We met him on a main avenue in the middle of a classic Bed-Stuy afternoon, August already with shoes kicked off, resting comfortably in New York City. The type of late afternoon that you can sit in for decades. Soak in. A summer afternoon you want to trap buzzing in a bell jar, punching holes in the lid to let it breathe.
            His name was Billy T. Thomas. A wisp of a man grown like a willow. He was excited to see us.
            “Take my picture,” he said beaming. “You know you wanna take my picture.”
            Dressed in a black suit jacket and tie and a grin that stretched from Montauk to Midwood he owned each street he strut across – his head arriving before his long body. His gait, his demeanor, his clothes - who dressed like that on the weekend anymore? – pulled all eyes and attentions into his gravitational pull. Even when he stood still he was vibrating - like a snapped car antenna. Through a gap in his smile he tossed out rhymes and anecdotes that lit up the block, rivaling the lush light from above.
            “How old are you?” I asked him.
            “I’m older than cold water and sweeter than salt!” he repeated a number of times until we were all laughing at his enthusiasm.
            “What do you love about Brooklyn?” I ventured.
            “What’s not to like?” he countered, his eyes dancing around, his smile growing larger. “Just look around ya.”
The light on the walls behind him was that sumptuous, profound light that enhances life itself – making every moment a cinemascope still. An amber veneer cast across aged brick and weary telephone lines – as if Hopper had reached down from above and coated the scene with his brush strokes.
            And when the Hasselblad was raised, his body came to life. Billy T. was a tempest of limbs and poses – swaying like Oz’s scarecrow, pausing only for momentary clicks – the camera trying desperately to keep pace, to hold his energy in stillness.
            “How ‘bout this?” he threw at us. “You like this?”
            Bursting through postures and attitudes he continued, “You know you like this one. You gotta have this one.”
            Then, when his momentary waltz was through, he bowed slightly to us and shuffled down the street, my eyes following him until Billy T. Thomas was nothing but a black spot in the distance.
            “Did you catch him?” I asked.
            “I’m not sure…I’m not sure,” said Seth, looking at his camera, seemingly cursing its sluggishness.