A guide to finger painting in the city: A short story

This piece is a short story by Scott Andersen, aka ando. It is based on real events, observed or experienced, then cut up and pieced back together.

The city is a hellscape, they said. Crime-ridden, corrupt, crawling with aliens. Ride the metro for monkeypox. Meet a stranger’s eye for a fight. So much concrete and steel, so many bodies and machines, all pressing down on one little corner of the world until no beauty remained. Entropy accelerates when you pile millions upon each other. And with the robots coming, it would only get worse. A big screen on the passenger headrest bathed the taxicab in blue light. Touch button broken and volume stuck on max, the evening newscaster boomed, “The city is imploding.” The anchor finished his rant and slammed the desk.

When he heard such things, the man felt tired. He slouched in the backseat with the city’s weight upon him. Fifteen hours ago, he opened his first email. The same way he does every day, right after the alarm. Before brushing his teeth, before saying good morning, before even lifting his head from the pillow. From first breath, the day was a blur. A torrent of messages, meetings, and mechanics that people say make the world go round. And when the sun went down, he got in the cab, stared out the window, and passed hundreds of faces without seeing any. 

The man cleared his throat, told the driver to pull over. The screen blinked with the fare. He tapped his phone and stepped out into the neon light of a deli storefront. Inside, he muttered his go-to sandwich order and retreated into his thoughts. This week’s presentation went well, didn’t it? He replayed the scene, wondering what everyone had thought of him. The third time the sandwich man called his name, he noticed. Barely looking, he grabbed the bag, tapped his phone again, and headed home.

Back at his laptop, the man inhaled his sandwich and purged his inbox. He read each email twice, deciphering tone that can’t transmit through screens. Replied All on a few threads to show he was engaged. So routine that auto-complete finished his sentences. Two hours later, he shut the computer and let it slip onto the empty bed beside him. RE: Presentation Feedback was the last thing he saw before a sleep that never settled. Email chased the man into the night and when he woke, as he often did, it was difficult to parse dream from day.

The next morning he scooped his laptop from the bed and plopped down in a corner booth at the coffee shop. Presentation edits were his choice anesthetic. It was Saturday, and for some time, the cafe was quiet. Just keyboard clacking, newspaper crinkling, and espresso grinding. As the day ripened, he saw friends hugging, toddlers squealing in strollers, and bikers gathering after their park laps. He looked back to his emails, stacking up in an orderly line. Like the shop’s patrons now stretching out the door, the man thought he felt their impatience. With a wince, he closed the screen and noticed an older couple waiting for his table. He lowered his head and brushed past, embarrassed for hogging prime real estate. They smiled at him and took his place without judgement or urgency. But the man did not see, thumbing his phone for directions to lunch, where he was to meet a friend from work. 

The two colleagues talked through their meal, and it was the kind of talking where they didn’t say much of anything. When a stretch of silence arrived with coffee, the man was tempted to fill the space. As if sensing this, his colleague inhaled. “So, I’ve got a real question for you,” said the colleague, putting down his mug. “Have you figured any of this out yet?” He raised his arms and gestured all around them. The man followed his motions to the family at the next table, the two hunched women passing the cafe patio, the triangle-shaped park at the next intersection. When the colleague returned his attention to the table, his eyes settled on the man. “What do you think is the meaning of life?” 

Confusion crept up slowly and then gripped tightly. The man hadn’t thought about that question in a long time. He took a breath, had no answer, and looked away. Buying time, he surveyed their surroundings once more. He noticed the family was laughing, the old women were holding hands, the maple leaves in the park were beginning to yellow, and the benches beneath them were full of people. They were calm, in this sliver oasis, waves of cars rolling by on either side. The man grew curious, and his anxiety gave way to something gentler. He laughed. “I have no idea,” the man said. “What do you think?”

The light brown eyes across the table were distant and searching. Then, with a hint of mischief on his brow, the colleague launched into a reflection on the nature of the universe. The man chased his companion through the cosmos with wonder. They spoke of chaos and order, aliens and gods, and how humans can support the flourishing of the whole system. The man listened and urged his colleague on with follow-up questions. Time slowed, sense sharpened, and he felt a warmth blossom in his chest. With one question, his colleague had rocked his world. The man felt present, curious, and hopeful. The sensation stirred within him echoes of youth’s earliest discoveries.

Days later, the man stepped off the metro in a new part of town. He picked a direction and started walking, hoping he might eventually recognize what he was looking for. The man caught glimpses of strangers as they passed. Counted five languages before he stumbled on a park. Kids squealed in delight on the playground. Parents and babysitters chatted over tea on the bench. Dogs went running for tennis balls. Old ladies flowed through a qigong routine, slow and strong, like a field of willows. 

