Chapter 1

From the time I knew the difference between spray paint and a soda can, I’ve wanted to be a muralist. When I was a kid, my mom and I would walk back to our apartment through the dingy streets of downtown, past monumental brick walls painted with gateways to better places.

On 12thStreet, a group of stylized children beckoned me to a pristine playground where everyone was happy and smiling. The painted paradise was signed Mo’e. One day, I promised myself, I’d be Mo’e and give other kids a dream like the one he’d given me.

After my mom died, I began my career as a tagger, got caught, went to juvie, got out, tagged again, went back to juvie, and got out. At seventeen I recognized the revolving door, so got a job selling stuff to tourists in Old Town.

Ten years later, I was still selling crap, but I saw an ad saying the local Arts Commission was looking for area artists. I was stoked until I read that only artists with college degrees or a “significant body of juried work” were even eligible to apply. Talk about a bummer.

With a juvie record, but no recent tagging, and no “significant body of juried work,” I was feeling hopeless.

Yeah, I was living the life. Selling stuff by day, tending bar or partying, drinking, fucking by night. But life was like a hamster wheel. I wasn’t getting anywhere on my dream. I was just marking time like I’d done in juvie. Something had to give.

A coworker, a cute little preppy named Monika, told me about the City College art program.

“Eric, you can make contacts there and work on your art.” She bounced from foot to foot, making me a little more hyper.

“Moni, I’m too old. I’ve almost gunned down thirty.”

“Naw, you look like you’re eighteen,” she said with a giggle. “You get carded all the time.”

True. At twenty-one I’d gotten a DMV ID to prove I was of age. Now I worked for a club and felt sorry for the guys like me who looked like perpetual kids.

“Besides, who cares?” she asked. “You could suck up some classes for your dream job, right?”

When I remembered myself as a little boy who wanted to step through the brick walls and live in another world, I realized she was right. So what if I was the oldest guy in my classes? If I could push through the wall and touch my dream, it was worth it, right?

That night I took the Light Rail to the City College campus, filled out the forms, and enrolled in art, English, and math. Two cores and one love.

I felt fairly confident about the math and art classes. I’d managed my money and lived on my own for years and even had a little savings account. I had a small studio apartment downtown, didn’t own a car, and ate regularly. What more could a high school dropout ask?

But English? Not so sure. I hadn’t written anything since high school, and I wasn’t doing so good in English then. Besides, my handwriting was really hand printing and looked like a second grader had done it. I was fucked on all sides. The only thing that might save me was I read a lot. I mean a whole lot.

I was apprehensive as I walked down the hallway to the English class. At one end of the crowded space two people stood nearly toe to toe, one yelling at the other. A tiny blond girl in what appeared to be half a ballerina outfit was screaming at a stud. She was rip-roaring mad. He kept looking around like he needed help.

“You’re not a freaking homo!” she yelled at him. “I don’t believe it.”

He tried to step away, but she was having none of his cutting her off. Around them nobody seemed to be paying attention. Those who didn’t have a piece of paper in front of their faces had their cell phones glued to their eyes. People were bumping into people, but nobody seemed to notice anyone else and bounced from body to body like balls on an old pinball machine.

The guy who was being harassed for being gay gave me such a helpless look I couldn’t do anything but wade to his salvation. If he wanted to be gay, I could give him gay.

“Hey! Miss me?” I grabbed him around the waist and gave him a quick kiss on the lips.

“I never thought you’d get here.” He sighed.

The girl stood next to him stunned into silence.

I’d never seen him before in my life but he was definitely my type. He was tall and slender with nice musculature showing through his tight tee shirt. I figured by his elbows that he was about my age. They weren’t teenage elbows, and elbows never lie.