Riding the Tag Line
Erin Douglass
The other morning, halfway through my bus ride, a noise jolted me awake.
This wasn't a typical bus noise — a passenger shouting "Backdoor!" or the grinding scrape of a tire on the curb. This noise was different. It was over my shoulder, on the outside of the bus, and scratchy sounding.
"Tree branches," I thought, returning to my magazine.
But then I realized that the bus wasn't moving and the noise wasn't stopping. And there wasn't a tree in sight. I looked up.
Directly beneath my window, I could see the top of a shaved head bob into view. A hand flashed by, then disappeared.
The first thing I thought of was India. I studied there during a semester in college. In that beautiful, hungry country, children surround stopped buses and beg at the high windows. Many of their heads are shaved, to discourage lice.
I peered out the window into the gray, L.A. morning, searching for the figure. Was it a beggar? The bus lurched forward. Suddenly, a boy peeled himself from the side of the vehicle and, in a swooping arc, dashed to the curb.
We'd been tagged.
A thrill of adrenaline shot through me. I'd never been tagged in real time. The dark, scripty scrawls have always been something I've noticed after the fact, like freckles or local landmarks. Ten years ago, in Venice Beach, the alley behind my house would get redecorated weekly. Not once did I see the guys — or girls — in action.
Which made me think: Doesn't this stuff usually happen at night? Down side streets, on contested corners? By teenagers? Who was this early bird, catching his MTA worm?
I looked around at the kids on the bus, most of them five and younger. Will you do this someday? I wondered. Or will you be angry, wishing all these words and initials didn't plaster your neighborhood?
I felt sad for these children, and for our city. I wanted to yell out the window after the boy: "What are you doing? Go to school!"
When my stop arrived, I jumped off and examined the bus's right side. There it was: fresh, white scrawl, in caps, stretching for several feet. I could make out letters — an N, a D, an M — but no meaning.
Which isn't a big surprise. I'm not the target audience of the boy's morning work.
And yet, for a moment, I'd been one of the bearers of his message.