Kevin may not get as much writing done in L.A. coffee shops as he did in their Brooklyn counterparts, but he does get to see “thin, young, blonde, spikey-haired” girls with doe eyes try to sell nude self-portraits to visibly aroused patrons:
“I think they’re fantastic,” another man, a middle-aged would-be screen writer I’d seen there frequently, chimed in. “I especially like this one here . . . ,” he motioned the young artist over to a large portrait of herself stepping shyly out of a bath tub with water running down her small breasts and stomach.
“Thanks! It’s me! I like to paint myself in everyday situations. It’s for sale if you want to buy it.”
“Maybe later,” he said and she looked like she actually believed him. Then, placing his hand on her shoulder, he walked her down to another painting, this one of the nude artist staring into the eyes of another naked young woman, a brunette, both with sparkles spirling out of their eyes. “Is she your . . . uh . . . girlfriend?”