Mickelangelo

Hey, Mickey.

“Where were you? I thought you would be at my clusterfuck.”

I drove by. You brought in a big crowd.

“It was spectacular. Met some randos. Talked about drums.”

You love that.

“I do. My favorite subject. And I sold six paintings.”

Good for you.

“Like this one.”

I see. Very nice.

“The one I’m gesturing towards.”

I am aware to what you refer.

“Would you like a short lecture on the history of the tympani?”

God, no. Hey, how much does your art cost?

“Depends on the size. The big things are more expensive than the small stuff. Although, I guess it works that way with everything. Except modelling. Your plus-size gals get paid less than the skinny bitches. Otherwise, price scales with mass.”

Uh-huh. What does the piece you’re gesturing at cost?

“Whatever you want it to cost. Above the reserve, of course.”

And what is the reserve?

“That depends on your budget. Have we discussed your budget?”

TELL ME HOW MUCH YOUR DRUMHEAD DOODLE IS!

“TELL ME WHAT YOU’RE WILLING TO PAY FOR IT!”

…

“It’s like you don’t understand the art world, man.”

I guess I don’t.