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And that’s exactly what I’m going to do.
10
Scarlett
I rubberneck out of the car window in the Wynwood district of Miami, quite possibly it’s most famous art district from what I understand.
“See something you like?”
“Yeah, back there.”
Silas brings his Lambo to a stop in the right lane of a one-way street. There are cars behind us and nowhere to park. He’s suddenly created an unapologetic traffic jam with well over a dozen vehicles behind him honking and swearing. One guy a couple cars back even gets out like he wants to start something, but the second Silas steps out of his car, the frowns turn to smiles of recognition and everyone seems to either greet Silas out of some form of Marlon Brando-esque or The Godfather level of respect for his work in the art community down here.
“Which one caught your eye?” he asks after the other cars start funneling around his double-parked car worth more than many people’s houses.
“These. Just back here,” I say, and he takes my hand and we walk the twenty or so seconds back to the murals I saw.
“Who did these?”
A knowing smirk covers his face and he says nothing.
“You know, don’t you?”
“Very well. Yes.”
“One of your artists?”
“Warm?”
“Someone at SteeleSharp?”
“Warmer,” he says, continuing along with the kids game I love. How did he know?
“It wasn’t…you, was it?”
“Me and my best friend.”
“It looks so much like the work I saw in that room this morning when you were at the meeting.”
“Because it is very much like the work you saw in that room this morning.”
“But those words on the placard. They didn’t have your usual tone, unless that was your art. Unless that was a different way of expressing yourself?”
“They didn’t have my tone because I didn’t write them.”
“So your best friend wrote them?”
He nods, but there’s something he’s holding back.
“What’s his name?”
“When I first came to Miami,” he begins, seemingly ignoring my question, “I was an up and coming graffiti artist. I thought I was hot stuff, until I ran into another guy my age and quickly realized I was nothing. But what I did realize was that I might not be the great artist I thought I was, but I was much more organized and business savvy than most artists.” He pauses. “Are you familiar with P. Diddy?”
I nod. “The rapper?”
“Correct. His real name is Sean Combs and he’s often in Miami. He has a house here where he spends most of his time. Nineteen years ago, he had a verse in a song called “Bad Boys for Life.” That verse was ‘Don't worry if I write rhymes, I write checks.’ Well, I took that to heart. And when my graffiti artist best friend, who was also new to the area at the time, asked me why I wasn’t pulling my weight at night when it was time to do our work, I quoted that famous lyric.”
“This makes absolutely no sense to me.”
