The post-modern painting forced into this context of high-key low-brow art again greets you as you begin your shift. A gobsmacked cousin of a Keith Haring hound, its fuel ever-hovering above empty, always catches your eye between the jetsam-heavy waves of humanity whirling through:
- A hunkering harpy eagle perched on the handle of a triple-wide stroller, pulling out
sweat-kissed bills from her feathery breast, her chicks screeching for cinnamon twists.
- The doppelganger of Hulkamania, replete with splashes of gold, carefully tetrising his order to ensure he gets his two hundred and forty-three grams of protein a day, brother.
- The downfalls of society via multibillion spectacles of suck, tapping at smartwatches to ensure their Waymo arrives right on time, despite their taking far too long navigating the self-order kiosks (they must meet very important people, you see, so will ya fucking hurry up? I don’t got all day).
The artist’s persona is evident in every work, your professor once said, back when you would pretend you could afford it. The fingerprint of humanity is left in all our constructed spaces. Non latex gloves ensure your fingerprints can’t reach the taco you spend approximately thirty seconds to construct, and your customers don’t give two shits about the vision of their “is a taco a sandwich?” artist.
You spend hours staring at the painting whenever it’s slow, longer than the nameless artist could have possibly done birthing it. Viewing a reprint does not stimulate the brain as much as seeing an original, a xeet said. You imagine the tears you’d shed upon finally seeing the artist’s true vision, the rigid brush strokes from oils or bumps of glue of collage, in whatever dusty closet some fuckface shoved this absolute masterpiece, because it’s not a Rembrandt, a Picasso, a thing of worth because it wasn’t commissioned to hang in a fucking Taco Bell.
People steal them, you know, from closed restaurants, after remodels. They’d post a picture on Reddit for internet points and then hoard it for their own enjoyment, as if that’s any better than the millionaires. You fantasize how you’d do the same when the store inevitably closes—better to blame the new minimum wage for the sticker shock and not the, you know, rent from being in the heart of San Francisco. Your selfish need of income is just a problem to eliminate, which the surrounding techies will be more than willing to do.
The emanating heat of the night city hits you as you step outside to dump the day’s trash. A coyote licks its lips, its grilled hide rippling under the moth-mobbed safety light. The movement is a baja blast bright blade cutting through the violeting plane of your thoughts.
It stares at you, waiting, like all the others, for the simulacrum of you that only exists here, the one worth any value. You produce the burrito you swiped earlier from your pocket, an “extra” made “on accident” that you selflessly saved from the trash.
The coyote doesn’t wait, grabbing it from your hands before you can unwrap it, swapping saliva for a taste of whatever hand-shredded humanity remains. It scampers off, nails clicking against the balmy asphalt night as the world keeps turning, turning away from you.
Chase Anderson is a gay animal person inside of your phone, which means he cares a lot about living things, the arts, and cybersecurity. He can be found sorting your recycling, posting cognitohazards in the group chat, and telling people about the many benefits of bollards, the best security control. If that hadn’t scared you away and you want to read more of his work, you can find it at chasej.xyz