Are You?

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.

One thought on “Are You?

  1. During my Seattle visit last weekend, I ran into someone downtown with the same line. I said I was a writer. He asked me for money for some sort of youth arts fund. I explained that, being a writer, I didn’t really have much extra money. He said thank you.

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