In my 20’s I hung out with fashion photographers, neon sculptors, writers and artists. We were an eclectic tribe of misfits. We had parties in large lofts in a down town industrial area.
At one party my friend, Windy (his actual name), who looked a lot like Charlie Chaplin, fell asleep on the hardwood floor in the back corner.
Windy was our court jester, known for his comedic personality.
I got a staple gun from the host’s toolbox and stapled Windy to the floor. I had to reload the gun; I used a lot of staples. Windy didn’t notice.
Then I went back to the party, played a couple games of backgammon, sat and listened to music petting a huge bull mastif with a parakeet on his head (no lie!). I watched a model work the room, asking anyone who would listen (ie all the men did) if she should get breast implants.
My friend Norman, an ex Hell’s Angel and ex-Seminarian (or so he claimed) was cooking to an audience of very hungry people who I imagined wished Norman would stop his lecture on Italian cooking and actually cook something .
Anyway. I forgot about Windy.
Until I hear screaming from the back corner. I hurried over.
“I can’t move. I am paralyzed!” People gathered around but Windy quickly realized he was stapled down.
He laughed. “You buggers! Who did this?”
I confessed.
We hung out for the rest of the party and had a blast explaining to newcomers why Windy was wearing very tattered clothes.
Windy introduced me as the designer .
