Page 35 of Possibly Texas

“That’s Levi Lee.” Auguste pointed.

“I’ve talked to him a few times.” I nodded along. “Nice guy.”

“The nicest,” Auguste agreed. “He’s still trying to figure himself out. He’s been doing his performance art for at least six months and he switches it up every few days. I guess he just hasn’t figured out what he’s trying to say yet.”

“What?”

“Life is art.” Auguste gestured grandly. “Our actions speak volumes about how we perceive the world.”

“Uh…”

“So, why not make our actions art?” Auguste finished.

“I mean…what?”

Auguste laughed but offered no further explanation. He pointed down the street towards the mosque-like building.

“That’s The Pueblo,” he said. “It’s an artists’ studio and performance space. Church is held there on Sundays.”

“Ah.” I nodded. “I wondered where everyone…did church stuff.”

“Yeah.” He nodded. “Lilly is the groundskeeper for The Pueblo and also teaches the art classes. She’s super nice, too. I’ll have to introduce you sometime. All of the classes are free. If you ever want to take one, I mean.”

“I’m not really an artist.” I shrugged.

“Well,” Auguste said as he turned to me, “what are you?”

I shrugged. Grinned goofily.

Auguste leaned in with a smile and tapped a finger against his temple.

“Life is art.”

“You’re weird,” I said. “I mean, it’s cool, though.”

Auguste laughed loudly, then he was nudging me again.

“See the houses at the end of the street?” He pointed towards the other end of the road where four identical buildings sat perpendicular to the street we were on.

“Uh, yeah?”

“Second one from the right is Blooms,” he said. “Have you met Agnes Broussard yet?”

“Who?”

“She’s the lady with the broken leg in the wheelchair?”

“Oh.” I frowned. “No. I haven’t seen her.”

Auguste slipped his phone out of his pocket just far enough to glance at the time, then he started glancing around, as though he was expecting someone.

“She should be heading into work at Blooms,” he said, his head turning back and forth, looking around for someone. “Ah! There she is!”

Auguste pointed down the street towards the corner of The Pueblo. My eyes followed the direction of his finger, and seconds later, a woman in a wheelchair appeared on the street. Beehive hair, way too much makeup, a kitty cat sweater, leggings, a cast from her hip down to the middle of her shin, and tennis shoes. She was…something to look upon. The oddest thing about her wasn’t her makeup, hair, or choice of clothing. The fact that she was using a crutch to push herself in her wheelchair—almost like an oar in a paddleboat—as her bad leg stuck out perilously in front of her, was the oddest thing. We both watched for a minute as Agnes Broussard swung the crutch to the right side of the wheelchair, dug it into the road, and pushed off. Then the left side. Right side. Left side. She kept rowing her way towards Blooms.

“What happened to her leg?” I asked.

“Well,” Auguste turned to me to murmur, as though Agnes would hear us all the way at the other end of the street, “she was making dinner one night. Pimento cheese sandwiches? She got distracted by her cats and a sandwich fell off the counter. When she turned around, she stepped on the sandwich, slipped, and went ass end up. Broke her leg in two places.”