Graffiti on a Wedding Dress
Andrea Hollander had lived in Brooklyn all her life, and almost never bothered crossing into Manhattan. Too many tourists, too much traffic, and, honestly, what’s so impressive about skyscrapers? They’re just buildings stacked on top of one another. Not worth the trouble. But when she got engaged and began the dreaded hunt for a wedding dress, her maid of honor insisted on dragging her across all five boroughs, and that’s how Percy Maelock came crashing into her life.
It had already been a brutal day: four shops, three boroughs, zero hope. Andrea was ready to give up and walk down the aisle in jeans. But her maid of honor had the patience of a saint and the stubbornness of a drill sergeant. She pushed Andrea through one last appointment—thank god she did.
The fifth shop was magic. It only took two dresses for to find the one. Perfect neckline, perfect slit, perfect everything. Andrea cried when she saw myself in the mirror. The attendant popped champagne and went to fetch the obligatory “I Said Yes to the Dress” sign. For the first time all day, everything was perfect.
And then Percy Maelock fell through the door.
Not walked—fell. Head-to-toe in paint, like someone had fired an entire arsenal of paintballs at him. He looked like the ghost of Jackson Pollock had chosen a human host.
“Percy!” the attendant shrieked. She dropped the sign and rushed to his side, fussing over him like a mother over a scraped-kneed child. “Who did this to you?”
“He’s right behind me,” Percy coughed, staggering upright. “Quick—lock the door!”
Too late.
A man stormed in, more paint than flesh, his respirator hiding his face, a paintball gun in one hand, a can of spraypaint in the other. He looked like he’d clawed his way out of a toxic vat and was here to exact revenge. And revenge, apparently, looked like ruining every dress in the shop.
“I told you what would happen if I saw your face again,” the paint-soaked villain growled.
“Oswald, please,” Percy wheezed. “Can’t we discuss this like gentlemen?”
What happened next barely fits into words. Bangs. Shattered glass. Explosions of color. The maid of honor tackled Andrea behind a rack just in time to shield her from a tidal wave of neon green paint. When they dared to peek out, the boutique looked like a warzone curated by Banksy. Dresses lay toppled, splattered, ruined. Percy had Oswald pinned to the ground, binding his wrists with a bridal ribbon.
“Look at what you’ve done!” the attendant wailed from beneath a collapsed display.
The place was carnage—lace, tulle, and taffeta drenched in fluorescent ruin. Andrea’s heart broke for her dress, until the attendant reassured her: “Don’t worry. That was just the sample. Yours would’ve been ordered fresh.”
Meanwhile, Percy was straining to keep Oswald down. “Little help?” he gasped.
The maid of honor didn’t hesitate. She stomped over, kicked the villain twice for good measure, then sat on him like he were cushion. Percy, finally freed, reached into his pocket and produced wads of tightly rolled cash—like a magician pulling rabbits.
“This should cover it,” he said, handing it all to the attendant with the politeness of a man paying for a dinner check instead of thousands in property damage. “I was certain Oswald would avoid following me in here, what with all the whiteness. But alas—manners are dead.”
To this day, there are so few answers. Who was Oswald? Why was he hell-bent on destroying Percy? Why did Percy have so much money in his pockets, and why did the attendant take it without question—or conveniently leave his name out of her police statement?
What Andrea did come to know is this: the attack was the best thing that ever happened to her dress. As much as she loved it before, sje loved it even more after seeing it drenched in paint. The splotches turned it into a one-of-a-kind masterpiece—half couture, half crime scene. Her future mother-in-law despised it, but she adored it. And that’s what matters.
She bought it right on the spot, waving off the attendant’s protests that she could order a new one from the designer.
When she went back later to dig up Percy’s name so that she might send the peculiar strange an invite her her wedding, the attendant happily slipped it to her. After all, the man bought out the entire shop. The least Andrea though to do was offer him an open bar and a slice of cake.
And if he chose to bring Oswald? Well. At least the photos will be memorable.
A Note from the Author:
I first met Andrea Hollander several years before these events, during a trip to New York. We crossed paths in a Williamsburg bar, where I watched one of my closest friends crash spectacularly in his attempt to flirt with her. The failure was so memorable that it somehow turned into an introduction—and Andrea and I became fast friends. So when I returned to New York for a conference years later, I naturally reached out to see if she was still in Brooklyn and wanted to catch up. I’m very glad I did.
This story is unusual among those I’ve gathered: it doesn’t revolve around Percy Maelock spinning lies. Instead, it captures a genuine sighting—Percy out in the world, sowing confusion and chaos without explanation. Had Andrea been able to press him on the circumstances leading to that bridal shop showdown with the so-called Paint Villain, I’ve no doubt his account would have been the same blend of exaggeration and spectacle as always.
I can only imagine the sort of wedding guest he must have been.
