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There was only one flaw, as far as Abe was concerned, in the week he spent going to fashion shows: His poky old minder, making him late. His minder was not having anywhere near as great a time. His minder was hot, and bored. Most of all, his minder did not, fundamentally, really give all that much of a fuck about fashion. Clothes, sure. His minder found pleasure in thrift-shopping for vintage western shirts or Hermès neckties, in wearing his favorite Shipley & Halmos suits (gray cashmere, tan corduroy), his Paul Smith shirts and shoulder bag. Less pleasure, perhaps, than he found in books, or records, or cooking, or watching old movies with his wife, but pleasure nonetheless. Clothes were all right with Abe's minder. But they were nothing to build a religion, a hobby, or even a decent obsession around.
“I lost the third finger on my right hand,” says Markey, holding it up for inspection. “I was jumping over a hurricane fence where my brother was playing tennis and I caught my ring on the top as I dropped. It just took the finger right off the bone. The doctors call it de-gloving. I call it filleting. The finger lands right in the middle of the tennis court and I’m standing there holding my hand and yelling to my brother to pick it up. He turns around and starts laughing, because he thinks I just threw a fake finger in the middle of the court. That’s when I almost got a nigger killed.”