to
Go to school getting so confused about what to do
Its like go to class kiss ass or say fuck the rules
But son, its easier said than done
When we live within a system that runs on funds
Its the reason why those stuck up kids deal drugs
And the reasons why sometimes we have to leave the ones we love
Work hard, get rewarded thats just the way jobs are kid
You can’t be an artist if you don’t know how to market
Pardon me for telling you all this shit
But you can’t discard the facts because that’s just the way it is.
It goes eat, sleep, work stress, go to school go into debt
Pay it off until your dead.

He asked me if I just came up with that right now? Or did you write that before. I said I wrote it before. He said that’s intelligence! I don’t know what the hell you call what you just did, but take my advice son, and stick to doing that, not spray painting cop cars. You’ve got a better chance of doing something with your life if you stick to that. He said were going to do some paper work, and then you’ll be out of here as soon as possible. I think the fact that I made their job easy, by knowing what I did wrong, and coming in there giving them something they’ve heard of in their life changed their perceptions of who was locked in their cell. “ Do you need anything, would you like some water, would you like to use the washroom? Instantly, i could feel this sense of respect.
Before I left, I shook his hand, thanked him. Went home, sat on my wheelchair, inserted a blank paper in to my typewriter and followed his advice, sticking to what I was good at, writing.