Caveat Emptor by Ken Perenyi Page B

to encourage me. It was bad enough that she incited a terrific envy in Tony toward me, but when he came home one afternoon and discovered her favorite pendant in his bed, he went through the roof, throwing it at me and threatening to hang me by my balls—as he so elegantly put it—if I ever crawled into his bed again.

    As work on my collection progressed (and most of my money was used up), the loft began to look like a real artist’s studio. Huge paintings were propped against makeshift easels. The steel and Plexiglas boxes were awaiting paintings to be jammed into them. I was very excited, working on pure adrenaline. I had perfect faith, absolute conviction in my envisioned collection. No matter how bad it was living at the loft, no matter how broke I was, I was prepared to survive on a diet of sawdust to make the collection a reality; but the worst privation of all was that there was no way to take a bath. The bathroom outside in the hall had only a sink and toilet. While Tony promised to rectify this situation soon and install a tub in the loft, I was forced to visit friends across town in order to take an occasional shower.
    Added to the misery, I hated Union Square. Whenever I sat at the window and looked out, I was sickened by the dreary commercial scene below. In spite of my high hopes, I wondered what would happen if my planned collection didn’t succeed. The city was full of would-be artists who ended up as clerks in art-supply stores or waiters in SoHo restaurants, fates too awful to contemplate.
    Sometimes I’d go for breakfast to the restaurant down below our loft. It was an old-fashioned Jewish dairy restaurant, where no meat was served. I sat there and gazed through the steamed-up windows at all the people rushing to work in the morning. All dressed in suits and fancy hairdos, they reminded me of goldfish streaming by in a bowl. But they went to school, they had jobs, they had done the “right thing.” It was frightening to consider having to do that every day, but just as frightening to know I couldn’t even if I’d wanted to.
    By the time winter came, life there was even more depressing. The loft was freezing and we were broke as usual. If Tony did manage to lay his hands on any money, he instantly transformed into a tyrant, barking orders and expecting everyone to kiss his ass. Every night he’d go out and blow a couple hundred bucks in bars and classy restaurants. He loved to yell at the waiters and make a scene. I finally realized why he always had that old poster of Mussolini around. That’s who he wanted to be—fuckin’ Mussolini!
    Then one day Tony came in bubbling over with excitement. A drinking pal had met Paloma Picasso at Max’s and had arranged for Tony to meet her one day for lunch. Tony put on the charm, and she was smitten. Phone numbers were exchanged. Dates, dinners, and romantic interludes followed.
    It was all very glamorous: there were stories of a huge fortune, an apartment filled with her father’s paintings, trips to Paris, and romance. Tony was ecstatic. Visions of a life in the international jet set danced in his head. Winters at Saint Moritz and summers on the French Riviera!
    I was trying to figure out how I would pay for the loft myself, when the situation came to a climax. Paloma had to leave for Paris, and Tony was getting his passport. She would call in a week and have a ticket waiting for him at the airline counter. Tony was beside himself with anticipation. All he would have to do was pack a bag and fly off to a new life in high society.
    Tony recounted this while treating me to a steak dinner! When it came time to pay the bill, I almost choked when he pulled out a wad of French francs together with some American money.
    â€œWhere did you get that?!” I gasped. Tony just laughed and shimmered like a bowl of Jell-O as he peeled off a C-note without a care in the world. When I dragged the story out of him, I