Eschatology. It seemed a perfect expression of man’s inhumanity: a bit of surrealist theater would make it incarnate, a flippant rejection of man’s brutality—screaming from war-torn streets everywhere.

Execution was as cursory as concept development—no pressure from perfection. Materials came together, sketches, masks, dirty clothes. We waited until dark. The location was notorious for its dreary aspect: windblown debris, potholes—dark creeping alleyways—ruined buildings, towering windowless to the dirty clouds.

At the corner, an iron-framed sewer grate descended into the bowels of the city. With a pickax, we dug until a deep asphalt fissure ran along the curb. Max ripped his clothing and took off his shoes. His feet were like shoes anyway. As hard as wood, he’d used his hands as tools for eighty years. Laying into the carved depression with one arm sticking above grade, Max lolling his head against the dull iron of the gutter. Poured concrete covered his arm to his wrist, filling shallow voids to his neck—sprinkling gravel where he emerged from the street. Mixed grey paint matched the surrounding asphalt. Shuffled dirt and rocks with our feet to finish the texture. He had to pee. Feel free Max; it won’t hurt a thing. We panned across with the lights and cameras until the footage lived and breathed.

A cop car drove by, we doused the spots and threw the junk in the van. The cop did a slow turn and came back as we drove off down a side street with him hard on our ass. His lights in the rearview, we pulled over. Outstanding warrants, open bottles, and paraphernalia threw us all in jail. We didn't catch the street name. Three weeks later, I made bail and crisscrossed the wrong end of town, looking for the alley. Max was never intended to be a literal rendering.

I was ready to give up when there he was, like roadkill. One eye open.

Max, I whispered, I found you.