We drift farther into the shadows and make a circuit around the park, seeing nothing but joggers and dog walkers. I’m sure we’re seen by a few of them, too, but the only indication they give is a slight quickening of their strides.
Personally, if I were walking alone in a park at night and saw a strange man in a mask lurking in the darkness, I would have been terrified. But then, maybe that explains how I got to this point in my life in the first place.
9:15 P.M.—PATROL: GRAFFITI ALLEY
After skulking around the park for about half an hour, not accomplishing much more than getting in a nice postdinner constitutional, we set out on our last mission of the day, gang graffiti eradication.
We drive back across town and park across the street from the alleyway Geist had noted earlier. Or at least we think it’s the alleyway. There’s a wide gap between each of the dilapidated businesses along the street, and they’re all so dark it’s impossible to tell one from another. While Geist gets the paint from the trunk, I keep my eyes peeled for gangbangers and po-po. Once Geist has his gear together, we cross the street (a little too slowly for my taste. I suddenly want to get this done and get out of there). I can’t help wondering how a Vice Lord would react to our defacing his tag. Something along the lines of shooting us repeatedly in the face, I would imagine. I do imagine, in fact, and find myself mall walking toward the alley.
We find the correct alleyway, and Geist gives me the Geist-light to hold while he paints. I illuminate the pentacle, which is done in white spray paint on a gray concrete wall. Geist calmly stirs the paint with a stick while I scan from the rear of the alley to the street and back again, looking for gangsters. What does a Vice Lord look like? Are they a black gang? Hispanic? Asian? White? Are there white street gangs? Does asking that question make me racist, or a victim of a society in which the dominant media overemphasize the involvement of minorities in gangs? I decide it’s the latter, mostly because that makes me feel better about myself.
While Geist stirs, I try to remember everything I know about gangs, forming a quick checklist in my head:
Bloods wear red.
Crips wear blue.
Gang members are prone to holding their “gats” sideways when they “bust caps.”
Female companions are frequently referred to as “bitches,” which really isn’t very nice.
Okay, so unless a minority dressed in purple and holding a bitch sideways shows up, we’re safe.
Clang!
I flinch at the sound of a metallic crash at the end of the alley.
“I think there’s someone back there,” I say, and Geist doesn’t even look up or acknowledge that I’ve spoken. Man, this cat’s either deaf as a doorknob or really intent on properly stirring paint, I think. I guess if you’re going to do something, do it right. I’ll give him that.
“Up here,” he finally says, and he’s standing with his roller, waiting for me to light up the graffiti.
I do so, and he covers it in a quick four or five coats, waiting fifteen minutes between each to ensure it properly dries before applying the next. Okay, so that’s a bit of an exaggeration, but that’s what it felt like.
As he’s painting, I hear a car approaching, about to pass by the alley. I shield the light with my hand, plunging us back into darkness until the vehicle passes by. A minute later, I hear another one approaching and dim the light again.
“What the—?”
“I didn’t think you’d want passing cars to see us. Thought it might raise suspicion.”
“Good thinkin’,” Geist says.
Nice. I’ve impressed the superhero with my tactical skills. Feels good.
When Geist is done painting over the pentagram and several other possible gang signs, I get him to pose in front of his handiwork for a picture. I’d forgotten my digital camera at home, so I pull out the disposable Wal-Mart camera I’d picked up on the way. I can’t hold the camera and the light at the same time, so I can’t see jack as I try to frame the shot. I find the slightly darker lump that I’m pretty sure is Geist and, just as I snap the pic—
Clang!
—another crash from the end of the alleyway scares the crapola out of me (the first exciting event, forget suiting up). I’m pretty sure I got the pic, though, so we hightail it back to the Geistmobile and call it a night. A few days later, I have the film developed and find my trophy shot from the alley.
PHOTO COURTESY MIKE MCMULLEN
The Pant Cuff of Justice
The scary part is, Geist was wearing green pants, and I don’t roll up my cuffs like that, so who the hell’s leg was that? I’ll have to do some research and see how the Vice Lords wear their jeans.
Driving home the next day, I paused to reflect on my day with Geist. Then I almost hit a deer and decided to pull over before continuing my reflections. The crime-fighting part of our day was interesting, and even a little fun. However, it was, with all due respect to Geist, a total bust: it was the charity work that really accomplished something. Really, the entire point of my trip wasn’t so much to see Geist bust heads like a specter of vengeance, it was to see how a charity-driven superhero functioned in the real world. Looking back on the day, I could come up with only one conclusion: a charity-driven superhero functions the same way a charity-driven anybody functions in the real world, just with a mask.
So why hide your identity? I remembered what Geist told me outside the animal shelter, that “I guess we’re all a jerk, at times, in our real life. And how do we make up for it? We all make mistakes. And can we be better people?”
If we do nice things and then get praised for it, are we really being nice for the sake of being nice, or are we secretly, deep down in our little hearts, doing it for the attention, for the pat on the back? “Beware of practicing your righteousness before other people in order to be seen by them, for then you will have no reward from your Father who is in heaven,” the Bible says. Unless you’re doing your charity work completely anonymously, the question of who you’re “practicing your righteousness” for would have to linger in any self-aware person’s mind.
I guess that’s what the mask does for Geist: it removes any question of motivation. If people don’t know who he is, they can’t pay him back, can’t sing his praises. Even if Geist wins a humanitarian award, Reginald gets to retain his anonymity and receive whatever spiritual or karmic reward he believes comes to those who do good without publicizing it.
I like that. Maybe that’s as good a reason as any to put on a mask and let people think you’re crazy or a loser, all the while you’re doing more to make the world a better place than they ever tried to do. I think I could learn a lot from Geist’s example. As he put it to me during our day together, “The first time people see you, yeah, let ’em have a laugh, y’know? Then let ’em see what you do. And then they go, ‘He may be crazy, but he’s not altogether crazy.’”
PHOTO COURTESY
