Chapter 5 #2
The crowd mumbled around me, as I thought about what pride meant to me. They were probably thinking the same too, but his next movement shut down our thoughts and silenced our minds.
He stood like a saviour on the wall, with his arms outstretched in front of his captive audience, earning their rapt stares and gasps of awe as he began to perform his art.
“What does it mean?
To a world that’s always chasing the green.
What is it that makes us proud, I ask.
Is it the things, the thoughts, the words, the tasks?
Is it the mansion you bought with your hard-earned cash?
The way you thrived through that stock market crash?
Or the car you drive?
The holiday you took?
Sitting in first-class reading your pretentious book.
Watching the workers slaving away.
Making sure that yours is the better day.
Better than theirs because you have more.
Take pride in your place, son.
You know the score.
More.
More.
More.
More.
Is there pride in flying high?”
He thrust his head upwards, dramatically, like he was gazing at the night sky looking for an answer, making us all jump at his erratic movement.
We watched expectantly, as the dark, eerie silence pierced through us.
Anticipation causing the breath to hitch in our throats, and make our hearts pound a little faster.
Then his head slumped forward, making him look like a scarecrow from a horror movie, as he went on.
“Or living hand to mouth on the cold, hard floor?
What makes your life superior?
What advantage do you have?
Apart from that bank balance from your overly generous dad.
The designer clothes.
The bags.
The money.
The greed.
Greed upon greed upon greed,
Until,
Greed multiplied by greed detaches you from what’s real.”
He paused, and you could hear a pin drop in the courtyard.
“So, I’ll ask you again.
What is this thing, pride?
Strip back the layers.
Go on.
Find out what lies behind,
the things that you own to bolster your life.
Things to make you feel worthy.
Things to make you feel seen.
Things to keep you living in the state of a dream.
Things that make you important.
In your own mind.
You want us to see you...
And we do... (He shook his head)
But we won’t be kind.
Because we see you in a way you’d never believe you’d be seen.
Empty.
Hollow.
A money machine.”
Two machines, that I hadn’t noticed before, were set up at the side of the wall, and they began to shoot fake money out into the crowd.
There was a general hum of astonishment, and some made a grab for the notes, maybe to keep as a memento of the night.
But I got the irony. I wasn’t about to chase the cash he was showering into the crowd.
That wasn’t what this was about. He was making a statement with his words and his actions.
And so were some of the people here, despite being oblivious to it.
As the machines slowed, and the noise died down, he spoke again.
“While I have your attention.
As I stand here today.
I’ll tell you what I think.
I’ll have my say.”
The spotlight, that’d bathed him in a silver glow, turned red now, and I noticed two buckets on either side of him placed upon the wall.
He picked up the one to his left and began to pour the contents down the wall.
I think it was paint, but the red light shining on it made it look like blood as it gushed down the bricks.
In fact, it seemed to be thinner than paint.
I had no idea what it was, but as it spread down the wall, words began to appear.
Words that’d been spray-painted onto the brickwork.
Like a magic trick, we saw the words; pride, honour, respect, humble, and self-worth appear.
Once he’d drained the first bucket, he picked up the second and repeated his actions, exposing the words; dignity, morals, humility, and selfless. And when he’d finished, he stood tall, red trickling down the wall of words as he continued.
“To me,
Pride means spilling your blood, sweat and tears.
Working to provide for your family for years and years.
So Molly doesn’t have to rely on free school meals.
And little Tommy gets a role model that shows him what it means,
to work for a living.
To take pride in your strife.
To build something for others that you didn’t have in your life.
A legacy not founded on privilege or greed.
But one built on honour and sacrifice and need.
When she stayed with the children,
even after he left.
And she works three jobs,
though she feels bereft.
And her eldest excels at all he does.
And she sits in the school hall listening to the applause.
Prickles on her skin and shivers down her spine.
As they read all the accolades he’s achieved.
And she says to herself,
that
boy
is
mine.”
He paused. We all paused. He had us in the palm of his hand. We were hanging on his every word.
“Single mothers.
Single fathers.
Families on the bread line.
But they make it matter.
They make it count.
They won’t ever define,
themselves by money or what they own.
Pride lives in their heart.
A jewel that’s home grown.
You see, pride doesn’t mean the same for all.
Pride doesn’t always come after a fall.
You can find it in the little things
It’s there every day.
In a smile, a thank you, a tear you wipe away.
When the gift you bestow on others
is a word of kindness or encouragement.
That means the fucking world when all their life they’ve lived with discouragement.
The smallest gesture that tells someone they fucking matter.
Pride is not the things you have,
it’s the latter.
The family you cherish,
the things we create.
The art.
The music.
The food we ate.
The words we write.
The stories we tell.
The fights we fight.
The ways we excel.
The sculptures.
The poems.
The novels.
The flowers.
The trees.
The birds.
The bees.
It’s even carried on the fucking breeze,
that graces your face,
and makes you feel alive.
It isn’t in the houses, money, or the car you drive.
If you think it is...
Then you’ve led a very sad life.”
The red spotlight turned gold, and he started to pull on the rope around his neck, taking a moment before he spoke again.
“Do you want to live in a web of lies?
Or are you ready to face the truth,
as it stands before you in a blue boiler suit?
My name is S.K.A.M.
But I’m no scam artist.
I’m a peddler of points of view.
A dealer for the demoralised.
A magician, where magic has worn thin,
for those who play the game with no prize to win.
But pride?
That’s the gift that keeps on giving.
A currency that never ends.
A reason to keep living.”
We all gasped as sparks of fire appeared above him, lighting up the courtyard like the fourth of July. He held his arms up again as he proclaimed.
“So when the sky rains fire,
on your funeral pyre.
Remember, it’s all just a money game.
We come into this world,
and we all leave it the same.”
I couldn’t hold in my scream as he jumped off the wall. None of us could. His body slammed hard into the brickwork, making it look like he’d hung himself in front of this crowd. At least, I hoped it was fake.
It was fake, right?