They saw that instead of sneakers, he wore stiff leather wingtips, which gave him a professional air despite his rumpled hair and clothing. They suggested he sleep on the sofa in the workshop until he got himself sorted.

Weeks passed. When they unlocked the workshop in the morning, the master framer snored open-mouthed on the sofa in his undershorts, often with an erection in plain view. The oily brine of his unbathed body—soured by the odor of discount cologne—grimed the beige upholstery.

After the master framer stepped out for lunch one afternoon, whistling a tune and wishing them well, they approached his workstation with caution. He always looked busy, so they didn’t worry. But today they picked a finished frame from his stack and held it beneath the special lamp they’d purchased for this purpose.

Ah, see—very nice! said one.

What is that? said the other.

Beneath the glass, on the white mat board, was a smear of peanut butter, stuck with cracker crumbs—oozing dark oil.

Disgusting! said one.

A fluke, said the other.

But they found some offensive object encased in each of the frames in the master’s stack: a green crust of nasal mucus—multiple kinky hairs—a crushed potato chip—a scattering of dandruff—even some drops of brown blood.

Too, the corners of the frames were crooked. The screws—sent in sideways, hard—split the wood. Glue oozed in rigid, sculptural drips. Not one was usable. They cried and exchanged bitter words of blame.

When the master framer returned from lunch, his box of things sat soggily on the sidewalk and his key would not unbolt the lock. No one answered when he knocked. He put his ear to the door. He looked up and down the street. A little white dog lifted its leg on his box. He gave chase, but the dog danced easily out of reach. Winded, the master framer heaved the box into his car and drove away.

He never saw them again—his employers—but he did see one of their prints hanging in a bathroom in the house of a wealthy woman who hired him for odd jobs some years later. She needed her trees trimmed and her leaves blown and the crap of her dog scooped from the lawn, where she liked to walk barefoot after a pedicure.

When he’d performed these services tolerably well for a few weeks, she offered him the modest guest quarters above her garage. She liked the master framer—liked him even better when he told her he’d framed the print in her bathroom, which she prized.

What a marvelous coincidence, she said. What fine work. What a man of many talents you are.

THE RESCUED MAN

They’re good dogs, I said, as the pups crapped where they stood, stepped in it, then tumbled toward him.

He held each one and looked into its eyes. He took it up by the legs, the throat, the snout. He tugged on the tail and ears. He laid it on its back to see what it would do. He said he was looking for the one that wouldn’t do anything. That was the dog, he said, you could really teach. He chose the runt of the litter, the one I called Little Jim.