Jake “Cornpone” McCoy considered himself an ‘artist’.

Some called him an ‘aerosol artist’. Others a nuisance, writing his graffiti all over any empty wall or blank surface.

His ‘tag’ was recognizable throughout the neighborhood. He was a legend, with his looping flourishes, that resembled some complex foreign language.

“Yo, wassup Cornpone?,” a young kid called to him as he walked past the bodega on the corner, that he had ‘tagged’ the night previous.
“Hey my man T-Bone,” Jake called back.
Red was his signature color. He had dozens of cans hidden in the basement. The neighbors called his ‘art’ a blight on the community.
“It encourages more crime, and makes our neighborhood look trashy,” Mrs. Ferris complained at the committee meeting.

Jake remembered the first wall he put his mark on when he was ten years old. It was the blank white wall behind Mr. Ortega’s Pawn shop.

When that first can of spray paint was emptied, ‘Cornpone’ stood back, admired his work and said, “Cool.”