A young guy strolled over and stopped me as I was walking up Harbor Steps tonight. He wore an oversized policeman-style cap. He carried a clipboard. “Excuse me. Are you an artist, a writer, or a poet?”
His inflection was internally conflicted, and it wasn’t apparent if it was a yes or no question or if he was giving me three options – artist, writer, or poet.
I answered, “No.”
” . . . a reggae musicfan?”
That cryptic pronunciation again: “. . . a reggae-music fan?” “A reggae music fan?” Admittedly, the distinction was less important this time.
“Okay. Thank you.”
I crossed the street. There was a guitar player and a drummer sitting in the lobby of the Art Museum, their backs to the window. They had no audience. It was just them and a family of camel statues.