Just ahead, he saw smoke pooling against a backdrop of autumn leaves. He traced it down to a young woman in a thick leather jacket, leaning against the park’s iron gate. He felt his hands sweating in his gloves. She took a drag and met his eye. He walked up, heart pounding, voice soft. “What is the meaning of life?” He asked, trying to look friendly and not crazy, then braced himself. 

The woman blinked, took out her cigarette, and laughed. “Lately,” she said, growing serious, “I’ve been thinking a lot about that question.” She flicked ash into the gutter, looked down the street, and began to tell him a story. Long ago, a few blocks from here, lived a banker. A big dealmaker. From a distance, he was admired, and many thought he was in line to lead the firm. But quietly, a discomfort was building inside him. He woke one morning with clarity. That day, he quit. The next day, he was a poet. He had no idea if anyone would read his poems, but they say he never looked back. 

She dropped her cigarette and crushed it with her boot. “I’m going the other way,” she said, “artist to engineer. I’m a classical dancer by day and an amateur coder by night. With the new AI tools, I may be able to go full-time developer next month.” The woman swung her bag over her shoulder. “Life is about learning. And in this city, if you’re curious enough, you can do things like that.” She walked away and did not look back. He took her place against the gate and let his mind race.

In another part of town, the man met an immigrant who had arrived with a law degree and now made smoothies to make ends meet. “Back home,” she said, “they had threatened to kill my family.” Between blends, the immigrant told him that life was about survival, that’s it. She was direct and precise with each word. Matter-of-fact, calm, and without resentment. “I’m lucky,” she said, “because I can navigate the asylum process and paperwork. Most immigrants don’t have that starting point, and the stress can be unbearable. I do what I can to help.” The man didn’t know what to say. He simply held her eyes and nodded. The bell rang by the door, and the next customer entered. He thanked her for sharing and turned to go. For a time, the man kept to himself and walked under the train tracks with his blue smoothie. He winced each time the mass of steel and light hurtled by. 

To better understand survival, the man ventured into the projects. Two men on the corner stopped him and asked what he was doing in this part of town. He was tense, then surprised, when they met his question with reverence, wisdom, and sent him deeper into the neighborhood. They pointed down the road and said people around here had seen some shit in life. A few blocks further, the man found a girl dancing with her dad on a bench. When he began angling their way, they froze. With narrow eyes, the dad took a small step forward and squared his jaw. The man raised his arms, apologizing. Said he meant no harm, only wondered if they would share their thoughts on the meaning of life. As if the sun slipped free from a cloud, the man felt the warmth flood back into the moment. All three exhaled. With a knowing smile, the dad turned to his daughter. For her, life was a big playground. She resumed her dance and lept carefree between and around them, radiant in her father’s gaze. For dad, life was helping her become a better person than he was. He hoped that when she played, she’d do so with love. The man took three buses home and wrestled with his definitions of survival and flourishing. 

Through the city's arteries, the man continued to walk. On corners, benches, and stoops, he approached strangers to talk. He met a bodybuilder who recited French philosophy. A carpenter who moonlit as a spiritual guru. A sanitation worker breathing light into others’ shadows. A millionaire who once slept on the streets. A gardener trying to save the earth. Each stranger splashed new colors on his worldview, and he held them with wonder. The man felt like a child discovering finger paint.

On his next trip to the deli, the man lifted his head and approached the counter with intention. He held eyes with his maker and introduced himself. “I know you,” said the sandwich man, a wide grin peeking through the corners of his mask. “I’m Varush.” When the man asked him about life’s meaning, Varush shrugged and said it was all around us, though at times, the city can make it hard to recognize. The trick, he said, was to look for it in human connection.

Slowly, and then all at once, the man saw faces in the crowd. And if the moment suited, and he asked with care, they might show him their soul. As the tiles came alive in staggering color, he wondered how the city’s fingers shaped the mosaic. In her grip, millions pressing upon each other, we’ve become something hard, yet also something bright. The man found each of them beautiful and, for the first time in a long time, recognized himself and his path. It was brief, this glimpse, and worth chasing. The man saw enough, at least, to keep walking.

Find out more about Scott Andersen's New York-inspired book at strangersandrobots.com. illuminem Voices is a democratic space presenting the thoughts and opinions of leading Sustainability & Energy writers, their opinions do not necessarily represent those of illuminem.