05/21/2026
I pulled up to the gallery building in my regular spot at the north end of the building, put the car in park, turned it off, looked up and had eye contact with a moron in the act of spray tagging the building in the same spot he had chosen previously.
I blew the car horn as I flew open the door and exited to see him sprint away, back pack and spray can in hand with me yelling six of the seven words George Carlin warned could not be said on TV.
I can’t relate how mad I was. Anyway, as I rounded the back of the car, a neighbor was running down the alley in pursuit.
The tagger led the race followed by the neighbor and then me a few steps behind. After only a few long strides I remembered something important.
I’m an old man. I could never catch him and if I did, he’d probably pummel me.
I was about to round the corner of the building to see the neighbor had given up as well. The tagger ran between some houses through yards and made it to the other side of the block vanishing like a tax refund in a w**d store. Infuriating disappointment.
At least I know what he looks like. The camera on our building shows the front entrance and windows but not the side of the structure, meaning no pictures. However, the neighbors camera sounded the alert.
He must have read my FB post about what I thought of his work, especially the part stating it was not artistic in the least bit, as he intentionally wrote the word ‘Art’ into his stupid rendition of a balloon.
One day I’ll see him on the streets again and the adrenaline rush will start all over.
Here’s my description: a very plain sun-starved person with minimum pigmentation – a complexion akin to a glow stick that never got cracked, guessed to be a male with the physical integrity of uncooked spaghetti, last seen wearing gangsta cargo shorts extending mid-shin that suggest a man prepared for absolutely everything except employment. He wore off-the-rack shoes from the discount bin at Goodwill, a faded T-shirt that apparently survived three protests, four thrift stores, and a small grease fire and read: Free Mangione, or I (heart) Immigrants or Save the Whales or something rather asinine. Although lacking a spine he has a rather keen sense of fight or flight – choosing flight as his best path of survival.
This cluster of cells is somehow convinced he is just one slogan away from becoming an urban folk hero.
Hey buddy, you are not.
Again, I extend the challenge to you to come inside and convince me you are an artist.
D. T. Smith
www.StreetSmartsGallery.com