text: No More Always Wanted It wasn’t raining, though all the people walking with big coats in the grey street felt it would be soon. The afternoon’s clouds seemed to be circling like a tired dog in search of the right place drop. Dustin’s numb hands were holding a bucket. The bucket, which had a sign on it that said *College Money*, was holding exactly nineteen dollars and sixteen cents. Foggy breath was left behind as talking people walked past. Dustin watched it float upwards and disappear, changing from red to green to gold with the Christmas lights in the shop windows. He knew it wouldn’t be enough money. He had been standing on the cold corner of Market Street since 10 o’clock in the morning, and only four people had made donations. The first had been his English teacher, Ms MacColl, who had been on her way to do some seasonal shopping when she’d seen him and said “I believe in you, Dustin.” The wrinkles on her face had transformed into an encouraging smile as she presented a five dollar note. The second person had been Isabelle Crosland, who was the same age as Dustin, and had caused him to daydream extensively after she’d let yet another five dollar note fall into his bucket with a wink. The third person Dustin hadn’t known at all; a young man in a long black coat swinging a carrier bag of rattles and clinks had stopped to ask: “What do you want to study?” “Literature.” “Why?” “I love telling stories.” “Then you must never stop,” the young man had instructed, handing a folded ten dollar bill to the boy. The fourth and final person had been playing guitar just across the street since roughly 11 a.m. Dustin was quite sure that he was homeless, but didn’t say anything except *thank you* when the musician gave him sixteen cents before moving along to another spot. At one point, Dustin bought a fresh-cream chocolate éclair and a coke from a nearby bakery. This had cost a total of one dollar. Thus, he was left with nearly twenty. As the roads became less busy, the twelve year old boy began to walk home. He wasn’t sure how to feel about his venture. The night was creeping across the sky and yellow street lamps flickered on as Dustin turned left onto Luck Lane. He felt touched that some people he knew and some who he didn’t had helped him, but he was sure that twenty dollars wouldn’t be enough to change the situation with his parents. In fact, he thought that he would probably have to spend all the weekends until he left school holding that bucket on various streets to raise enough money to make any kind of difference. But Dustin was a fighter. Even though, when he had asked if he would be able go to university and become a writer one day, his mother and father had explained to him all sorts of things about money and taxes and insurance and medical costs, he still remembered that when he was younger, they had always told him that he could be whatever he wanted to be. Dustin still wanted to believe it, so as he reached the end of Luck Lane he reassured himself: “I can be whatever I want to be.” However, he said it quite loudly, and that may have been a big mistake, because just then he heard heavy footsteps running towards him. “What’s in your bucket, boy?” said one of the three men who had just appeared behind him. Dustin knew he shouldn’t stop walking. He knew he should run, but for some reason he couldn’t. “Give us the bucket!” said another man, looking around to make sure there was nobody else on the shadowy road. “No!” shouted Dustin, as he turned and started running as fast as he could. In school he would often win races - but the men were faster than his classmates, and within seconds they were in front of him. There was a very loud slapping sound and Dustin fell backwards onto the floor, one hand still holding onto the bucket, one hand pressed against his burning left cheek. Someone ripped the plastic container out of his fingers. By the time he’d gotten to his feet again, all three of them (and his nineteen dollars and sixteen cents) were gone. He didn’t even get a chance to memorize their faces. Dustin sat down on the cold cobble-stones. He wanted to say a lot of rude words, but he just stared at the wall. His shoulders were shivering and his fists were squeezing at the air. All he could think was *what just happened? Why would they do that?* He hoped his Dad would come running round the corner, or the nice homeless musician would suddenly put a hand on his shoulder and say something like *here, I got it back for you.