Two friends met in a pub and over beers exchanged stories about their college years as art students.
Michael was British, 30’s, balding hair, with glasses that slipped down his nose. Jeremy was American, 30’s, with a pony tail, and a beard. They became friends while at a gallery opening in Chelsea, New York.
“I lived in a house owned by a woman who married all the divorced men in town. By the time I got there she was hostile to everybody,” Michael said sipping his beer.
“Our RA played the blues on his harmonica every night. Midway through the year we plotted his murder,” Jeremy said wiping the foam from his upper lip with his fingers.
“Were you caught?”
“We stole his harmonica,” Jeremy said with a smirk. He knew we did it, but could never find it.
“Another guy is the house was a transvestite. He was tall and walked with a golden cane with an eagle handle,” Michael said pushing up his glasses.
“No wait. He lived in my dorm,” Jeremy said.
“Must have leased himself out. It’s how he paid his tuition,” Michael said. “There was another guy, weasel-like, lived in his left brain. Wasn’t friendly.
“I hated by those types. They talked in lists and appointments. Why they were art majors baffled me,” Jeremy said.
“It salved their little brittle brains. A third guy grew weed in his room in his mother’s tea cups under goose-neck lamps,” Michael said.
“Like the guy in my dorm. He grew it in the bathroom, under fluorescent lights, in Styrofoam containers from the local fast food joint. No pun intended,” Jeremy said chuckling.
“Sounds like we went to the same school.”
“Did you learn to make good art?” Michael said.
“No. Just how to dodge the bullets until graduation. That’s why I have a PhD in Oceanography.”
“Mine’s in Culinary Arts. I make a mean brioche,” Michael said.