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[Dick Skinner]

Always be prepared. Wasn’t that someone’s motto? Probably, Dick wasn’t sure where he’d heard it before, but he knew he sure as hell didn’t’ come up with it. He lived by it though. As a roadie, he had a Batman-belt of shit strapped around his waist – duct tape, sharpies, screw drivers, ear plugs, whatever. As an artist, he had an over-the-shoulder bag full of shit – paints (spray and other), brushes, a Polaroid camera, etc. etc. This morning he was carrying around the art shit and he clearly had a mission in mind as he traipsed through the calm morning streets.

His clothes were paint-splattered and dirty, with holes in ‘inappropriate’ places. Whether that was on purpose or not was up for debate. He also had grass stains up the back of his gray t-shirt, but not for the reasons you’d think. Stopping in front of a bench, he set his bag down and stretched his arms above his head before digging into the bag. He shoved three paint brushes into his mouth, brush side in, and opened up the water bottle he’d brought with him. Setting it down on the ground, he set a plate next to that and dropped at least fifteen different paint tubes next to that.

Dropping to the ground near all of his stuff, Dick shimmied under the bench so that he was lying on his back looking up at the seat. Where gum and stains of spilled things should have been, a mural of sorts was staring back at him. It was a project he’d been working on recently – an homage to LSD and the psychedelic sixties. In the middle of a park. Where any self-respecting, law-abiding square could sit above it and never have any idea – very clever, if he did say so himself.

And so, with bag above him, art supplies next to him and feet the easiest visible bit of him, Dick started painting, dripping paint down on himself as we went.

[Calvin Grey]

There was nothing like open space. Being trapped in a car, hotel room, or even apartment was hard to deal with in Calvin’s case. He hated the stuffy air and claustrophobic atmosphere being inside caused. There was that factor and the one that Calvin just preferred being outside. He loved the outdoors and all weather. Rain or shine, he’d be sitting out in a grassy area or under a tree in one of his pathetic, oversized tye dye shirts that he had stolen from his dad before leaving New York. It was a predictable lifestyle, but Calvin had grown accustomed to it.

So accustomed in fact, that he would often wake up early in the morning, grab a good book, and head off to wonder around outside to read and go wherever his calloused, dirt stained feet lead him. Today, it was a park. The best place to be. He was around nature, and hardly any people were around to bother him while he read his current book, Clear Thinking About Sexual Deviations. He could be barefoot, and no one could kick him out, like they often did at stores and restaurants. Parks were amazing, and that was probably why he subconsciously brought here nearly an hour ago and now sat cross-legged under a small tree reading with his book in his lap and his elbows resting comfortably on his knees.

Of course no matter how interesting learning about Madonna-Prostitute Syndrome was, Calvin had the attention span of a child sometimes. The small movements of a bird fluttering past or the wind blowing a few leaves the other way brought him out of his book in a split second to make him look around at his surroundings before returning to the reading. In this sense, it was no surprise that the quiet footfalls of a passerby would bring Calvin back to the real world in time to see a figure not too far off dumping out a bag of art supplies to crawl under a picnic table.

Calvin smiled, shutting the book without taking notice of what page he was on. There was a secret love for art that he had, regardless of what he parents failed to teach him. More so, he loved the originality in it. It often reminded him of the part in Proverbs urging people to think for themselves and not follow others. Art was a gift from God. His bare toes squeezed against the grass for a moment as he though about when the person could possibly be downing under the picnic table before his curiosity caught him, and he lightly made his way over.