* But the street was empty. After a long time, Dustin stood up. He stared at his feet, hoping that soon they would start walking for him. But they were too cold and too stunned. His shoes were tied up with the standard two bows hanging on either side of each foot. His laces were mainly white, with a few grey smudges, and the material below them was a navy blue. He started to think about all the things people he knew had in common - like hair and eyes and ears and noses and brains and clothes and shoes. He even knew two boys in his class who had the same shoes as him. Dustin started to think that maybe his parents had been mistaken: maybe he was just like everyone else, and his dream to become a great writer was just something silly that he’d convinced himself could happen. Maybe his shoes would best be used for kicking balls and learning to run faster and walking to and from school and, in the future, to and from work. The young boy looked up from his feet. He noticed a line of graffiti all alone in pretty, curvy red writing stretching along the top of the wall. He’d never seen it before, and he often walked down Luck Lane. He read it. It said: *I could have been someone.* He recognised it from a Christmas song his parents would sometimes listen to. He remembered the next line in the song: ‘*well so could anyone.’* For a few more moments, Dustin was still. He was thinking deeply. “I can be whatever I want to be,” he whispered to himself, a tear cooling the place where one of the men had hit him. His right foot lunged forwards. \* Luck lane was quite a busy street during the daytime. It had a number of banks on it, some shoe shops, some clothes shops and a sweet shop. The sweet shop, whose window was just opposite the line of graffiti Dustin had noticed, was owned by a very nice old lady with white hair called Ms Sow. Ms Sow had seen the graffiti on Saturday, just like Dustin. There was a lot of crime in the area, so Ms Sow didn’t give too much thought to it - but on Monday morning, when she noticed another line just underneath the words *I could have been someone*, she rubbed down her sugary rainbow apron the way she always did and complained to a customer: “There seem to be more and more troublemakers around these days - Look! They’re spraying everywhere!” Dustin happened to be waiting in the queue to buy some lemon bonbons just as Ms Sow had said it. When he left the shop, he spent a few moments looking at the new sentence. It made him smile: **“I’d bet you’re wonderful,”** someone had written in a heavy but neat, black paint. As Dustin gazed at it, he noticed a few people around him slowed to read it before continuing on their way. By Tuesday, Ms MacColl was one of the people who had stopped briefly to read the graffiti conversation that was slowly taking place on the wall opposite Ms Sow’s Sweet Shop on Luck Lane. The curvy red style of writing had replied: “What makes you say that?” By Thursday, many people, including Isabelle Crosland, were talking about the graffiti conversation. The black ink had replied: **“From what you wrote, you must have dreams. And I like your handwriting.”** And below that the red ink said: “I’ve always wanted to be a singer.” On Saturday too, Dustin found himself standing and smiling amongst a crowd of people marvelling at the dialogue. **“I’ve always wanted to be a songwriter,”** the black ink remarked. “For some reason, I think you could make it,” the red offered. **“Well, so could anyone,”** said the black. By the following Wednesday all the people of the town knew about the graffiti conversation. Even Dustin’s parents walked in their big coats through the grey streets to see it. On Wednesday night, Dustin asked his parents again about becoming a writer. “Of course you can write in your spare time,” Dustin’s father had said, “but I just don’t think that it would be a very stable job.” “Your Dad’s right, Dustin,” his mother had added. “These are hard times, and we don’t want to get your hopes up. You can be whatever you want to be - you can write whatever you want to write - but for now you mustn’t forget to concentrate in all of your subjects because they’ll be important for getting a good job.” “But I want to change the world and tell wonderful stories that everyone will hear and I want to spend all of my time doing that!” Dustin explained. “I know I can do it. What if I can prove it to you?” “We’d love to read anything you’ve written,” his Mother smiled, warmly. “We’re not saying you shouldn’t follow your dreams, Dustin. But it’s like the graffiti on Luck Lane - the people writing it have probably tried working as musicians - they probably still try, but it’s very difficult to get into.” His father spoke kindly. “And a college course for writing is very expensive.” Dustin understood. He knew that he was only twelve years old, and that probably meant he was too young for his parents to think he was being very serious. He had often wondered how old he would have to be for people to consider him seriously as a writer. Fourteen? Sixteen? Eighteen? Twenty? Probably older. But Dustin was a fighter. On Thursday morning, the afternoon’s clouds seemed to be circling like a tired dog. “Would you like to meet up?” The red writing asked. By Friday, the black had replied: **“The bench on the hill in Windmill Park? 4 p.m.? Tomorrow?”