The Chalk of the Town

CEMENT
Washingstone, DC

In early June, the President and his cabinet were stuck in a meeting, mired in minutia, arguing about policy deep into the night. It seemed there was a natural divide within the administration. Some members were pushing hard, based on security concerns, to dig a trench along the town’s northern limits. The so-called upper diamond. Wouldn’t DC be better as an island with a regal moat and stronger fortifications? Maybe, thought the president. But who’s going to pay for the thing.

    After hours of getting nowhere, the janitor walked in with a blackboard pilfered from a nearby elementary school and ran his fingernails across it forty-six times – in honor of the POTUS, of course. 

    Everyone stopped arguing for a second. A few began shrieking. One person, the deputy joint chiefs of staff curled up in the fetal position and began sucking on both thumbs. 

    Pretty soon, a deal was struck. A classic DC compromise. Instead of turning the nation’s capital into an island, they’d connect it to the mainland by paving over the Potomac and Anacostia rivers, filling in both waterways with chalk. 

    And who ever said politics were boring? Plus, there are rumblings the President is going to make the janitor his new National Security Advisor. 

-Rachel Lyme

 

OUTLINE DEPT.

Figures of Streets

I never know where to stand at a crime scene. However, I know enough to know not to touch anything. While significantly scarier for the neighborhood, I much prefer outdoor crime scenes to ones relegated to a basement or hallway. Very few homes can handle the volume of people during a major investigation. There’s no soundstage or table of pizza bagels and hot coffee just behind a thick black curtain. Outside, things are a little more casual. There it’s always easy to find a place to stand. I usually pick a tree to wait and watch. 

    On my latest short-lived tree lean, I met Whitey. He was hunched over on the ground outlining a few shell casings. I’d never seen anyone draw a perfect circle without the use of instruments.

    “Some people are just born to free hand.” 

    Whitey’s father worked in the property room at the 114^th precinct. As a kid, he’d tag along and outline the bodies, though sometimes of people who were still ticking.

    “I remember one guy woke up and gave me a real talking to. I started to check their pulses after that. It’s made a big difference. Occasionally, I get complaints from family members that want them to look svelter than they were in real life, but look, I’m not an artist. This isn’t up for interpretation. I don't make the rules or the waistlines.”

-Jill Lepourus

 

OLD SCHOOL

Grounded Play

Playgrounds are brutal places. Like prison yards, which some of them resemble, whether consciously or not. What elementary school kid needs free weights? In some ways, bullying has never been easier – you have social media platforms, cell phones, modern technology that, when used by a resourceful kid, collapses any sense of privacy the picked-on ever had. In other ways, bullying has never been harder – you have anti-bullying campaigns, security cameras, evidence up the wazoo of any misdeed. To many former bullies, it’s not worth it. It pays to be nicer.

    But not to all. One such bully, who requested anonymity, has found a way around it. A loophole, as he calls it.

    “I never text. My phone is for emergencies only.”

    What does he do? 

    “I write the most vile, repulsive and mean-spirited things on the playground.”

    How does he get away with it?

    “I use chalk. It’s great. I write with my non-dominant hand so there’s no possibility of handwriting analysis. Once it rains, the whole thing gets washed away. Like it never even happened.” 

    “Aren’t you worried some of your targets will read this and put two and two together?”

    “Not yet.” 

-John Searock 

 

PARALLEL CONSTRUCTION

The Job Calcite

There are few New York institutions I know less about than construction. I know, for instance, that they don’t use Legos, that the process is remarkably dangerous, and most enjoy eating lunch sitting directly on the sidewalk versus on at a table with fine silverware and pressed linens. I never considered how buildings got made, just that they were made. I don’t look up, okay?

    In this case, I looked down and saw a group of construction workers gathered in a circle taking bong rips. I overhead something about “time and a half” but couldn’t make out the rest. They said I would get a kick out of their materials. Instead of using brick, they were using chalk, something from the Victorian era. I doubted the sturdiness of it, but what the hell did I know?

    They told me not to worry. One of the guys was overcome with a cannabis-related coughing fit and I took that as my cue to leave.

-Roz Dust

 

SEDIMENTARY LIFESTYLE

Spalding White

It’s not every day you get a hermit living on a chalky sea stack in the English Channel to meet you for coffee in the East Village. But that’s exactly what happened to me. Cliff is doing a one-man show, which premiered on the Isle of Wight, entitled, “Chalk Talk.” 

    When I met Cliff, he insisted on being called “Guillaume” since his sea stack is “basically France.” It’s not, but I humored him first, needled him later. 

    I wanted to learn more about the show itself. He barely said a word to me, saying, you’ll have to see the show. When I tried to explain that by doing press, he might get people to attend the performance who might otherwise skip it, he appeared unmoved.

    “I’m not performing for them. I perform for me.” 

    Later, I discovered that the whole run was cancelled, with Bill hopping on the first transatlantic ship out of the country. Still not sure what to chalk his cold feet up to. Maybe all that salt water finally got to him.

-Doreen Flint Felix