Behind The Graffiti He said he was a king and I believed him. Walking around with no clothes, angry men and women with lips on his ass, seemed to make his claim reasonable. I asked him why he was painting graffiti on the broken brick wall. He said, “Because I can.” I told him that's what the leader of the Russian Mafia says when he poisons someone. It was cold outside, so I walked across the street to an old diner, sat in a cozy booth, and warmed up with a cup of coffee. Once the king had finished with his 40-word rant, in red spray paint, I watched him walk away. Taking his ass kissers with him. That's when the old man in the booth next to me got up and paid his bill. Then, he walked outside and across the street to the brick wall. He began to wave his arms like a fire dancer at a luau. The rest of us in the diner pressed our faces against the front window, in amazement. The graffiti slowly bubbled into dust, like Tinkerbell created when she flew away. And soon was completely gone. I walked out and across the street and I asked, “Who are you?” “I am not here,” he replied, “I am the gray, for those that can only see black and white. Hidden underneath the now, the establishment, is the forever, I expose the forever.” “You only exposed the bricks.” I said. By then a crowd had gathered and the old man spoke, “Let’s take down this wall. Each of you take a brick.” One by one people approached, loosened a brick, and took it with them. There were bricks of national identity: Chinese, American, Brazilian, Russian, Israeli… Bricks of religious identity: Christian, Buddhist, Jewish, Muslim… Bricks of ideology: Marxism, Fascism, Socialism, Capitalism… Until there was nothing, except what is. And the old man spoke once more, “Let’s try again.”