He was a pantywaist jerk with only two
purposes in life — breathing and, in between breaths, crazy art. He looked down
at his portfolio and I got the idea that he’d only come along for the ride,
that he was doing it solely because his wife expected him to do it. When a
guy’s got somebody who beds him down and buys his booze he has to make a move
in the right direction once in a while.
I tried to talk to him some more about his
“art” but I didn’t get the conversation off the ground. He said that most people
didn’t want the stuff he painted, that they couldn’t appreciate art that
required them to think. I let it drop.
“I brought along some samples of my work,” he
said, placing the portfolio on the table.
I looked at them. He was right. A fellow had
to think to keep up with that crazy stuff. The only trouble was you didn’t know
where to start thinking.
“Not bad,” I said.
For my money, it stunk.
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