THEN WE were outside, in the cool and gritty fried-food air of North American strip mall reality. The light, as light so often is, was almost blinding. We stood in it like Vermeer figures, though, for my part, not at all serenely. Chelsea, however, didn’t appear to share my unease.
“Thirty thousand bucks. Woo hoo!” She didn’t punch my shoulder again, but I flinched anyway. “So? Are you going to sell it to him for twenty ?”
“I don’t know. I’ll have to talk it over with my wife. It’s a big decision.”
“No kidding! Hey, I meant to ask, what’s up with the poster?”
I was reluctant to answer, but – trust me, Buster – there was no way out.
“It’s Buster Keaton. I like his movies.”
She squinted, frowned and said she’d never heard of him. I wasn’t surprised. My students often hadn’t heard of le
