El Niño had kicked in and Fran sat crossed legged on the couch, crouched over her twenty inch pad, drawing lower torsos with her fat pencil. She was working on high-waisted pants' style, the next new fad (she swears) and I don't doubt her. I lay on the beanbag bitching about my useless life as the fireplace we kept burning with stolen wood warmed us. Without looking up she responded to my monologue of despair. "It's doesn't sound like he said you sucked to me and besides even if he did, who the fuck is Frank? Just some guy you met in the park. I wouldn't worry about it. Just keep painting."

"I can't. I suck. I'm a thirty-year-old adolescent whose self-indulgence has prevented any maturity. And now I'm too immature for the real world and too shitty an artist for the pretentious world. I'm like a ghost with nowhere to go, lost with nothing real to ground me or make me feel human."

"How about a drink?"

"No. I need to make some decisions." Fran ripped the sheet she'd been drawing on and I watched her tape it over the fireplace next to a row of others. She returned to the couch and started another as I stood to inspect her drawing of half-bods. Interesting, I thought. She only draws what's absolutely necessary. Practical. This way the pants, the waist, the flair at the nadir of the leg are all that the viewer looks at. She draws the shoed feet, but they are simple and unworthy to look at next to the spectacular pants.

"You draw really well."

"Thanks, but drawing the pants is a far cry from actually getting them made."

"You got to get people to see them; to check them out."

"You should talk. You got to get more people to see your paintings. You show them to one guy and that's the end-all."

"I feel like an idiot."

"And this just occurred to you?"

"Let's do a show."

"Okay Mickey. Do you know anybody with a barn?"

"I'm serious. We could find a place."

"We don't have rent money, let alone party money."

"It's not party money, it's investment in ourselves."

"Well whatever, we don't got any. And besides rental money for the space, we would need money for flyers or ads and wine and cheese. You got to have wine and cheese at those things."

"You're right, you're right. How about we get another artist?"

"Who?"

"I don't know." I was getting frustrated at her hopeless resolve. "Help me out here, Fran. We must know somebody with money. How about Hillary?"

"I'm not asking her for money. It's too weird. I think you're right about getting another artist though, somebody who would also benefit. That way we're not asking for something for nothing."

********

Harvey was bald and catholic and also bugged me to paint with him when I was engaged to Donna. I hadn't seen him since I left the church, but what the hey, perhaps he was looking to show his work. When I called him, he invited me to his house in the Hollywood Hills.

I knew his mother left him a ton of money, but I had no idea how much money until I drove up his long winding driveway and saw the tremendous Tudor at the top of the hill. HUGE. Too huge for one man.

It didn't take long to convince him to join us and to pay for it, but I was worried what Fran would think of his...well, let's say his macho paintings and sculptures that filled the house. Oh, she'd get over it I thought as I passed a three-foot penis and a pair of balls.