“I don’t know what I think,” I said, and looked at the art—at the bird coming in for a landing and the gay, vibrant colors. At the graffiti which hadn’t the power to overwhelm it. “I know that’s still here—I know that. And I know ... that there’s others out there; others who want to help. I didn’t before, but ... now I do.” I watched as he lit a cigarette and took a deep drag; blew bluish-colored smoke out the window. “And ... and I guess that’s changed everything. You know I mean?”
And he just looked at me. And I looked back; hopeful, expectant.
He started tittering.
“I couldn’t get it up with Mercedes—can you believe that?” He leaned closer, snorting and puffing, snickering through his nose. “Not even when she went down. I mean, I was like, I guess I’m a shower not a grower, baby!” An
