The artist stepped out of the spot, onto Beauty Ave. fresh from the players that were cookin' with gin running smooth in his veins, and Art Farmer Blowin in his ears. The avenue was quiet, all the corner boys from 12th st. were gone. The painter had a soft spot for their all night vigilance, no matter their antics that shaped their lives, enslaved to their needles and their 40 ounces that eventually sent them off and on their way.

Walking towards his loft on C, his legs loose with satisfaction from the completion of recently finished works, joined hands with the melancholy vibe that ran through the neighborhood, the city, the ones he considered friends, and some of the ones he cared for from a distance.

Giving into a smile and a thought, diverging from his usual route that he was sick of, he decided to visit a mural that he was proud of, that he did for free at the urging of some of the neighborhood, the voices of the people of the community that took him in, talked of, and promoted his work, beamed with pride over his successes. 'That's makin' it baby.'

Crossing Beauty Ave at 10th st. he stopped under the traffic light in the middle of the intersection looking down and up, west, then east, welcoming the pleasurable feeling of being in a spot he never spent any time in, feeling the privilege of being able to take any of those four options to anywhere in the world, followed by the gratitude of having them, remembering a time not so long ago when he did not.

Standing there, unconscious as one is content, blank in mind, whole in spirit, just for a spark, if only the gods kept him there just for a half breath more, free of worry 'thank you' swept his mind, manifesting into a smile that swept his lips.

Choosing the far sidewalk down 10th, across the street from the Diaz mural, he saw commotion under the scaffolding, and kept it moving in the same, lazy-almost swaying strides that carried him there.

Up ahead, towards the end of the block, he could see the light at Ave C. letting him know that he was close, looking across the street to the first of 3 overhead lights, hanging over his piece, bright enough to showcase the piece, dim enough for the community board, on the side of the liq. store where it lived.

Further up, expecting and not there, were the other two lights, out, further in, he could see them smashed, taking out his ear phones, he could hear the timeless rattle of two peas being shaken in a tin cannon and as he inched further, carefully, saw a 'lil' Toy in front of a work that immediately crystallized its importance to him. So the artist got quiet, and crept quieter than a rat.

“Yo.” He finally said, 1 ft. From the boy.

The boy, quick, with the can to his waist, turned himself 180 degrees squaring off with the artist. “Fuck you want? Mind yo fuckin business, rich ass motherfucka.”

“Nononono. Cmooon.” The artist knew immediately to show respect, even if he were 5 instead of 10. He wasn't much older when he started tagging himself, now graduated from the lifestyle for some time, his core loyalty shone through, in understanding, and homage. “This is my piece. This is my work.”

The boy, hesitated for a moment, and in that hesitation, the artist knew he might have found another. If the boy had real street in him, his eyes would have been blinded by the spray, his chest and head kicked in, and his wallet, gone. “I can't walk by and say nothin.”

“Man fuck you.”

The artist thought for a moment. The boy waited.

“I used to tag.”

“I don't give a fuck. That ain't got nothin to do with me.”

“Hold up. Just so I know, and leave ya to it, what's your vision here?”

“Whatcha mean, vision?”

“I mean, I saw you from up the street. You were thinkin' on it. Pros I know hit n quit it. You thought on it. I'm askin' what's your vision?”

“My Unc said whoever did this shit here, got his eyes wrong. My Unc rolls with a set, ya heard? So he knows. He said his eyes ain't tired, enough, ain't angry enough, for all the motherfucka carried. So…I'm lookin to make it so.”

“Then, do what ya feel.”

“Huh?”

“Do what you feel. Let's see it.”

Confused by the Artist and the silence of the block the boy went back and forth with his glances. He lowered the can slightly to the side of his leg, before bringing it back up to his hip.

“Naaahh. I turn my back and then-“

“Naah nah. Cmon. Let's see it.”

The boy turned once more, this time refocusing. Starting to lose himself, back into his previous focus, undaunted by a broken bottle from up the block, he raised the can stepping in closer, shaking it, his shorter arms barely able to reach the eyes looking at the both of them from the concrete.

“Give him some lines, narrow the eyes.” The artist said.

“I know what I'm doin fool.” The boy said, not moving.

Deepening his focus, the artist watched. The color of the can was brown, a different shade of brown than the one he used, “nothing that can't be fixed.” He watched the boy go back and forth, starting a rhythm that would have him check both shoulders, gauging where the artist was, just off the curb, in the street. He watched the little mans arms widen out, creating effective, simple lines, tough to see in certain spots, the one overhead light only shading so much.

The boy would step back, and go back in. When a car passed he stopped, almost disappearing, using his short size to his advantage, reappearing when he felt the car sufficiently passed.

Stepping back in with no mind of the Artist now at all, slowly enveloping himself into the canvas of the wall as if it were his, as if he were working on it, just as the artist did, just as he did when he used to tag and in his studio where he would curate his livelihood.

He watched the image change shape, and when he felt it change emotion, anger rose inside of him, because he cared, and it was his, but the shifting that life had taught him, brought new life; 'and theres nothing that can't be fixed.'

The image of the icon was now taking on a cartoonish glint, something from the ole 5 Pointz, letting him know that the young artist had knowledge, and ideas from that knowledge, but probably never heard a song from the icon, let alone what it would be to capture his image. 'He's making it his.'

The boy turned after some time, rattling the peas in his cannon, looking up at the artist with eyes of contrition, vulnerable under the light, strong against his work.

“Not bad. Not bad. I see what you're doin.” The artist said.

“Man, I made that shit here real.” The boy said. His white tee streaked with dirt and spray.

“No question. No question. With respect, you mind if I hold that can a minute?”

The boy shook his head no.

“Cmon man. I just let you cut into my shit. And I like what you did. All I'm asking is to let me get in there a little.”

The boy thought it over, shaking the can slowly, handing it over to the Artist, taking it calmly in gratitude, stepping in from out of the street.

“Don't fuck with his vibe.” The boy said.

“I know better.”

The artist surveyed the boys work closer, smelling the aerosol, shaking the can.

The boy watched the artist, who would occasionally check on him over his left shoulder, first spraying in spots, gauging refinement, gauging how much the can had left. Spraying in close, rounding, tightening, stepping away, misting over, the boy continued to watch the artist venture further in, losing all that surrounded him, as if something took over him, something not from around the way, something the boy had never witnessed before. And for that brief time the two became suspended in moments put together by chance.

All the anger had left the young boy, watching, looking at the piece, and his work, being enhanced by what he did not understand, rather felt, and in that, could not argue with.

“There.” The artist said, stepping back, handing the boy his can when he was sure that he finished. “See?”

The boy said nothing.

“We made him right.”

“East Village right.”

“Fuckin A.”

The boy shook the can looking the Artist up and down, turning for the corner, dropping the can lazily as he turned, disappearing.

The artist took a joint from his shirt pocket, lit up, standing there, watching the paint dry on the concrete, under the one overhead light. 'Keep playin' baby.'