Tagged by Eric Walters Page A

beholder,” I said, breaking the silence. “And according to this beholder, this was produced by an artist.”
    â€œDo you think it’s the same person doing all of these?” she asked.
    â€œObviously,” Oswald said.
    â€œMaybe it is to you, the art expert , but not to us common folk,” Julia said.
    â€œEven if you can’t tell by the style, you can certainly tell by the tag,” I said.
    I walked over and stood at the bottom right-hand corner of the creation. There was the big, stylized WIZ, written inside the outline of a sheep.
    â€œSo he thinks he’s a wizard,” Julia said sarcastically.
    â€œHe?” Oswald asked. “How do you know it’s a guy doing this?”
    â€œIsn’t that obvious?”
    â€œNot to me,” I said before Oswald could. It probably was a guy, but I still wanted to know why she thought so.
    â€œIt’s simple. Males, whether they’re dogs or humans, all want to mark their territory. One will raise up his back leg, and the other, the arm holding the can of spray paint.”
    â€œSo, let me get this straight. To you this is the human equivalent of a dog relieving itself on a post?” I questioned.
    â€œMore or less—and it even explains his tag name. Basically, he’s taking a Wiz on the wall.”
    Oswald laughed. “Now that was creative. Here, take a picture of me with it.”
    He handed me his phone and ran over to stand in the middle of the mural.
    â€œIt’s hard to get you and it in the same frame,” I said.
    â€œGo over to the other side of the creek. Use the rocks to get over,” he commanded.
    There was a series of rocks littering the little stream. If I jumped from one to the other, it looked like it might be possible to get across. Maybe. I hesitated.
    â€œYou can do it,” Oswald said. “But Ian, be careful. I wouldn’t want you to fall in—at least, not while you’re holding my phone. Hurry up.”
    I was going to do it, but I wasn’t going to hurry. I moved carefully, jumping from rock to rock until I reached the other cement bank.
    â€œSay cheese,” I said as I aimed the camera.
    He smiled and held out his hands, gesturing to the painting like he was a supermodel selling perfume.
    â€œGot it.”
    â€œNow take one of me right down here by the tag. Use the zoom to get me and it.”
    I fiddled around until I had him and the tag in the screen. “Nice zoom on the camera phone,” I said. “Got it again.”
    â€œThanks. This piece is fantastic, if I do say so myself.”
    â€œYou’re acting like you’re the one who painted it,” Julia scolded.
    â€œOf course I didn’t, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to have my picture taken with it,” he protested. “Did you design or build the Eiffel Tower?”
    â€œDon’t be ridiculous.”
    â€œThen why is there a picture in your room of you and the tower?” he asked.
    â€œI was in Paris, and it’s famous.”
    â€œWhen it was first put up, it was part of an advertisement for the World’s Fair in Paris, and there were demands from Parisians that it be torn down because it was considered an eyesore,” Oswald said.
    â€œYeah, right.”
    â€œHe’s right,” I said. “Mrs. Johnson told us all about it in art class.”
    â€œFine,” she said. “But it did go on to become an icon. I’ll agree that this is art if millions of people come to see it and have their pictures taken with it over the next hundred years.”
    â€œThat won’t happen. I doubt it will be here in a hundred hours.”
    â€œWhy, will it wash off in the next rain?”
    â€œIt’s permanent paint, but only permanent until the City sends a crew to paint over it,” I explained.
    â€œI heard the one with the dogs is gone already,” Oswald added.
    â€œThe doggies are gone?” Julia asked. She