** Dustin spent Friday evening by the graffiti wall with his bucket asking for donations to help him become a writer. Lots of people gave him a few coins and by the time he went home, he’d made twenty seven dollars and thirty six cents. That night he finished writing a short story on his mother’s computer. “Yes.” Read the red ink on Saturday morning. The whole town was excited. They all wanted to see who was having the graffiti conversation. On Saturday afternoon, Dustin went to a photocopying shop and printed out a few copies of his short story using some of the money from his bucket. At 2 p.m., Dustin showed his short story to his parents. They said it was brilliant. At 3.30 p.m., the clouds had finally made up their minds. It had begun to rain. Despite this, it seemed that the entire town had decided it would be a good time to go to the park. Hundreds of people were gathered in a ring of whispers and umbrellas around the empty bench on the hill at Windmill Park. At 3.45 p.m., Dustin managed to push to the front row, only a few feet away from the empty bench. He waited. At 3.55 p.m., the crowd was very loud. At 3.58., the crowd hushed. At 3.59., the crowd was nearly silent. At 3.59 and thirty seconds, the rain could be clearly heard hitting against the leaves of trees. At 3.59 and fourty five seconds, nobody moved a muscle. At 4 p.m exactly., everyone watched as Dustin walked towards the bench. Everyone held their breath. Dustin climbed up and stood on the bench. He could see Ms MacColl - and Isabelle Crossland - and a young man in a long black coat wearing a joyful smile - and the homeless musician - and a group of three guilty looking men - and another hundred faces with open mouths. Dustin turned in circles on top of the bench looking at the silent people. He blinked the rain out of his eyes. He couldn’t help but smile. Nobody could look away. Slowly and dramatically, Dustin put his arms out to either side of him as if he were reaching out to the surrounding people. He kept his legs straight and began bending forwards - further and further until he was looking at the ground. He straightened, turned slightly to the side, and repeated the action. He was bowing to his audience. “The truth is -“ he shouted at the top of his voice “I was walking home and I saw a line of graffiti that said *I could have been someone.* And that single, beautiful line of graffiti gave me the idea to write the rest!” The people were quiet. “You see, the truth is -“ he repeated as loud as he could. “I want to be a writer! And I believe you can be whatever you want to be! And to prove it to myself and to my parents, I invented a story and characters and wrote that story on that wall opposite Ms Sow’s Sweet Shop on Luck Lane! And now I know - and my parents must know as well - that it was a good story - because you are all here to hear the ending!” At 4.02 p.m., as Dustin finished his sentence, his parents approached the bench. They were each carrying cardboard boxes containing copies of the short story that Dustin had written on his mother’s computer and printed out at the photocopying shop. “Collecting money to become a writer!” Dustin shouted over the sound of the rain. “Collecting money to become a writer! Pay however much you would like for a short story!” The crowd of silent faces tore open with surprise and applause and cheers. People turned to whomever they were with and smiled. Some even hugged each other. However, even as many nice people approached to buy a copy of his short story, (which was entitled *No More Always Wanted*), Dustin suspected it wouldn’t make enough money to send him to college. Still, at the very least he did feel that he had made a lot of people happy that day - he was sure that they would remember what had happened and that they might even pass it on to their friends. Maybe his parents and other people would start to take the fact that he’d *always wanted* to become a writer more seriously. And if his plan didn’t work out and people didn’t start to recognize that he was meant to be a writer - he’d make another plan - because Dustin was a fighter - and he knew he could be whoever he wanted to be.