Problems on
short leashes yapped around her heels. Oliver shrugged, pulled a watch
cap over his ears, and walked toward the Old Port.
A car pulled over. "Olive Oil!" George Goodbean shouted. "Want a ride?"
"Taking my life in my hands," Oliver said, getting in.
"It's a good day to die," George said.
"Aren't we romantic."
"Artists live on the edge, Olive Oil. Where the view is." A pickup
passed at high speed, hitting a pothole and splattering mud across the
windshield. "Moron!" George reached for the wiper switch.
The street reappeared. "Ahh," Oliver said, "now there's a view."
"Why is it, the worse the weather, the worse they drive?" George asked.
"Dunno. It isn't even bad yet."
"Assholes," George said.
"Yeah. I bought some black walnut," Oliver said. "I just saw a woman in
Becky's; she had eyes the same color."
"You want I should go back?"
"I'm too short for her," Oliver said.
"You never know. Some of those short people in Hollywood have big
reputations."
"They're stars," Oliver said. "I'm just short."
"What are you doing with the wood?"
"Haven't decided--maybe a table."
"I'm getting into casting. You ought to come over; I'm going to try out
my furnace.
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