Despite our arrival in a big city, Austin spent the rest of our day, dragging me through congested streets, angry roads, and foreign markets to find a large canvas to display his art.

But as we scurried along the gray pavement, I find myself running out of breath. My brown eyes focused on Austin's strong hands, agile feet, and scrawny appearance.

His wavy, white blond hair shook like leaves spilling from tall trees. His black leather clothes fluttered in the breeze, and even though his face is cover in sweat, Austin's makeup stayed in perfect shape while mine is running down like melted ice cream.

Black mascara dripped down my cheeks, purple lipstick smeared along my mouth, and the beads of perspiration grew on my forehead.

It poured down my face so quickly that I caught a passing thirty-three-year-old male biker, giving me a mortified look that says, 'holy shit, what the fuck happened to her?' I try to be optimistic and wave to him, but he was so horrified by the makeup running down my cheeks that he got hit by a dumpster truck.

BANG!

The sound was like a hearing a gunshot from a far distance.

I didn't have to turn around because I can picture the biker's bruised body lying on the asphalt. Both his hairy legs were broken, his face looked like he could use a few stitches, and he whines like a spoiled thirteen-year-old girl.

Don't worry, based on the loud impact of the accident, the dude will be in the hospital for at least three to four months.

But as for his precious bike, let's just say he is going to walk for a very long time.

"Jesus Christ," I moaned, turning away.

My face almost killed this guy.

Using my right hand, I covered portions of my cheekbones, lips, and my dampened eyebrows.

Why I wore makeup in the middle of a hot city is beyond me.

As soon as we find a hotel, I am going to get rid of this hideous monstrosity, but then again, I am in Sydney being dragged away by my sarcastic, art-loving, feminist best friend Austin who jogs like a squirrel on cocaine.

And people thought I was persistent.

"Can we just stop for five seconds?" I panted. "I need to clean my face."

Focusing his gaze towards the journey, Austin furiously shakes his head.

"Come on!" he declared, tightening his hand around mine. "We should express anticipation, not depression!"

We should express anticipation, not depression? Who is he, Oprah?

"Well, can I express my anger?" I ask, clearly annoyed. "We ran for like, twenty blocks!"

"Ten blocks." he corrected.

I roll my eyes. "Whatever, I am tired and I need a break."

Austin let out a low snort. "Wow, and my fifth-grade gym teacher thought I was the lazy one."

In retaliation, I kicked him in the back of his leg.

"Ow!" he howled in anguish. "What did I do?

Sweetly, I gave Austin a fake smile. "Oops, sorry. My foot slipped."

Rolling his eyes, Austin continued forward but his quickened pace broke into a slow walk. After he released my hand, Austin then hoisted his enormous backpack above his shoulders and searched for something he can work with.

Whether it's the bricks from the abandoned hair salon or the concrete surface on the floor, Austin continues to look around in search of inspiration.

"Can we please stop now?" I ask tiredly.

"Not yet, " he replied, scanning around the enormous city.

Meanwhile, my tired feet tried to keep up with Austin, but they couldn't; instead, they kicked small pebbles across the pavement.

"Ugh, " I grunted. "Can't we at least slow down for a minute?"

Austin shakes his head stubbornly. "Not until I find 'the one'."

I give him a look.

Seriously? I mean, I know he grew up with two hipster moms, but come on!

" 'The one'?" I repeated, raising my eyebrow. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"I mean finding a blank canvas," he replied softly.

I let out a groan. "Jesus, dude! We are in Sydney, Australia. I doubt we'll ever find a canvas in the middle of this city!"

But Austin gives me a hopeful look. "Art is everywhere, Jack. You just need to find it."

I wanted to smile, but I was afraid the liquid mascara would ruin my teeth. So instead, I shut my mouth very tightly and prayed that he would finally slow down.

I could feel the lukewarm breeze tickled my bare legs, car exhaust choking my nostrils, and the deafening cries of life pounding in my eardrums.

"Ugh, it's like New York all over again," I mutter to Austin, who sighed in agreement.

"Yeah, " he chuckled. "but what can you do? It's not like every city is different."

I grimace. "I know, but every city is big and fancy. Kinda like Queens if you think about."

We strolled along the cemented gray road until the soles of our shoes became buried in sand and grounded asphalt. The cool breeze bristled against our arm hairs, the smell of crispy orange nestled underneath our noses, and standing right in front of us, is a fancy metal heavy gates with silver lion doorknobs.

But even though the gates are opened to the public, I didn't see any vehicles in the parking lot.

"Weird, " I murmured, inspecting the silent forest.

