Mark Turner is a Liar and a Thief
(Fiction) “I just love the great outdoors!” Mark raised his arms and gestured to the quarter acre lot, filled primarily with concrete paths, lawn, and geese droppings.
The large red metal sculpture in the center of Gerard Park regularly attracted graffiti artists. It was covered in layers of varied hues which largely failed to hide the markings. One summer morning there was fresh writing scrawled across the sculpture’s canvas of scarlet and vermilion. “MARK TURNER IS A LIAR AND A THIEF!” it read.
Mark looked twice as he passed the sculpture. The first time his absent gaze passed over what his mind registered as normal, the second killed his legs and stimulated his adrenals. He examined his name on the monochrome hunk of metal, then inhaled sharply and breathed out slow, trying deliberately to quiet the sound of blood pumping rhythmically in his ears. How did they know?
The hardware store had a shade of ‘oops’ paint that was a slight variant of Rustic Red. The brush and can of paint would have only cost him about five dollars, but when he exited the aisle the checkout line was stalled and was wrapped around the maze of trinkets that led to the register. A manager was on the phone with tech support. Mark ducked back into the paint aisle and fished in his wallet for a receipt, which he flashed to the cashier as walked out the door. She said “Have a good day,” and looked deep into his eyes as if to say I know what you did Mark Turner, and I know what you’re doing now.
Mark nearly ran the four blocks from the hardware store to the park where the sculpture stood. He looked over his shoulder and smiled weakly at passersby. I should have bought a jumpsuit, he thought as he stuck his fingernails in the can and tried to open it. I should have bought a screwdriver. He plunged his hand deep into the pocket of his jeans, took out his keys, and selected the largest one. Prying with his weak, shaking fingers simply wasn’t enough. He glanced around to see who was present: a set of lovers kissing too intimately on a bench, his hand on her thigh; an old man tearing small pieces of bread and dropping them into the pond, the geese gobbling; a mother pushing a stroller slowly around the bend of the concrete path. All clear. Mark tucked the can of paint behind the leg of the sculpture and went in search of a rock.
“Mark, is that you?” a woman’s voice spoke as he rummaged in the leaves and dirt.
Mark turned, looked, and leapt to his feet. “Kay, hi! Why aren’t you at work?”
“I was going to ask you the same thing,” the woman in striped linen pants and a knit t-shirt smirked and crossed her arms. Mark’s eyes glanced at the red sculpture and Kay turned her head to follow his gaze, so he grabbed her by the arm and started walking in the opposite direction as he explained.
“I’m doing some, um, volunteering for the city,” he let go of her arm and started wiping his dirty hands on his jeans, then gently brushing off Kay’s arm. “Sorry about that.”
“That’s great, what kind of volunteering? Park maintenance? I thought only criminals did that.”
Mark laughed a little too loud.
“You’re funny. No, I’m just having a little ‘me time,’ you know how corporate wants to make sure we are getting adequate ‘me time.’”
Kay giggled. “I didn’t know you took the company dispatch so seriously.”
“I just love the great outdoors!” Mark raised his arms and gestured to the quarter acre lot, filled primarily with concrete paths, lawn, and geese droppings, surrounded in every direction by grey architecture, car exhaust, and noise.
Kay rubbed the last of the dirt from her arm. “Alright, well enjoy yourself. Will I see you later at the office?”
“Sure thing.”
“Oh, and Mark,”
“Hmm?”
“I don’t know what you did, but your name is on that sculpture over there,” said Kay.
Mark stammered and looked at the ground, then back at Kay “Oh, really?”
“Yes, really,” she crossed her arms again.
“Well, I don’t have anything to do with that. It must be some kind of coincidence.”
“Is it a coincidence that you have a paintbrush in your pocket and there’s a can of paint over there by the sculpture?”
“No, I told you I’m volunteering.”
Kay rolled her eyes and started down the path, then looked back over her shoulder.
“Stop lying to me Mark!”
Mark kneeled over the small can of paint beneath the sculpture and wielded a large rock he had unearthed from a tree skirt. He put his key underneath the metal groove and tried to hit it repeatedly with the rock, but it kept slipping and he jammed his finger again and again. Mark took the rock and balanced the key again, this time he hit it square on the back and when he did the metal gave way and his key bent in half.
“Fuck!” he yelled, and the lovers on the bench across the path stopped kissing for a moment and laughed.
Enraged, Mark took the rock straight to the can of paint. He smashed it repeatedly until at last, it exploded. Rustic Red splattered all over the rock, the green grass, and across the lenses of his sunglasses. He removed the shades and tried to wipe them on his shirt, but everything was covered in paint the color of dried blood.
“Freeze!” a man’s roared behind him. Mark tried to look over his shoulder. “I said freeze! Drop your weapon!”
Mark looked at the red rock in his right hand and let it drop, then he tried to turn around but before he could rise from his knees, an officer was on him, his knee in his neck. He felt the panic of asphyxiation, the cuffs on his wrists, and then everything went black.
Mark sat in a jail cell next to another man who was so strung out he looked half dead. “What are you in for?” he said.
“Steeling a can of paint. How about you?”
“My friend ratted me out.”
“For what?”
“Taking what was mine, I don’t know man. I don’t get people. Why did you steel a can of paint?” the junkie laughed.
“You know that sculpture at Gerard Park? My name was written on it this morning, with some terrible accusations, and I was trying to cover it up.”
“What did it say?”
“Mark Turner is a liar and a thief.”
“No way, man,” said the junkie. “My name is Mark Turner too!”
Thanks for reading!
Great ending! Really enjoyed this story.