One thing galleries had then was free food and wine. Nothing makes art lovers loosen their purse strings better than a belly full of white wine and cheese. And so on Fridays the Loser, being as unsuccessful a salesman as he is a human being, made gallery rounds where he would gorge. Crackers were, to him, tiny pieces of hard bread. Cold cuts were steaks, cheese solidified milk.
|An attractive, healthy woman eats right on a train platform.|
In the gallery he worked in there were often plates of food for varying reasons and after dozens of grubby hands had had their way with them the Loser would be asked if he wanted what remained. The magic words, "I'm only going to throw it out," quickened his pulse and he'd race to find a container or bag to stuff his booty into so he could transport it home in his decade-old car.
Even now those words prick up his ears and he struggles to resist stuffing his sagging body with free food.
His weight is reasonable now, but only because he has an iota too much pride to actually dive into Dumpsters.