The turpentine sits in his deep raincoat pocket like whiskey in a alcoholic's silver flask. People would allow him rancid stares as he glided around his arms hovering away from his sides. He halts intentionally to make people nervous as he watches them examining the paintings. The same people decided or are eventually clewed in that this gentleman was the creator of these ultramarine blue based masterpieces, which they received exclusive invitations to view on this night and this in turn explains why he was allowed to float around the room muttering to himself like a maniac wearing a raincoat.

This is his sixth real art show; the first of which, he really took advantage of and appreciated the free vegetarian buffet and open bar. Free food was hard to come by and food he had to pay for was pasta four nights a week and the occasional splurging for a pizza and a jug of Carlo Rossi to drink with friends. Finding free food for him and his friend Ralph used to be of the highest priority.

In college there was free food everywhere; every other Thursday Italian club met and they would eat sausage and peppers. The Italians invited everybody. The more they filled their plates the happier the Italians seemed. Free pizza was offered to all physics majors twice a semester. They would feast on three slices and explain to anyone that would listen that everything was after all relative.

Free liquor he was exposed to as he was employed to paint a different picture on a new wave clubs wall with the coming of every changing week.

At his first showing he went back for three helpings, sold two paintings and woke up in Margaret's bed next morning--watching her artistically semi-covered body sleeping beneath the white satin sheets and fell in love with her.

Margaret's red painted and white teethed mouth smiles affectionately at him from across the room. He began to search for his wine

At his second showing he went up for two helpings, sold three paintings, got drunk and slept with Margaret beneath the first painting that she purchased at the first show. She went to work the next day as he watched four films in a row without getting from bed--sleeping with her again when she got home.

He stayed at her place about four times a week by then, shopping and playing the housewife, usually having dinner ready for her as she walked in the door.

Somewhere in between the third and fourth show, he broke his two year stint as a vegetarian as he realized that meat was once again something he could afford.

Margaret said nothing as he order and cut into his steak. She revealed no shock from inside of her plastic, more specifically not leather ultramarine blue pumps that rest hidden underneath the restaurant table. She just munched away on her vegetable stir fry, drank her white wine and asked him to brush his teeth before he kissed her that night. Worse things have happened.

But now he ignored the trays of food all together and imagined his mothers pot roast: a hunk of meat larger then his cat, mashed potatoes, and that gritty evil feel left on his teeth after bighting into animal's flesh.

After the fifth show he went out and got a cheese burger with onions, fries, a Heineken. He took Margaret home bit her on the neck--drawing blood and made love to her without brushing his teeth. After sex she turned on the TV, they watched Vivian Leigh walk into the path of a truck in Waterloo Bridge and to his surprise Margaret lit up a cigarette without a word. He had guessed she was getting even for the meat eating and loved her even more for it.

He is now at his sixth show and though he feels his work looks just like everyone else's, he is one of the few working artists. He stopped resenting the vegetarian buffet and brought a roast beef sandwich that he is eating as crumbs fall from its deli wrapper. He feels guilty about chewing on animal flesh but also feels like a wolf chomping on a fresh kill and in turn feels evil. He always thought that humans were inherently evil and now he knows that he is just human and hurray for that. He has fallen in love with and married an intelligent, beautiful woman and has more money then he really knows what to do with.

He walks to the bar. "Can you just give me a tall glass filled with ice, please," he asks the bartender.

Walking to the men's room he places the glass on the urinal watching an artsy man through the mirror before him. The man grows nervous as seems decide that it's tacky to approach the artist upon completion of a pee.

He ignores the man and zips his fly, takes his glass from the urinal and places it on the counter as he study his face framed in its shoulder length straggly black hair.

"Will you please go away." he asks the artsy looking person.

The man briskly walks out. The door swings shut. He takes the bottle of turpentine from his coat pocket and watches it being poured like whiskey over the ice--filling the glass. The noxious smell begins to fill the room.

If he was going to drink an iced glass of turpentine he decided that he needed a twist of lemon.

He feels the pressure of someone holding his hand and soon smells his wife. He opens his eyes.

"Hi," she says, her painted lips wearing an affectionate smile.

The room is noisy and crowded. A black man is wheeled in on a stretcher. "Knife wound," the white coated ambulance driver explains to the resident.

"What happened?," he asks his wife"

"You drank a tall icy glass of turpentine," she answers, giving his hand an affectionate squeeze.

"Yuck, how come I'm not dead?"

"You had four doctors beside me in the room, they made you throw up."

"Wow," he says seeming to remember the bottle telling potential swallowers not to induce vomiting.

At his eighth show, the turpentine incident upped him stock and he sold many paintings. He and his wife walked and talked to the artist, rich people and critics. He had one but his wife had two big helpings at the semivegaterian buffet.