Art Critic pt. 5


I haven't been hitting the gym lately like I should. I guess the rain was a sign that I need a quick workout. A jog to the car, for old time's sake. I have to admit, thirty five isn't like I thought it would be. Are you young or old? Part of you can still keep up with the young folks but other parts are just screaming "fuck that."

I'm not tired when I get to the car, I catch my breath quickly, but damn, my feet are killing me. Maybe I'll be one of those people wearing orthopedic shoes. Hopefully that's a long time away. I make my way to the outskirts of campus and spot Josiah. Standing at a bus stop using his backpack as an umbrella.

"Yo, do you need a ride," I pull up and offer him one.

"I don't really know you," he says as thunder rumbles in the background.

"Your loss," I press the button to roll up the window.

"Wait," he gets in realizing a storm is coming.

"Where do you live?"

"Right up the road from here, it's a straight shot, then a left at 13th street," he buckles his seat belt. "Why did you give me a ride?"

"I felt bad for interrogating you," I really did.

"You weren't so bad."

"Thanks, I guess."

We make small talk the rest of the way to his home. Should be a 10 minute drive, but with traffic it turned into thirty. Something about the rain makes people forget how to drive. It isn't raining hard. He gets out, and his grandfather, or really old dad, waves to me. I wave back, but the door to the garage is open, and that's what catches my interest. Lot's of canvas and spray paint in the garage. Josiah isn't a suspect, but I think I just found the culprit.

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