On The Darkest Street In Woodland

11 p.m. Monday night, with only a half moon....

Young Man: Hey! (stage whisper)
Marc: ?
Young Man: Hey!
Marc: ??
Young Man: Hey!
Marc: ???

About 50 feet away, behind a fire hydrant and half-hidden by a hedge, I barely make out the silhouette of someone dressed in black, with discontinuous, fluorescent white stripes speckling his jacket.

Young Man: Do you know how to open this? I want to ask this girl out to the prom and I want to paint her windshield, but I can't open it.

I can't see anything, but I can just hear the rattling metal ball in some kind of spray can.

Marc: No. I have no idea. I don't know if you pop it or shake it....

Young Man: Thanks. Sorry.

I suppose the wannabe tagger was having trouble with those damned adult-proof caps that you have to pry off with a screwdriver blade. In any event, his approach was so guileless, so eager-to-please and naive, that I think he was probably the most sincere person I've met so far this year.