Today we sold the Gatbsy. It was going to be on the Christmas cover, but since it was bought by another dealer who will most likely have it on the market at double the price, another book must be selected. H. gives me the alternate choices of, A:The Primal Scream, inscribed in 1970 by its famous Beatle disciple, or, B:The Bell Jar, thus insuring that we'll have the most depressing holiday catalog ever. After outlining my plan to transform Sivvy's bell jar into a festive snow globe it is decided that, perhaps, we'll retain the Gatsby, but have it listed as SOLD without the price.

With the bossman away in Germany I am chosen to handle the task of greeting a dealer from London who specializes in the beats and drug lit. J wears a knit cap and and a parka made from some very soft and expensive looking fur and hide. Brown horn-rims hang over lidded eyes. He looks stoned. On the radio plays a ridiculous Coke commercial from the 60s featuring the Bee Gees and his foot taps to the beat as he leafs through the Brautigan and Burroughs. "Things go better with... COCA-COLA..." He spots a copy of Neuromancer and he recognizes it as once belonging to him. Later I spot him across the road at the pizza joint sampling the roach-ridden slice of the day. We talk about England and New England and then walk in the London-esque drizzle along the river with, as he so called it, a bit of cannabis.