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The Kid Who Called Me Bro

kid who calls me bro -

The kid who called me bro used to visit me daily at the 910 Arts studio where I worked. He was chock full of advice and an excellent listener. Quite the combo deal.

On one particularly ridiculous day, approximately 843 things had gone wrong by noon. “What’s up, bro?” he asked me.

I told him I left my Mac cord at home, which is why my computer wouldn’t boot. My studio mate, Sharron, was out of good studio snacks. A prospective client asked me to edit a 50-page book chapter for free to “test out” my skills. A friend of a friend wanted to know if I would write her resume for free, after which time she would tell everybody about me and my magical resume writing skills in order to increase my exposure, presumably gaining me a zillion more clients in search of free resumes. I accidentally tripped over my own foot and spilled coffee on my off-white shirt. While wiping off my shirt, I spilled coffee on Sharron’s dog. Later, I knocked one of Sharron’s photos off the wall by leaning on it with my head.

“You’re kickin it, bro,” he said.

Oh yeah, I was definitely kicking it. No question about that.

“You ready for First Friday, bro?” the kid who called me bro asked me the next day.

“Not even close,” I said. Sharron and I hadn’t yet nailed down food, drink, entertainment. We were still hanging artwork. Big problems with First Friday just days away.

I grabbed a yogurt from Sharron’s fridge, the only “snack” in stock.

“Do you think the date on this yogurt is the sell by date or the consume by date?” I asked him.

“How am I supposed to know, bro?” he asked. “You’re the adult. You’re the one who’s supposed to know.”

“Fine. Where’s your mother?”

He scrunched up his face, two bulging eyes and a unibrow. “Bro, I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I know. I just need some advice about this yogurt.”

His brows separated into two. “She’s in her studio next door. And, bro, you need to get it together. You need to get back to kickin it. For real.”

I pulled the tab off the yogurt, smelled it, and flung it into the trash. Or, rather, near the trash. A bit of yogurt landed on Sharron’s dog.

“Roger that,” I said.

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