Chapter 108

It’s probably obvious where I’m going with this.

I apply a coat of lacquer, then flick lavender rhinestones over it all. (These are, surprisingly, the biggest bitch to find. The downtown queens must rip them out of the shipper’s hands.) I lacquer it twice more at Theatrilicious.

At the meeting, I don’t know if they’ll even get to me. It’s been seventeen minutes. We’re still on the first ovarian cyst of Gretl’s late girlfriend Patrice. Her heartfelt retelling is compelling in a poignant-swallow way, but one-third of our group has drifted out of the room. Even our moderator, forthcoming with tissue (making a comeback) gives her a wrap-it-up elbow squeeze. By the time Patrice loses her battle, I have my thumbtacks out.

The room converges around my twenty-one inch by thirty-five inch art. I watch them do what New Yorkers do best: overanalyze, to find more than there is yet miss the intended.

A man looks at me like I’m daft. “It reminds me of Monty Python.”