Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 103402 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 517(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103402 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 517(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
“Ready for some art?” Beckham said, taking a step back. I wanted to say “no, fuck the art, come over here and let’s fog up my windows,” but instead, what I actually said was “Yesssss, let’s go!”.
The Wynwood Walls was a relatively new area in Miami that was beginning to attract people from all around the world. It used to be an area known less for its beautiful art and more for its high crime rate and lack of things to do. No one really went to Wynwood until 2009, when an urban developer saw potential in the area and bought out almost two dozen properties so he could revitalize them and create a walkable and entertaining neighborhood. The cluster of run-down buildings and warehouses had evolved into delicious restaurants and bars, along with cool tattoo shops and art galleries. Then, of course, there were the actual Wynwood Walls, which was a walk through larger-than-life art murals painted on red-bricked walls that seemed to try and reach up into the cloud-filled sky.
Things really took off when the annual Art Basel festival named Wynwood its home, drawing celebrities of all kinds. From basketball players to movie stars to the majestic and ephemeral Queen Bey herself, a lot of people enjoyed walking through the Wynwood Walls.
Today, there was no Beyoncé sighting, but there were plenty of other people walking around, admiring the stunning murals and walking through the museum. Beckham and I joined the moving crowd, walking through the gardens and pointing out pieces we each liked. Most of the walls were covered from bottom to top in blasts of color.
“Check that one out,” I said, pointing at one wall that had a row of elephant butts pointed at us, each elephant a different color of the rainbow. “Elephants are one of my favorite animals, but I’m not sure I’m too fond of this angle.”
Beckham took a step back and put a finger to his lips, as if he were a renowned art enthusiast examining a rare piece. “Hmm. Yes… I do feel like we’re about to be shat on. But in an artistic way, at least.”
“At least,” I echoed, laughing along as we continued walking down the path.
“So what does Oliver Jamison Brightly do on his spare time, besides stare at elephant arses.”
“Excuse me,” I said, putting a hand to my chest, “That’s actually all I do, thank you very much.”
Beckham laughed as we continued walking down the path. The Miami sun wasn’t as harsh in the early evening, so the heat was bearable as we walked. “Seriously, though, I haven’t had all that much time to do anything. Not until recently. All of my undergrad was spent studying and trying to get into vet school. Then vet school comes around and all of my time is spent studying and trying to stay in vet school.”
“You’re at the finish line, though, right?”
I nod. “Yup, thank gawd. I’m so excited to just get out into the real world and leave all this school stuff behind. I don’t want to spend the entirety of my youth buried in books and debt.”
“It’s better than how I spent my younger years.”
“And how was that?” We stopped in front of a sculpture of a dolphin made out of bobby pins and paper clips.
“Boozing, drugs, running away from crap I should have faced head on. You know, that kind of stuff.”
I tore my eyes from the shiny dolphin seemingly hanging in thin air. Beckham was looking at the sculpture, but he turned when he felt my eyes on him.
“What were you running from?” I wanted to know. It felt like Beckham was holding on to a book I’d been dying to read for my entire life. I wanted to know everything, from the beginning to the middle to the very end.
“Don’t worry about it.”
Annnnd the book snapped shut.
“Are you still running?” I asked, not wanting to drop the topic. I felt pushy.
“You can say that, yeah.”
“Say that? I asked a question!”
We both laughed, even though Beckham still didn’t supply me an answer. He was shielding himself from the world for some reason, and that meant the shield was blocking me, too. I looked back at the sculpture although my thoughts were painting all kinds of scenarios Beckham could be running from.
“When did you move to America?”
“I was twenty-three. I’d been working at some pubs back in London and banked enough coins to make the jump. I started working under the table at a bar on South Beach. It was a difficult time, but it taught me everything I needed to know to make it in the States.”
“And you did,” I said, smiling.
“For the most part, yeah, I think I did.”
“Most part? Look at you—you’ve got a stable job helping people on the daily, a great home, a nice car. You’ve got the American dream all in the palm of your hand.”