Dienstag, 13. August 2013



I was in New York and had to make a delivery of a roll of fabric into a Chelsea building where there is a few floors of upholstery businesses –you know, the kind of shop where they use fabric to wrap furniture in it, that's called upholstery. It was late autumn of 2010 –and at this point in the story you must be told I've got a thermostat problem with my body and so have been known for my saying, albeit not-so-true: "Will wear a jacket when it snows"– so I'm walking around mid-November in windy-town-Chelsea with a 60 yard roll of fabric on my shoulder and wearing no more than a t-shirt and jeans, about to get into the building when I see this cute blonde and a fat man smoking a cigarette outside the main entrance, and the fat guy's wearing nothing but a short-sleeve Hawaiian shirt and the girl, also, is looking a bit underdressed for the weather, but neither one seems cold, and instead they seem excited, smoking, trying to be cool, looking summery, and anyway, what they were wearing is not important except for the fact that it made me notice them before entering the building, the cute blondy and the big fat guy. Then I go in, say hello to the doorman –a Caribbean guy with awful machete scars all over his head and part of his face whom, later I got to know this, also writes love poems to the good-looking Colombian woman who runs the upholstery shop I was delivering to, on the seventh floor– and head for the elevator, door opens, I walk in, push seven and, as the door closes, retreat into the far corner, but then the door does not close: two hands in a weird reverse-clap position enter the gap between the metallic doors just before the two sides meet, it's the hands of the fat guy in the Hawaiian shirt, who then proceeds to push the doors back into the open position, enters the blond, Bono from U2, the fat guy and the door closes.

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