The Boss’s mother’s house was rosy-beige rounded stone set on a low sandy hill, surrounded by pines and palms. In front, the trees thinned, giving a beautiful view of the gulf. Right now, the great golden disk was just below the horizon, but lots of light still reflected off the water illuminating the sky. The building had a large porch where they ate dinner.
Paul almost got there too late; they were leaving as he arrived. The Boss, who seemed to be in a hurry, already was up the tree-lined street a bit, but stopped for a moment to turn around and greet Paul with a smile and a wave. The Boss had on jeans, a black t-shirt, an old jacket, worn shoes and dark glasses. Paul tried to remember if the Boss began to dress like that before he started appearing in New York City or if it was after. The Boss had been going to New York a lot lately. So far, except for one homeless man, nobody there recognized him. The Boss even had managed to get arrested in Zuccotti Park with Occupy.
Walking out of the front yard were Peter and John. Spotting Paul, Peter scowled and strode forward faster to avoid him, but John slowed down to say hello. The rest followed in a line behind. Paul didn’t see who he was looking for, but wasn’t concerned. And sure enough, after Thomas, Andy Warhol, wearing the same sort of sunglasses as the Boss, came through the door. As usual Andy looked bewildered, like he’d just woke up and wasn’t sure where he was.
