Men in Monkey Suits
Late in the evenings, after a full day of painting on Crosby Street, Jean-Michel would call me to go to a club or restaurant. When I arrived at his loft, I saw the stack of drawings, about two feet high, that he had been working on. With great pride, he showed me the one that had my DJ name, High Priest, right next to Fab Five Freddy's name. Near it, across from a burning heart with a cross, was Madonna’s name. A whole host of other people in our posse were also listed on that oil crayon drawing titled Cheese Popcorn, 1983.
This particular evening, Jean-Michel wanted to take me to a new bar that had opened up on Wooster Street. As we pulled up in the cab, I remember seeing two glass pink flamingos at the entrance. Walking in, we saw all of these Wall Street executive types standing at the bar in their three-piece suits. As we waited for the bartender, we noticed that most of the men in their “monkey suits” were laughing and pointing at us. Jean-Michel had paint smears all over his overcoat and trousers, which were actually custom-tailored Giorgio Armani. I had a Nike running suit on, with a pork-pie hat tilted to the side. We stuck out like sore thumbs.
Jean-Michel ordered two Remy Martin Cognac doubles for us. As we waited for our drinks, Jean whispered in my ear, "When the drinks come, don't pick them up." Since they were top shelf doubles, the drinks were over $30 dollars. With perfect timing and a flair only Jean-Michel could pull off, as the other patrons were eavesdropping on us and thinking we wouldn’t be able to pay the bill, Jean-Michel paid for the drinks and threw two extra twenty-dollar bills on the bar. Then he said to me aloud so that all could hear, "Com'on Nick, let's blow this joint!" We turned around and left the patrons to ponder the sparkling drinks.
