59th Street.
She wears a striped orange bandana, knotted in the front. She has a silver nose ring.
She wears a brown leather jacket, absolutely, positively, festooned with fleur de lis, once a symbol of French Catholicism, then French Imperialism, then French Republicanism, now just general Frenchitude, yet cut as an American WWII bomber.
He wears a black canvas jacket cut to mimic the shoulder padding of a leather motorcycle jacket except it would certainly not survive such rigors.
She wears jeans covered in German deer hunters’ camouflage.
He wears a navy blue wool peacoat, to ape mariners’ wear, except the collar is cut to promote wearing upwards, which he does, and provisions are made for non-existent epaulets.
He wears tight cotton Chinos, despite this being winter, highwater to show off his burgundy leather not-boots.
She wears wheat Timberlands, hood formal wear, as do her sisters in charcoal and bright fucking red.
Her sisters wear acid wash white and grey jeans, respectively. Both wear grey bubble jackets.
She wears a red bubble jacket and remarkably restrictive grey leggings, accentuating the panty lines below the cut of the coat.
He wears tortoiseshell glasses and a grey scarf done up alike an ascot, presenting the image of an Austrian nobleman down on his luck.
He wears grey sweatpants, baggy in the ass and tight in the ankles, giving the look of never being properly pulled up, yet they most certainly are.
So are hers. And her sisters. And him. Such is the fashion of the time.
She wears faux-leather kneehigh go-go boots. He wears Santeria-level white-on-white Nikes.
She has never bombed anybody.
He doesn’t ride a motorcycle.
She doesn’t streetwalk.
He has never shot a Filipino.
She isn’t a hippie.
He has never captained a ship, and is presumably not a Nazi.
125th Street.
