The one time in my life I wished I smoke

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.

About gary

no sock monkeys were harmed in the making of this blog.
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One Response to The one time in my life I wished I smoke

  1. SeniorRunner says:

    I can almost hear you now…

    “Sorry, man… I don’t smoke.
    And DON’T call me Daddy-O;”

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