I’m sitting in my office one afternoon when a young man I’ve never seen there pokes his head in the doorway. He’s wearing Bermuda shorts, a black-and-white T-shirt promoting somebody’s band, has long brown hair tied behind his neck in a single tightly wound braid. The look is at once clean-cut and 90s-hip. He’s carrying a large, flat cardboard box, big enough to hold six extra-large pizzas.
“She said I should see you.” He enters my sanctum, unbidden. He’s not delivering pizzas.
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It’s too late. I’m listening. I just repainted my apartment and the walls have been looking mighty bare. I’m always interested in bargains.
“$119?” I almost laugh. “For that?” He is holding up a large weepy print of water and a tree that he says is a Monet. It’s in a pale blond frame and wrapped in clear plastic.
“Yeah,” I say. “I know it.”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “I can give you seven dollars off,” he says. “You can have it for $32.”
I knew that. Didn’t I?
