The gallery was the best place to go for my friend Mr. Corey. He didn't fit in in public places where others could see him, or private places where no one could. So the gallery, a public place where no one bothered to see each other, was well suited for him. Mr. Corey would walk down the aisles of photographs, sketches, and paintings as though he were being critical of their borders. Actually, most people suspected he was a frame enthusiast. When a lovely little surrealist piece came in through the back door and jumped up on the crisp white walls, Mr. Corey would trot on over. He'd push aside any little crowd, get nose to paint with the piece, and run his figures along its shiny gold or chrome border, observing each little facet of the cut clean picture frame. And for this, Mr. Corey got amazing respect. Passer-bys loved to stand and watch him reflect over the frames. They'd often be silent, so as to not disturb his work, though some would be so bold as to ask him what his professional view on the frames were. If they did, Mr. Corey would turn swiftly on one foot, smirking proudly and straightening his suit jacket and offbeat tie. He'd clear his throat and exaggerate a long, sustained pause. Then, speaking in mumbled overtones, he would tell them about the wonders of grapefruits and turbines. He'd then shake the stranger's hand and move away to another side of the gallery. This left most of these curious people in an awkward position, leaning stalled upon their toes as they worried over what they had done wrong to receive such bizarre answer. Most of the time they would bow their heads and quickly leave the gallery, afraid that they had done a rude out-of-manner thing. Other times, the person would examine the border with extreme concentration, hoping to discover the consistency of an orange rind, or the mechanical shape of a tractor plow.

I meet my friend Mr. Corey one night at a place one would least expect to meet him. I was visiting my little sister, Doreen, at the New Haven Mental Institution. A few years prior to that, after Doreen had run away, a jolly old fisherman had called my mother explaining that Doreen had mistaken his boat for the ship to the New World and was insisting that he take her to Neverland. The fisherman told my mother that he didn't have the right kind of boat for such a journey and that she better come get Doreen. Now my little sister has a place at the New Haven Mental Institution. She feels so free having her own place, Doreen tells me. It was when I was with Doreen in the commons there when I was introduced to Mr. Corey. He made a grand appearance, like Doreen said he usually does, with his deep baritone voice and his rich satin pajamas. He looked like Tcharykovsky dressed in shining red and purple. I asked Doreen who he was.

'He's the most cultured, refined man I know,'� she said blissfully. Interested, I asked if she could introduce me.

'To Mr. Corey? Oh no, no, no. He's much too fine a man. I'd be too nervous to ask him anything.'� Doreen had her hands clasped lovingly under her chin as she watched Mr. Corey float around the room with perfect charm and grace. After a few minutes, I realized Doreen was going to stay like this, so I got up and made my way to the knight of New Haven. A crowd of giggling girls and grandpas surrounded him. To him they must have been nothings, dressed dully in terry cloth, but he treated them with sweeping credulity.

'Ah, ah, ah, my dear man. So pleasant someone who knows his arias,'� Mr. Corey exclaimed flamboyantly when I reached in to shake his hand. He continued on to say many other things, but I couldn't make them out among his highly decorative speech. He cut through the gathering like a knife through melting butter and took me by the shoulders around the room to explain to me the classic geological structure of the picture frames that hung around the commons' walls. I was so entranced by his vivid explanations of the dry dust technique I hardly noticed the frames bordered nothing but wallpaper. After an hour of this, I introduced Mr. Corey to my little sister, who still sat in that longing gaze.

'How splah-endidly delightful too meet you my darling.'�

Mr. Corey took Doreen's hand and kissed it gallantly. We chatted for some time, but I was soon escorted out of the New Haven Institute when Doreen had to be carried away to her room. I said goodbye to Doreen and made an engagement to meet Mr. Corey at the New Haven Arts Gallery later that day.

We met ten minutes later at the door of the gallery. Mr. Corey came prolifically dressed in an antique tuxedo and an elaborate silver bracelet that he must have slipped into in the time I had walked to the gallery. He came with accompanied by his driver, who unlocked the silver bracelet, led him to the gallery steps, then told Mr. Corey he'd be by when he needed to leave. We proceeded into the gallery where Mr. Corey was greeted with firm handshakes and gracious welcomes. He guided me around the room and acquainted me with the gallery's director, the art staff, and prominent figures from around the city. Mr. Corey then took me to the lavished white walls of the gallery. Marvelous works of art hung across the walls in large square and small rectangular frames. A door in the far corner of the room swung open and two uniformed men scooted through, carefully carrying a giant painting. They hoisted it up onto a blank spot on the wall and checked to make sure it was securely fastened. Mr. Corey patted the men on the back and said a few words inaudible to me. As a small horseshoe of finely dressed observers moved around the painting, Mr. Corey smiled brightly and smoothed his hand along its edge.

'It's a Monet.'� I heard a birdlike woman whisper to her chiseled husband once I had moved in closer. A wave of awes moved down the dotted line of people until it came to the end and receded to silence. Mr. Corey was now running his hand around the painting's frame, slowly as if feeling for molecular flaws. The crowd stared in amazement as Mr. Corey did so. A stout man with an upturned mustache then stepped daringly from the crowd. He moved behind Mr. Corey and leaned forward towards his ear.

'Vhat do you zhink?'� the man asked loudly. Mr. Corey spun around on the back of his heel, flattened his back, and pushed the folds down from his jacket. The fat little man stood patiently balancing on the balls of his feet. The quiet held still for a full minute until Mr. Corey spoke.

'Ahem'� Sir, the atomic qualities of this piece of architecture are ravishingly similar to that of a pear. It is the greatest display I've seen of such horticulture in 15 years. Why, the inclinable properties of this here corner far exceed any expectation I could have. And here, on this line I see a remarkable resemblance to that of a cogwheel. Why, its astounding the caliber of this frame's potential.'� Mr. Corey winked, then turned and disappeared to the other side of the room. The crowd, which had been holding its breath, released a sigh of gossip and tête-à-tête. The man with the upturned mustache grunted curiously and began to run the tips of his own fingers along the painting's border. He did so intensely, until the fascinated people began to dissipate around the room. Pushing my way through the chuckling scholars, I found my way to Mr. Corey.

'My good dear sir, my sir. I'm afraid I have to be going. See you here same time next week?'� I thanked him and agreed to meet him that Saturday at the gallery. I then walked with him to the door and down the thick marble steps outside the building. His driver was waiting at the curb with Mr. Corey's silver bracelet. Mr. Corey stood in front of his driver as he attached the silver bracelet to his wrists, and gleefully sang Renato.

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