The Curious Case of the Alexander McQueen Graffiti Skirt
It was a hot, sticky summer day on the Upper West Side. I had just finished work at an office on the 27th floor of the Time Warner Building, and I was looking forward to a quiet, secluded park with no-nonsense neighbors.
But it was not to be. As I was walking to my car, all of a sudden, I saw a pair of young guys talking to a woman I had never seen before. She had long flowing hair and a big smile, and she was wearing a pair of sunglasses that made her eyes look like emeralds.
It turned out that she and the young guys were about to spend the most fun-filled afternoon of their lives getting tattoos — on the hand of the woman’s older boyfriend.
But the tattoo artist, whom I will call Steve, was not there to play. He said that he wanted to make sure that his designs were precise, and that they needed to be done on a female hand.
The couple walked off to the park by the East River, and we followed them, curious to see what the future would hold. A few minutes later, Steve came up to me and asked, “What do you think?”
He was asking for advice, but I couldn’t think of anything more to be said. I said, “I think you know what should be done to whoever gets tattooed on the hand of the woman.”
He nodded. He said that he would do whatever I said. He was an artist — he must have been a pro. His designs are so beautiful that I wonder if all of us were there for the same purpose.
I don’t remember who was the first to get tattooed, but everyone was happy. The woman was happy as her boyfriend proudly showed off his hand. I think he even told her how happy he was that she did not have to do the artwork.
He was just as happy to have the two guys tattoo him. His younger brother and some friends were in the middle of it, and they were getting tattoos too. In fact, the two guys were doing that entire session, but I was just getting what I thought was the final one.
I had to go home before I had time to think, but the next day, about 2