Oliver stepped outside. Greenery had been wound around the lamp posts. Holiday lights were strung overhead. The sidewalks were filled with shoppers crowded between store windows and low snowbanks piled along the curb. Someone had brushed the snow from the bronze lobsterman kneeling on his pedestal outside the bank buildings.
Oliver liked The Swiss Time Shop, run by a Swiss watchmaker. He bought a ship's clock set in a handsome maple case, a present for the house.
"He says 'Ja!' and everything," Oliver told George in Deweys. "Great guy. He actually knows how to do something."
"Nice face," George said, looking at the clock.
"So, what's new with you, George?"
"Jesus, Olive Oil, the gallery owners . . ." George groaned and held his head with both hands. "They're all the same. They treat you like dirt. I just came from one—he kept me waiting for twenty minutes and then he had another appointment. This guy wouldn't know a painting from a Christmas card. I was big in California, Olive Oil, big. Why did I ever come back to this place?"
"How about the art school? Maybe teach a course or two?"
George looked at him in disbelief. "Theory, that's all they want. All the Top Bullshitters are there now, Olive Oil, talking about art. That's what they want." He shook his head. "Paint? It's no use. It's no use."
"The Top Bullshitters!" Oliver bent over laughing. "You're right. It's no use. What are you going to do?"
George threw up his arms. "I don't know. Fuck 'em. Paint."