This week's special... Saw a man at the 7-eleven counter this morning, middle-years, portly, maybe from somewhere in South Asia. He looked like someone's unce, with a good haircut and woolen trousers...until I noticed the small revolver tucked into a holster--well-oiled--on the right side of his belt. A jeweler, perhaps?
Story from Shelley Winters, in Los Angeles during the war years. Close with Bertolt Brecht, she once invited him to her mother's home for dinner. Long afterward, her mother asked about "...that fellow in the jewelry business you once invited here." "Jeweler? I don't remember anyone like that..." "Oh yes, when I asked him about his work, he told me he made jewels for poor people..."
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