“That's all gone now. It's nothing but tourist traps and those ghastly outposts of bad Hollywood restaurants. ‘Family-friendly’ they call them. When did New York City become the vacation spot for families from the boonies? Most of us came here to get away from our families in the boonies.” As a connoisseur of rants against the new New York, Carrie felt like giving him a round of applause, but at that moment they had reached the door of his apartment.

George took out his key. “I should move,” he said. “I've thought about it so many times, but I just can't.” He unlocked the door and ushered Carrie in. The foyer was the size of Carrie's entire apartment, and she figured that the ceiling was at least sixteen feet high. The floor was an intricate parquet, and two ornate columns that didn't seem to be holding up anything flanked the entrance leading to the rest of George's “hideaway.”

“The reason I can't leave is this,” George said, and he waved his hand toward one wall. There, dominating everything else, was a life-size portrait of a man who appeared to be in his middle thirties. He was smiling so broadly, he gave new meaning to the phrase grinning from ear to ear, and he was wearing what appeared to be a crazy quilt that someone had made into a kimono. Garish patches of mismatched fabric with what looked like logos embroidered on them made up the body of the garment. The mad quilter had also sewn a small stuffed dog to one sleeve of the thing, and an American flag and a bunch of roses had been stitched onto the other sleeve, so these weird artifacts were actually a part of the robe.

“That's Davy,” George announced with another hand wave. “My lover. I know the kids today like to say they're ‘partners,’ but we were lovers. For thirty years he was the love of my life.” He snorted angrily. “And now the son of a bitch is keeping me incarcerated in this mausoleum. Because his damn picture is on that wall, and I can't leave it.”

“There's no way you can move it?” Carrie asked, fascinated.

“It's a mural! The frame around it is fake. We had it painted directly onto the plaster because we wanted it to be there as long as the building was standing. We didn't know Fifty-seventh Street was going to turn into bloody Disneyland on the Hudson. And,” George added more gently, “we didn't know Davy was going to die first and I'd be stuck with this frigging wall art.”

“It's… amazing,” Carrie said.

“It's tacky, baby. But what can I tell you? Davy had just gotten the Gypsy Robe after almost twenty years in the business and we wanted to do something grand. And, let's face it, we were tacky.”

“What is the Gypsy Robe?”