Oscar and Marcus were born to be rivals, it seemed, from the age of four when they shared the same babysitter. It started with a coveted crayon, color green, and it continued into the drab halls of Gilbert Stuart Middle School. It didn’t help matters that they were practically neighbors, coming of age on the same working-class block in South Providence, just seven houses apart. Both were raised by single parents: Marcus’ father was a RIPTA bus driver, and Oscar’s mother was a CNA on a geriatric psych unit. By middle school the contentious standoff reached a feverish pitch in a heated competition for the attention of Stephanie from biology class. The irony is that she would choose neither of them, and was in fact a lesbian.
Oscar first noticed that Marcus was different during a standard fire drill. While everybody else filed out in something resembling order, Marcus huddled in the corner of a stairwell and simply rocked back and forth, covering his ears and mumbling something unintelligible. Oscar stayed with him the entire time, seated by his side. From then on, the other boys were relentless in their bullying of the both of them. None of it fazed them, though – they found solace in each other. By high school, the rivalry had cooled; they had discovered a common interest. It happened by chance one night. Oscar had ventured out for the first time, armed with cans of spray paint, intent on making his dreary neighborhood come alive with sparks of color. He liked bright yellows the most and started simple with just his moniker, “Rascal.” His first target was the plain, red-brick wall on the side of an abandoned jewelry factory just a block from his house.
On that very same night, happenstance would have him cross paths with another graffiti artist, targeting the very same stretch of wall space. It was Marcus, debuting his pseudonym, “Voltron.” They acknowledged each other with a short nod, but ultimately said nothing. They simply worked in silence, manifesting art together across a once plain canvas. Their first legitimate collaboration was splashed across the side of a barber shop on Cranston Street. It was an intricate piece of a female’s face in a dramatic profile, surrounded by fluttering butterflies. She bore a striking resemblance to Stephanie from biology class, and they would later laugh hysterically about the Freudian slip. That’s how their blunt sessions started. It became a ritual every other night; they would agree to meet at some secluded spot with blank wall space, whether behind a bodega, or the loading dock of a liquor store. And as time went on, not only did their bond grow stronger, their murals grew more intricate and more involved. They rode skateboards together and wore matching Chuck Taylor’s. Their collective marijuana was communally shared, distributed, and rolled up equally between two.
At an auto repair shop on Dexter Street, they left an ornate green dragon consuming the Superman building, as an homage both to the Gilbert Stuart mascot, and to the elusive crayon that they both once craved. Art, they would learn together, belonged to no one, yet everybody, all at once. At a pawn shop on Broad Street they left a dedication to the elderly woman, Juliana, who used to babysit them as kids, after she passed. And behind a Walgreens on Elmwood Avenue, they would paint themselves onto the canvas for the first time in a seemingly simple silhouette piece using only blacks, whites, and greys. It was their shadows, outlined side-by-side, from behind, and hovering over the Providence skyline like oversized giants, while passing off a blunt between them. The pride was palpable on both of their faces when they finally stood back and admired the end result of the laborious effort. Their usual handshake was accompanied by a brief but poignant half-hug that night before they strolled off in different directions. As winter wore on, however, Oscar would find himself increasingly left alone for the late-night blunt sessions. Spring snuck in subtly when he started work on another mural, hoping to complete it with Marcus at some point, but his counterpart was nowhere in sight. He frequented the usual hidden haunts that only they knew about, with no luck. He walked the entire length of Broad Street, from Roger Williams Park to Trinity Square, where it forks off from Elmwood, late nights for a solid week. He visited every vacant lot and overlooked alleyway that they had once loitered in, blowing clouds of smoke amid shared laughter.
He would see it in the Providence Journal, by chance one day: “South Side Youth Victim of Stray Bullet.” The accompanying photo would solidify his worst fears. Marcus was tagging a wall; a fight broke out nearby. The wrong place at the wrong time. Oscar returned to his unfinished mural that same night, blunt in hand. He added vibrant splashes of purple and orange, and it instinctively turned into a fiery sunrise flanked by cheery cloud formations on either side. He blew streams of smoke into the clear night air and wished his rival pleasant dreams. •
Photo: By Isaac T. Laliberte
