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Updated: May 27, 2025
Claudine was tactfully silent. He paid and climbed the stairs to George's table. "The lady's gone. I've taken the high road," he said gloomily. "My God, Olive Oil, she was . . ." George's eyes expanded. "I mean, bazumas!" "Yes," Oliver said. "Bazumas." "That dress! That color!" "How about a little Courvoisier, George?" An hour later, he lurched home and put on La Traviata.
George pushed his empty glass across the bar. "That was a great party at your place. Eats. Bazumas." "Jacky," Oliver said. "And that Martha chick the real estate chick she wants to look at my paintings. Maybe she'll buy one." "She's got the money," Oliver said. "Sell her a big one and go down and paint Jacky." "I'd like to," George said. "Something about her . . ." "Yeah," Oliver said.
"Those were the days." Oliver had thought life was complicated when he used to drive over the bridge to Jacky's. " Bazumas!" he toasted. "The finest," George said. A pint later, Oliver reached in his pocket for tip money and felt a small thick square. On his way back to the parking garage he dropped Suzanne's note carefully into a city trash container.
"Bazumas, Olive Oil! My God! I thought I'd never see her again. I asked if I could paint her. She said yes but I'd have to drive to Maryland." George hung his head. "It's a curse art." "Maryland's just down the way," Arlen said. "Arlen, my car!" George threw one arm in the air. "I'm lucky it starts. Maryland?" "Life is hard," Oliver said. "Food," Arlen said, heading for the kitchen.
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