We went to the mall. Frannie Mae wasn’t there.
She stayed up, hanging the show, and had gone home
to shower. I signed the guest book. Jack the Raver and Owen.
Owen knew most of the artists in the show, from having seen
their work on the walls of my writing studio, Atelier du Midi.
He was enthusiastic about the exhibit. Proud of his dad
for being part of it. In the front, around the food, were
graduate students and professors from the
at FSU, drinking screw-top jug-wine out of plastic
champagne flutes and talking shop. Where to get
a grant, a teaching job, an artist-in-residence position,
who to ask for a reference, whose ass to kiss
to win a prize. I had to leave before I threw
the moneychangers out of the temple.
We went back to the motel. Brenda called.
She said Fran called and said she was sorry
she missed us. She said she told her, “Oh, he’s weird.
Somebody just looked at him wrong and he left in a huff.”