Painted Walls

It was a funny place actually.  Grey.  Grey streets, grey buildings, rows and rows of them and windows - one, two, three, four stories high.  Dusty windows, shut windows.  Dreary curtains.  Everyone lived indoors, went home, closed the door, closed the window and shut themselves off from the world outside.  Leaving the street behind in its greyness.
Everyone complained about it; the neighbourhood.  Everyone said how it had gone downhill, how no-one cared about it, how it was turning into a slum these days.  Outside on the pavement, an old television and a three legged chair on its side.  Nothing unusual - the dustmen would pick them up soon - when they could be bothered.  But it didn't matter, they'd soon be replaced by a mattress or an old coffee table with stains on it.
You couldn't tell what the people were like - it was almost as if nobody lived there.  The street was so quiet.  Only the gentle strains of tv stations in living rooms and the occasional bark.  There were no plants.  Not even one single plant pot outside.  It was if people had decided one day, that the street outside had nothing to do with them, and had disowned it.  And so now, the street belonged to the corporations and the councils - and the people left it alone.  Unloved.
But when Zion moved in, things began to change.   You see, Zion believed that the street did belong to him.  If he had nothing else, he had the street.  Every blank space became his canvas.
Sometimes he painted in black and white - just painted the things that were going through his mind.  Sometimes he painted in colour.  He didn't plan it - he just drew and painted what he felt, at that moment.  And it was easy, the streets were so empty - no-one ever caught him, except for Mouse. She loved it, she loved his wild side - the fact that he didn't give a damn.  She couldn't draw like him, but she tried.  Adding little daisies and petals on the edges of his work.

She knew what he was doing.  He was reclaiming the street.  He was saying, "Here you are people, this is for you - this is yours.  This is your street".  But not everyone got it.  A lot of people complained; they said it was just another sign that the neighbourhood had gone downhill.  They tutted as they walked past and got white paint to cover it up.  Sometimes Zion would see them; little old men and women, middle aged men trying to look important, a little committee emerging from their doors on a mission to remove his 'vandalism'.  He didn't mind though, he laughed and waited until the paint had dried and used it as a fresh canvas.
It was a game for him. Fun!  He found it hilarious when the old folks marched out to clean up his 'mess'.  Some even complained to him about it, and he smiled, because they had no idea it was him.  He was to them, just the quiet guy who lived at the end of the road.  That's all they knew about him - because that was all he allowed them to know.  He was sure, if he did own up, confess his ways, they would smile politely and then talk about him together, when he had gone.  He could see that was their mentality.  They were too scared to confront him.  Too scared to own their own street.  But he had got them to own it, with their neighbourhood committees working overtime to clean up his work.  He felt like Jack the Ripper and the Scarlet Pimpernel rolled into one.  On a mission - Man Mysterious.

He played with them for a year or more.  He was having fun and his plan was working.  He had brought art to this street and it was starting to do its magic.  There were plant pots outside now.  With plants in - he smiled at the change.  And now, it seemed they had started to embrace his work.  The pots of white paint had gone and photographers came instead, to capture his art and display it in an exhibition.  He felt so proud but saddened too.  His mission was complete; he had given them back the street.  And they never even knew how.  And now it was time for him to leave the neighbourhood and paint elsewhere.  He painted one last picture and packed up his cans and left the house at the end of the street, for the last time.