Could the pedestrians be at the park?

Following my gaze, Austin complimented, "Hey, this place looks pretty cool."

"And abandoned," I added.

"We might find people there," he reassured. "Let's go."

We briskly shuffled along the concrete floor, but as we walked I felt as though we were transported through a glass mirror.

Instead of towering buildings, we were surrounded by trees, the concrete transformed into a trail of sun-baked sand, and instead of loud noises, the park had chattering squirrels and crickets.

Luckily, God answered our prayers when we stumbled across an enormous park filled with children laughing, adults conversing with themselves, and adolescents smoking weed and strolling on their skateboards.

Under the soles of our feet was a curvy gray road leading us two unoccupied wooden benches. Surrounding us is an ocean of emerald, large, thick trees, and sprinkling along the dirt floor are speckled brown leaves. From a distance, I quickly spot a playground with swings, a sandbox, monkey bars, and slides infested with mulch, insects, and wailing children.

Above our heads, the clear azure sky showed no signs of distraught clouds; only the yellow, coin-shaped sun showering its light on Australia's people.

While the children played, their parents stood over them like they're the children's bodyguards.

While the sun bore down on the park, my nose picked up the smell of sweet cherry blossoms and crisp cinnamon. Listening to the sounds of laughter and commotion reminded me of my family when I was little.

Every Sunday, when Joseph was finished with his shift, he would take Isadora, Jacob, and me over to the park where we would play on the swings, eat ice cream, and look at the stars.

At first, I thought I was lucky to have a father like Joseph. But when Isadora abandoned us for drugs, he became an abusive, negligent ass of a dad who reminded us every day that Isadora was a piece of shit.

Seeing the mess on my face, Austin finally stops, reaches into his pocket, takes out a small bottle of water and a napkin, then offers it to me.

"Here," he says. "it's for your face."

"Thanks, " I sigh in relief.

Taking the water bottle and napkin from his hands, I applied the water on the cloth, wiped the makeup and lipstick off my face, crumbled the tissue, then tossed it into a nearby trash can.

''Okay," I said eventually. "We are at the park. So, where are you going to work your magic?"

Once again Austin shifts his eyes among the crowd of tranquil people living their best lives. But right across from the playground was a small, public bathroom.

It was a square shaped building with drab gray paint covering the outer layer walls. There was hardly any color except two dark blue bathroom doors with two different white silhouettes of the opposite sex.

In front of the bathroom was a small, rusty water fountain where insects and moldy residue made their home.

Studying the reproachful building, Austin suggests, "I think I'll start over there."

"Are you sure?" I ask, frowning.

He nodded cheerfully.

"It seems kinda risky, " I said, "what if we get arrested?"

Then glancing at the large bricked walls, I added: "Don't you think it's a big job?"

Austin turns to look at me.

"A big job?" he repeated quizzically.

"Yeah, " I say nervously. "This is the first time I see your art in a large platform."

"I guess I haven't been out of my comfort zone," Austin murmured. "But I am sure I can do this."

"Are you sure?" I ask concerned. "Listen, if you are not comfortable, I am okay with it."

"Okay," he said, setting down his backpack on the mulch floor.

"So you think you can handle it?"

"Do you doubt my creativity?" asked Austin, frowning.

Immediately, I shake my head no, because I already knew that this wasn't Austin's first time painting a mural.

When he was around eleven-years-old, Austin painted an enormous mural in honor of fallen LGBT men and women who have succumbed to hate crime. Portraits of Marsha P. Johnson, Brandon Teena, Matthew Shepard, Gwen Arujo, and so forth were carefully sketched, detailed, and painted on the bricked side of Rainbow Kisses.

Above their heads, Austin painted a beautiful rainbow along with the words: Remember Us in bold, white letters.

At first, he was doing this to help his moms out with reeling customers. But the moment Ariel Francisca--a famous Brazilian transwoman--noticed his mural on Kristy's Instagram, she immediately contacted her peers and have them take pictures of Austin's work and sent them to newspapers, social media, and news outlets.

Quickly, the mural received a lot of positive attention. His moms and the people from the LGBTQ+ community not only awarded Austin with a GLAAD medal but an exclusive interview with Katie Couric.

Putting on his earbuds, Austin listens to some music while he rummages his hands through his art supplies, taking out a light blue Tupperware lid and huge paint bottles.

As he was prepping for his artwork, I found an empty Campbell's Chicken Noodle soup can buried underneath a layer of dirt.

Picking it up and wiping the mud off of the can, I have decided to use it to collect the money we were about to receive.

