get lucky again tonight. Only I wasn’t going to a bar.
The book I was working on—or supposed to be, anyway—needed to be phenomenal. They all were, at least in my head. I wanted something that intrigued people, caught their attention, made them run through myriad emotions when they read it. As far as I was concerned, I’d been lucky so far. Sure, I knew I had some talent, but so did a lot of other people, and not all writers—even ones who were far better than I was—had the opportunity to make a living doing what they loved to do.
As I walked down the sidewalk, I took it all in, mentally snapshotting the little details of the buildings, the cars, the people. I noted the noises I heard, the aromas I smelled, tied them together in my head in a way I would remember for a scene later. For nearly an hour, that was all I did until I saw a crowd gathered in a small alcove near an alley. I knew what they were looking at, so I tucked my hands in my pockets and walked over to join them.
Peering over the heads of the group gathered, I saw the familiar man standing in front of a table, a large sheet of thin, white hardboard before him. The guy wielded a circle cutout in one hand and a can of spray paint in the other, a respirator mask covering his mouth and nose. I watched him work for a good ten minutes before he completed the painting. And when he pulled off his mask, then lifted the board to show the audience, I nodded a hello while the others clapped.
“What’s up, Jake?” the man sporting the strange man bun and scruffy goatee greeted me as he carried the painted board to the front and set it in one of the open spots.
The paintings wouldn’t last long, selling rapidly on the weekends, so I looked it over quickly, trying to decide if I wanted it. When the woman beside me got excited, I decided to pass. I already had fifteen of them leaning against the wall in my guest bedroom, waiting for me to find a place for them.
“You’re out early tonight.”
“Tell me about it.” I stepped out of the way, moving around to stand beside my friend.
I had met Gavin Dennis nearly a year ago, right after I had moved back to Texas and into my condo. One night, I’d been wandering around aimlessly when I stumbled upon a scene much like this one, only in a different location. After I’d watched Gavin work for almost two hours, I guess he’d gotten curious as to why I was continuing to stand there. I’d introduced myself and that had been that. And since that day, Gavin and I had become friends, gone to a few bars, had some drinks, shared some drunken conversation. But mostly, I had spent at least one night a month sitting on that very stool beside Gavin, watching him work and checking out the hordes of people who stopped to admire the masterpieces Gavin would create.
It was crazy to see a man design some magnificent artwork using nothing more than cardboard cutouts and spray paint, but Gavin never seemed to run out of ideas, and not once had I seen him paint the same thing twice.
Imagine my surprise when last weekend I’d learned that Gavin was none other than my new neighbor. One of my two new neighbors, who could throw one hell of a party. Granted, I still didn’t remember a lot that had happened that night, which was probably a good thing.
“Don’t let me bother you,” I told him, taking a seat on the stool nearby as a couple of people made requests for his next painting.
Gavin smirked, then turned to the crowd once again. “Anyone here read? And I’m talkin’ books.”
I rolled my eyes.
A few people raised their hands.
“What do you read?” Gavin asked, pointing to one woman in particular.
“Sci-Fi,” she said shyly.
Gavin looked at me. I shook my head, but he already knew I didn’t write science fiction.
“What about you?” Gavin asked, nodding to another woman.
“Romance,” she told him.
Gavin cast a sideways glance at me, raising one eyebrow.
I mouthed, “Not cool.”
“Who’s your favorite author?” Gavin asked the woman as he rearranged the cans of paint and his cutouts.
“Jacob Wild,” she said excitedly.
I sighed.
Another sideways glance from Gavin—this one was accompanied by a shit-eating grin. “Is that right?”