Radiant Days by Elizabeth Hand

smell wafted up to me: even now, in the fall, it smelled a bit like spring. I turned and headed for the river.
    Steel girders arched overhead, echoing with the steady roar of the freeway, and traffic flowed smoothly along K Street. It was dim, with a crumbling sidewalk and an old warehouse that took up most of a block, its brick face broken by garage bays and delivery entrances.
    That wall was a blank canvas waiting to be bombed with an aerosol can. Behind me, K Street traffic continued to move quickly. No one would have more than a few seconds to catch a glimpse of me throwing up my tag. I chose a spot near the corner, so I could make a dash if I had to; grabbed the spray can from my pocket, shaking it and removing the cap in one swift motion;pointed the nozzle at the wall; and in a few deft motions drew Day-Glo yellow waves, a fiery eye rising from a golden sea.
    RADIANT DAYS
    I capped the spray can, shoved it into my pocket, and danced back a step to get a better look. My sun blazed from the brick like a neon sign. I covered the image with my palm, fingers splayed to fit inside the sun’s rays.
    Directly behind me someone honked. I whipped around and saw an old Imperial cruising past, its driver craning his neck to observe my work. He gave me a thumbs-up, then gestured to a police cruiser a few cars back, shouting, “Better move your butt!”
    The Imperial stopped, leaving enough space for me to dart in front and weave through traffic. Horns blared as I jumped onto the curb. I glanced over my shoulder to see the Imperial already out of sight and the cruiser’s cherry top flashing.
    I turned and fled, head down, praying the cop had lost sight of me. I’d never been so brazen before—tagging a wall in Georgetown in broad daylight was heady stuff, and the rush of adrenaline spiked into exhilaration that I’d gotten away with it.
    I saw no more sign of the cop, and after a few minutes I slowed and tried to catch my breath. In front of me was the Potomac, its oak-brown water flecked with sunset confetti, crimson and glittering gold. A narrow strip of scrubby park ran alongside the water, a tangle of sweetgum and ash trees, sumac and goldenrodstill heavy with dusty yellow blossoms. Knotweed and spiky grass grew to the river’s edge.
    Clea had told me the city wanted to sell this land to developers and put up buildings or a parking lot, but they never did. Overgrown and neglected as it was, the place had a strange, expectant feeling to it—an islet unmoored from some far-off place that floated downstream until it fetched up here. There was a single bench, and an old sign telling you not to swim. It seemed as desolate a spot as I could imagine without returning to Greene County.
    But I wasn’t alone.
    At the water’s edge, about fifteen feet from where I stood, a solitary figure sat on a large, upside-down bucket, a cigarette in one hand and a fishing rod in the other. A brown paper bag leaned against his leg, a small plastic container beside it, along with a plaid flannel shirt and a second bucket. Even with his back to me, I recognized Ted Kampfert.
    I’d never heard of Ted until I started at the Corcoran, where my friend David Fletcher used to bring his boom box to life-drawing class, before he dropped out to become an actor.
    “Who the hell is that?” I demanded one morning, as a gravelly voice intoned the same song for the fourth time.
    Several people looked up as David said, “That’s Ted Kampfert.”
    “Who the hell is he?”
    According to David, he was the biggest, most brilliant burnout who’d ever staggered along the streets of D.C., or anywhere. Years before, he’d been in a legendary band called the DeadlyRays. At least David said they were famous, though mostly they seemed to be famous for
not
being famous.
    “Yeah,” broke in Tiny. “Everyone loved the Raisins.”
    “The Raisins?”
    “It’s a joke,” explained David. “The Rays were supposed to do a gig once, but whoever made the flyers got