Squirting the black paint, Austin picked up his paintbrush, dabbed in some black, and began painting Spider-Man.

The character had some sort of white goggles, no nose, mouth, or even a set of hair. He was in a costume with a sock-like mask, thick sleeves, a ripped hoodie, pants, and long boots.

Sewn onto Spider-Man's chest is a small, black arachnid.

Not only that but the character wore fingerless gloves, which revealed little of Spider-Man's true identity. Oddly though, the beloved Marvel character's arms were crossed then turns his head in the opposite direction like a spoiled child.

At first, I was confused by Austin's sudden decision until I saw him dipping his brush into the glob of black, and painted a smiling old man with a long nose, wispy hair, a thick mustache, a Hawaiian t-shirt, khaki pants, and sneakers.

Austin had the old man put his left arm around Spider-Man's shoulder as if they have known each other for a very long time.

His back was relaxed, his withered face brightened and seeing Spider-Man made him felt at ease.

As soon as he was finished, Austin stooped underneath the characters' feet, mopped up the black paint once more, and underneath it, he added a quote: "Spider-Man is more than a comic strip hero....he's a state of mind."

"Stan Lee, " a little boy gasped, staring at Austin's touching artwork.

He was an Asian boy with moppy black hair, tanned skin, and slanted eyes. He wore a red t-shirt, small jeans, and small black shoes fitting his size.

I looked at the kid for a moment. "What?"

"Stan Lee said that," he replied.

More kids begin to gather when Austin eventually washes his paintbrush and decides to add vibrant colors to his masterpiece.

Dabbing brush onto the Tupperware lid, Austin painted Spider-Man's mask, boots, and fingerless gloves red, added blue for his pants and sleeves, and white for his goggles.

But for the old man, Austin included a lot of details.

He had Stan Lee's hair light gray, light pink face, and for his outfit, Austin starts to get creative.

Adding pink flowers on Stan Lee's shirt, Austin made his shirt pastel blue, his pants dark brown, and his shoes as black as coal.

Giving Austin some distance, I noticed that the painting itself wasn't as small as his old ones, however, it impacted a lot of children who were grabbing their parents to awe Austin's masterpiece.

"Whoa," a little girl mumbled, studying Stan Lee and Spider-Man very closely. "Did he seriously paint all of this? He's really good."

The young artist didn't answer because he was bobbing his head to the music.

"Yeah," I answered, smiling. "He is."

"Holy shit."

"Amazing."

"Did this kid made this?"

"Yeah, " I said again. "For every photo is five dollars!"

A female stranger frowned. "What are they for?"

"To help abused animals find shelter," I lie.

Shrugging their shoulders, the crowd pulled out their wallets and dropped their money into the empty soup can.

Some took pictures of Austin's work while the small children both give me and the teenage artist a heartwarming hug.

"Thank you, " said the little girl. "for providing shelter for the animals."

I smile, even though I felt guilty for lying.

"No problem, kiddo," I responded, patting her head gently.

As soon as the spectators left, I picked up the soup can and found a fistful of dollar bills and glittery coins.

Setting the cash on my hand, I carefully counted the money then said to Austin, "looks like we have struck gold."

Austin, who was putting his supplies inside his pocket, walked over to me then studied the stack of Australian bills and tokens in fascination.

"Wow, how much did we get?" he inquired.

Counting the money again, I said that we have at least five hundred dollars.

Austin smirked. "See? Told you my idea would work."

Laughing, I tucked the money inside my jeans pocket.

"Let's go, Picasso," I say in a chastising tone. "We need to find a hotel where we could sleep for the night."

Shoving his prized possessions inside his bag, Austin asked: "So, what kind of hotel are we staying at?"

"Maybe a five-star hotel," I shrugged.

Austin shakes his head, slinging his backpack over his shoulders.

"I prefer we find a cheaper motel room," he says. "You know, where no one suspects us from the news?"

"But five-star hotels have breakfast."

"Yeah, expensive breakfast for tourists and ungrateful children," Austin replied sternly. "Not for runaway convicts."

I sigh in frustration. "Oh, alright. But it better be a nice motel. I don't want to be in a room where someone's dog shits on the bed."

Austin gives me a hopeful smile. "Come on Jack. I'm sure they will have a room for us. And besides, we have enough money to buy food and other necessities."

"Great," I say. "but we also need to get started on our filming project."

He nods slowly. "I know. Maybe tomorrow we will start our movie."

I bobbed my head in agreement.

"Yeah," I respond, tossing the soup can in the trash. "Let's work on it tomorrow, so we wouldn't be wasting any more time."