Whilst gathering found objects in the alley behind my studio one afternoon, two men and a young boy started walking in my direction. I had passed them driving down the hill and we had exchanged glances, they from their front door stoop. Juan was the eldest of the trio, yet most certainly younger than me. He had been drinking whiskey all day and still held the plastic cup containing little more than remnants of what most likely had been a new bottle. His speech was slurred but not so much that I couldn’t make out his Spanish/broken English. Jose was younger, shorter, stockier and had uniquely maintained facial hair. He seemed to hold his proportion of alcohol with greater command, though profuse sweating, beyond what the hot sun could rightly justify, gave him away. Jesus couldn’t have been more than four and positioned himself between his two chaperones, sitting, bouncing on a soccer ball. They spent minimal time on pleasantries before getting to the point by asking if I had any work for them, suggesting they could clean up the vacant lot next to the courtyard that lead to my studio, neither of which were mine to offer. In between their verbal offerings of work experience, both in Mexico and the US, Juan politely offered me a sip of his drink. I’m always gracious in declining such kindness, though decline I do, having no interest in warm, backwash infused whiskey. Jesus was called to return home by his mother with a whistle and a yell. He turned and ran, leaving his ball to be kicked part way up the hill by Jose. The conversation continued a bit longer but was entirely repetitious, they being persistent in asking for work and I being insistent in having nothing to offer. There were so many premature goodbye handshakes and back pats that from a distance it must have appeared to be a rehearsal for a Three Stooges bit. I agreed to keep them in mind for anything that may come up, which seemed enough to appease them. So it goes.