Ascone
by j.charles @ textproductions
A thirty three degree night in the middle of December. I should be lying in a down comforter watching adult swim right now, but I got convinced to come out to the train yards by Asc. He would bait me with graff magazines and a comfortable couch.
I'm the cautious one because I drove the car registered in my name here to perform a felony. And I don't have a license due to the fact that I'm on felony probation granted so kindly to me by the state of California for five long ass years. As I pull off the street onto the dirt road which runs parallel to the railroad, I turn off my lights. It's a full moon so visibility is still superb and the lights aren’t necessary anyways, but I'm just worried about them pesky porkers. All that gives away our detour are the scant outline of a white sub compact car and a rooster tail of dust and gravel. A quarter mile away from the road a gravel access ramp slopes downward toward the rails, our destination. Once slightly subterranean and shielded generously from foliage I begin to slightly relax. I park under an olive tree, coasting to a stop with the ignition long since turned off, using my emergency brake so as not to illuminate our parking lot with red taillights.
Windows down with the doors unlocked. Vulnerable to pillage, true. But it also allows both of us full access in case a hasty exit is necessary. Marbles contact the sides of paint cans as I throw my backpack over my shoulders and adjust. Every step I take gives my bag full of Rusto the opportunity to sing its chorus. And with the two of us walking quickly it makes for a hell of a loud noise. Thankfully there are four long rows of very tall and very ominous boxcars to quiet all. Asc is a man of action once put into the context of graffiti and its repercussions, so there is very little conversation. We both know why we’re here, and we both understand how important it is to be inconspicuous in traversing the yard.
Up and over the joints, up and over the joints, up and over the joints. Something I learned the first time I went out; the joints of each and every boxcar are heavily greased and may cause you to break yourself if not cautious. Plus it leaves a hell of a stain on your interior. In most of the union pacific yards I’ve been into the company is nice enough to leave a few of the inside tracks uninhabited for a few hundred yards, while leaving at least one side of the gap free from onlookers with another line of cars. It's a nice find here, because it allows you to see just fine and not worry too much about the bi way on either side of you.
Finding the correct "canvas of steel" is somewhat of a task in itself. The smart artist comes to the yard with a damn good idea of how big his piece is going to be, as well as which colors, what style and on what part the car they need to make it correct. This allows as much planning as possible in the comfort of your own home, which means less time at the yards and therefore less chance the ghetto bird is going to spot your warm little aura on their heat sensor. Asc settles for a weathered union pacific which had just been steam cleaned and re painted by the yard. Personally I prefer the union pacific ideally, but the fucker took my canvas. Next in line is one of the yellow t-boxes, which are seemingly always clean and extend well below the wheel line, allowing for a bigger picture. Tonight my only option is a grain hopper. Or writing over somebody else’s piece. I'm not as good as colt.45 and I know it, so tagging is in my cards. I prefer the second step in the ladder, kind of eye level. I drop my bomb, which is a skyline skyscape with my company logo underneath it, and a Mr. Ends signature next to it. Advertising in my leisure… can this possibly be healthy?