WE WALKED THE STREETS OF BERKELEY THE OTHER DAY, Gino and I. We had no goals, no destinations, just a desire to stroll down the street and see who we met. We’ve been walking those same streets since the 1970s and were curious about what vestiges of that ’60s era remain. Our final summation: not many.

Berkeley on Telegraph is starting to look like just another dilapidated city with no special character or history. Two corner lots are empty with razed buildings and cyclone fencing. Cody’s Book Store is long gone, and now the building is graffiti skinned with random posters for events that have already come and gone glued to the doors.

We didn’t eat, and we bought little. We stopped briefly in the Lhasa Karnak spice store for saffron, bancha green tea, and a bottle of Dr. Bronner’s castile soap. I’m just wild about saffron. Though we were enjoying our stroll, it was melancholy that Berkeley seemed to be losing its personality.

That’s precisely when we met a real-deal street artist named Tony B. Conscious, who revived our hope that Berkeley is still a place for activism and creativity. Tony was selling stencil art done with spray paint, vivid colors, and genius. Almost all of his 100 art pieces were depictions of famous African Americans. His strong character radiated out from his body so powerfully that we could tell in seconds that he was the real deal, a man of words, a man of history, a man of the mean streets.

He spoke to us in rhyme and alliteration. “I have a plethora, a potpourri of passionate paintings for your pleasure.” Yes, he sure did. I immediately saw a painting I had to have for my man cave. It was called “So Jazzy” and subtitled “Ladies first.” It showed four smiling portraits side by side — Billie Holiday, Ella Fitzgerald, Sarah Vaughan, and Nina Simone.

On our first pass, I said I wanted it but didn’t want to carry it, that I’d come back later. “It’s all good, my brotha. If you want it and it wants you, you’ll be back.”

I gave Tony B. Conscious the same line I use when I have no intention of buying something but am trying to be polite. Later, after securing our saffron, we were close to my parked truck, and I could have easily just driven off, but the memory of that painting kept calling back. Those women wanted me. I know it, I.

We returned to find Tony collecting a fist full of quarters for the parking meter, the only way he could secure his spot on the sidewalk. He was sitting in his cluttered van digging through the ashtray for coins. I saw inside a sign with his other name hanging: Ghetto Van Go.

I said only “Ladies first,” and he remembered.

“You came back,” he said without surprise. “The ladies are waiting.”

“How much?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Twenty, twenty-five, whatever you got.” I gave him $20 for the painting and $5 for the meter.

“Thank you, my brotha. Let me give you one of my business cards in case you want to learn more about Tony B.”

He had the busiest, most informative card I’ve ever seen. It listed six websites, an email and a phone number, with his face emblazoned across the front. Under his name it listed his occupation. I will type it exactly as printed: “Actor, Activist, Author, Beatbox-B-Boy, Black Historian, Clothing Designer, Community Organizer, Counselor, Drummer, Emcee, Free Spirit, Father, Freedom Fighter, Healer, Intellect, Inspirational Motivational Speaker, Orator, Poet, Percussionist, Performer, Renaissance Man, Soulful Singer, TEACHER, Vegan, Vocalist, Wordsmith… plus so much More.”

We carried the painting back to the car. Gino summed up the day. “Ah, Berkeley, I love it. It’s still got it going on. Thank God.”

When I got home I went to tonybconscious.com, his website. I was greeted by his voice welcoming visitors. I read his biography and learned of his many accomplishments.

I clicked on his photo gallery and there are pictures of him siding with some important people like Barack Obama, Dr. Cornel West holding a portrait of himself painted by Tony, musician Gil Scott Heron of “The Revolution Will Not Be Televised” fame, and Bobby Seale, co-founder of the Black Panthers.

His site led us to his dozens of YouTube videos, which Gino and I sat and watched amazed over coffee the next morning. Many clips are of him talking philosophy, theology, history, and reality on the streets of Venice, California, where he lives in a cluttered studio which he describes as “Michaels after an explosion.”

I end this story pleased and relieved that sweet serendipity lives on and that we had the precious pleasure to have met a man who embodies the spirit of America and loves every minute of it.

Steve Gibbs teaches at Benicia High School and has written a column for The Herald since 1985.