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A detail of his back pocket. For his cigs. Or his moleskin notebook.
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For two summers during college I worked at a frame shop in Cape May, NJ, selling prints and posters of the Jersey shore and a bunch of other stuff to tourists. I dealt with a lot of French Canadian men who would mosey in bare-footed, flashing their wet, matted chest hair and wearing nothing but a heavy gold chain and one of those embarrassingly tiny Speed-Os. Hard to take them seriously as customers when clearly they weren't carrying their wallets on them. (Or were they. . . ?)
Anyway, one day a guy came in and asked if we had posters of unicorns. I said no, we didn't in stock, but I pulled out our graphic arts poster catalog, started thumbing through it, and suggested we could order something. Something like this. Or this. Oh no, he clarified. I want a photograph of a unicorn. Oh, well, no, I didn't think I could get anything like that. So young. So naive -- I didn't know about cryptozoology back then.
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