At 11 a.m., on a gray and drizzling morning in December, a line has already begun to form around the block outside Pier 36 in the Lower East Side of Manhattan. Doors won’t open at the NYC venue for at least seven hours, however, that hasn’t stopped fans from holding out for their favorite artist. I make my way toward the entrance, keeping an eye out for someone whose guise might disclose distinguished status. On the contrary, I find Bobby Greenleaf, Post Malone’s assistant manager, smoking a joint next to a solitary hot dog cart. We head to a white van, which takes us to Post’s penthouse suite at Central Park’s Viceroy Hotel.
Upon entering the hotel room, we are greeted by two six-foot-something bodyguards that could likely pulverize grown men with the force of silverback gorillas. I glance over at the sleeping figure on fawn-colored suede couch, a chaotic clump of hair protruding from the top of a gray blanket. The suite is decorated with empty Coke bottles and ransacked pizza boxes, inklings of the 22-year-old rockstar napping just 10 feet away. I assume my position at the table, careful not to disturb his slumber.
Roughly an hour after settling in, I am startled by a door opening behind me and suddenly I am face to face with a sleepy, shirtless Post. The platinum recording artist extends his hand to me and I stare down at it, momentarily paralyzed. After an exceptionally awkward pause, I take his hand and introduce myself. Post then goes around to every person in the room, reacquainting himself with each member of his entourage and meeting El-e Mags, his tattoo artist for the day. Lastly, he rouses the person sleeping on the couch, who turns out to be his younger brother and tour manager.
