Gérard, who seldom misses an invitation
to evade, has found himself in his East
Village bolt hole without a single sum-
mons to the Hamptons for the centennial
running of the Indianapolis 500 steeple-
chase, or whatever it is. Literal hours
of fittings of blazers not to wear, se-
lecting vintages not to bring, to host-
esses not to hypercompensate, have left
his tanline discernibly adrift, even as
he scans his device for updates on this
curious endowment of delightful liberty.
It's enough to send a man to his trusty
pelt, to ponder calmly what had dealt
a hand of quiet with its soothing ease,
his docket vacant of appellants he must
please. If there is anyone happier than
the man who isn't known, is it the one
who's known for something, uncollected?
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