We’re at the Art Walk, our town’s version of every other town’s First Something, in which art and music and crazy people mingle for a few hours before fading into obscurity for another 30 days.
It’s been an eclectic outing. Mo has a Big Red painting in an exhibit at the art center. A tip from a friend lands us in the hoity toity art museum, which is showing a documentary on the Chinano art Cheech Marin has gathered. There are bands on the street, 14-year-old BMX gangs, rich white people in the upscale gallery. The usual weirdness that is a First Friday in Corpus.
As we’re walking down a sidewalk between venues, an old guy sits on a planter. He is creaky and worn and white of beard. I brace for the usual plea for spare change.
Instead he says:
“Got a spare smoke, Daddy-O?”
I shrug and tell him sorry.
And the funny thing is, I really am.