“How is that kid of yours,Warren?” asks the morning waitress with a forgettable name.
Amongst Keno screens and antique décor he stares at a painting called, “Brussels et Aux Sportifs”, and thinks about two identical others he painted while smoking hash with this European girl for a week straight in 1959 and the day his career ended because some Italian discovered his recently bought painting also hanging in a Paris gallery.
“Fine.” he says as she pours his black coffee still regarding the third that was delivered without his name on it in 1960 after downing a bottle of gin. (sb)
June 4, 2008...10:43 pm
forty-five
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