Spur of the Moment by Theresa Alan Read Free Book Online Page A

art, man. I mean since the, like, ancient Sumerians, people have wanted to make their mark.”
    What the hell was a Sumerian? Were they in Egypt? Was Sumeria a country? Shit, what was she supposed to say?
    This was one problem with doing improv with a walking encyclopedia. Ana had graduated with honors, but it was because she was an awesome essay writer and test taker, not because she remembered everything she read like Ramiro did. Or actually remembered anything she’d read. Promptly after taking an exam, everything Ana had learned disappeared like a guy after a one-night stand. Every time she played Trivial Pursuit, Ana’s ass would get thoroughly kicked. She could go for hours without picking up a single pie piece, all the while slapping her forehead saying, “I know I learned that in school! The name is on the tip of my tongue . . .” Three weeks later, while she was in the shower or doing the dishes, the answer would spring to mind when it could do her no good whatsoever.
    Ana decided to try to steer the scene back around to something she knew about. “Yo, check it out, I’m doing something new with the ‘i’ in my name.”
    â€œA cat’s face. Dig it.”
    â€œThat’ll show Margarita not to mess with Maria!” She rolled her R’s extravagantly.
    â€œYo, right on. That cat looks like it’ll scratch Margarita Dominguez’s eyes out. You are an artiste, girlfriend.”
    â€œThat’s what I’m saying, the police, the teachers, the parents, they want to be all, arresting us, punishing us, and we’re just making the world a more beautiful place.”
    â€œIt’s, like, a human urge to communicate, to create, to let the world know we were here. Do you think the Sumerians were arrested for their writing, their art?”
    She had absolutely no idea whatsoever. “No way, muchacha!”
    â€œDamn straight. They were celebrated. Their cuneiform changed the world.”
    Cuneiform. It sounded familiar. Did it mean cave painting? Was it an alphabet? A kind of Indian rain dance?
    Ramiro went on, working through the ancient Greeks, the Egyptians, the Mayans. He talked about how for all time, people have needed to express themselves. He would pause, making people think he was done, then he’d go on, explaining about the hieroglyphics of the Egyptians or whatever. “Those were the days! I wish I coulda been there. Then I wouldn’t be all, like, worried about the cops, worried I’d get carted off to jail.” Pause. “And, like, think about the Anasazi. Man. Those were the days. I wish I coulda been there. Now people pay big money to see the designs the Indians painted and carved on cave walls. Those pictographs and petroglyphs, they helped to educate their ancestral Hopi tribes, to bring good luck to their caves, and to let the world know that the Anasazi, they were here!”
    â€œLike a ‘you are here’ on a map, except . . . different.” Ana played dumb to Ramiro’s casual brilliance. She didn’t have a choice to play it any other way.
    â€œYeah, kind of the like that. Do you think they got carted off to jail? No way.” He paused, then launched in about the art of the art of the Bobo tribe of Burkina Faso, whatever that was. The crowd thought it was hilarious. Ana just “uh-huhed” and “you-go-girl”-ed. When he talked about Egypt, she mentioned that her cat I in her name was like her kohl-penciled Egyptian foresisters. Sixteen years of education, and all she remembered about Egypt was that they mummified their dead, built pyramids, outlined their eyes with kohl, and liked cats. Nice to see all those years of writing essays and cramming for exams turned out to be so useful.
    The scene ended a few minutes later when Jason came in wearing a cop hat and thwapping a billy club against his open palm and attempting to arrest them. Both Ramiro and Ana covered him with spray paint