New York – September – 2019

4am, in the Freehand Hotel.

The gentleman in the room opposite us is yelling incessantly.

‘You fucked Evan. I know you did.’

I can’t tell you how many times he blasted that, interspersed with the occasional punching of a door.

Inaudibly, a lady whimpered in protest. Through the sobs and the yelling the gentleman had gone through the ladies phone and found an incriminating trail of evidence of ‘sexting’.

‘Do you think she fucked Evan?’ I ask Anastasia, wide awake next to me.

‘She absolutely fucked Evan.’

There was no question in my mind neither.

I call the front desk and tell them to come up. Fall back to sleep. The next day I saw a man rehang the door.

The Man in the Polyester Suit

A photo by Robert Mapplethorpe called The Man in the Polyester Suit is hanging amongst a collection of similar black and white stills, peppered with quotes from various luminaries.

The best one being a humble bartender, Greg from Keller’s. ‘It’s a black thing and I love it. Now let me get back to work before I get a hard-on.’

I’ve lost Anastasia. I’m amongst strangers, polarised, transfixed.

All staring at the Man in the Polyester Suit.

When I see Anastasia I schlep her up the elliptical stairwell, up 3 flights and show her the photo.

‘That’s not art,’ She slams. ‘That’s just a man in a suit with his dick out.’

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