and the gash in her side is fairly unsightly, too.
But I can fix her. Underneath all the stains, she’s still good.
I walk back into Starbucks, wheeling the dress form as I go, and as I’m lining up for another coffee I notice the woman in front of me.
Candie Stokes.
She was a stylist, got lucky with an Oscar winner a few years ago, and now runs a website called What to Wear Now. It’s one of those fashion blogs that somehow rode the first blog success wave and just got bigger and bigger. Last time I checked, she was working with Neiman Marcus and Piperlime to create some über-fashion-blog empire. She looks a little tan-and-smoke-addled, and she’s the size of, like, an elf, but damn! She’s a fashion person! I knew my plan would work!
Okay. So what do I say?
Let’s just go with the old reliable.
“Candie Stokes!” I am too nervous to sound anything but hyper. “I’m a huge fan!”
She turns, sees my muddy dress form, and instantly smiles. Heavy makeup and four-inch heels. “I don’t think we’ve—”
“Angie James. I’m a fashion designer.” It’s getting easier and easier to say that. “I’m also an illustrator and photographer.” Where did that come from? Well, it’s true. Kind of. I draw. I take photos. Sometimes.
Candie’s smile disappears. “Really. Ever been paid to design clothes?”
“Um, no.”
“Ever been paid for an illustration?”
“… No.”
“And your photography? Ever been paid for that?”
I can hardly get the word out. “No.”
Candie’s eyes flick up and down. I’m wearing jeans, white studded Converse, layered sweaters, my fur/army coat, and an old trapper hat. My face is smeared with yesterday’s eyeliner, because I forgot to take it off and left the house without bothering to do anything about it, and my hair is dirty and gathered in a topknot. I thought I looked kind of punk and tough, but now I wonder if I look like someone you see drinking cans of beer outside a train station.
“What, exactly, do you design?”
“Um, I’m just starting out. I want to work in fashion though, and I, um, I would love to talk to you sometime.” I try to sound professional and enthusiastic, like Pia would. I grab my Moleskine sketchbook. “You can see my ideas—”
“No,” she says decisively, picking up her coffee.
“Could we maybe swap numbers, or I could Facebook you—”
“No.” She walks away, then pauses, and comes back, lowering her sunglasses, her bloodshot eyes staring hard at me. “You ever see that movie Working Girl ? Melanie Griffith? Before your time, I bet. Well, there’s a line in it. ‘Sometimes I sing and dance around the house in my underwear. Doesn’t make me Madonna. Never will.’ Think about it.”
She puts her sunglasses back on and walks away.
“Bitch,” I say under my breath, in an attempt to master the panicky fear inside me. She treated me like I was nothing. Like I was totally worthless.
I’m never going to get a job.
I turn and face the barista, just as he hands over my black coffee.
He smiles, whispering loudly, “I’m launching a Navajo-inspired jewelry line in the fall! You should check out my blog! We could collaborate on something!”
Suddenly I just want to go home.
I wheel my dress form out of Starbucks. She looks as dejected as I feel. I’m going to call her Drakey. As a reminder to myself that the Sarah Drakes of the world probably didn’t get their first job hanging out in Starbucks.
I walk toward the subway along Seventh, along the Fashion Walk of Fame. Do you know it? It’s like that Hollywood thing, only instead of dead movie stars, each star honors American design legends. From Mainbocher to Diane von Furstenberg to Donna Karan to Norma Kamali. They’ve all walked this exact sidewalk. They all started out with nothing more than a love for fashion and a desire to create clothes, just like me. And they all made their lives happen.
Just like I can’t.
CHAPTER
But I can fix her. Underneath all the stains, she’s still good.
I walk back into Starbucks, wheeling the dress form as I go, and as I’m lining up for another coffee I notice the woman in front of me.
Candie Stokes.
She was a stylist, got lucky with an Oscar winner a few years ago, and now runs a website called What to Wear Now. It’s one of those fashion blogs that somehow rode the first blog success wave and just got bigger and bigger. Last time I checked, she was working with Neiman Marcus and Piperlime to create some über-fashion-blog empire. She looks a little tan-and-smoke-addled, and she’s the size of, like, an elf, but damn! She’s a fashion person! I knew my plan would work!
Okay. So what do I say?
Let’s just go with the old reliable.
“Candie Stokes!” I am too nervous to sound anything but hyper. “I’m a huge fan!”
She turns, sees my muddy dress form, and instantly smiles. Heavy makeup and four-inch heels. “I don’t think we’ve—”
“Angie James. I’m a fashion designer.” It’s getting easier and easier to say that. “I’m also an illustrator and photographer.” Where did that come from? Well, it’s true. Kind of. I draw. I take photos. Sometimes.
Candie’s smile disappears. “Really. Ever been paid to design clothes?”
“Um, no.”
“Ever been paid for an illustration?”
“… No.”
“And your photography? Ever been paid for that?”
I can hardly get the word out. “No.”
Candie’s eyes flick up and down. I’m wearing jeans, white studded Converse, layered sweaters, my fur/army coat, and an old trapper hat. My face is smeared with yesterday’s eyeliner, because I forgot to take it off and left the house without bothering to do anything about it, and my hair is dirty and gathered in a topknot. I thought I looked kind of punk and tough, but now I wonder if I look like someone you see drinking cans of beer outside a train station.
“What, exactly, do you design?”
“Um, I’m just starting out. I want to work in fashion though, and I, um, I would love to talk to you sometime.” I try to sound professional and enthusiastic, like Pia would. I grab my Moleskine sketchbook. “You can see my ideas—”
“No,” she says decisively, picking up her coffee.
“Could we maybe swap numbers, or I could Facebook you—”
“No.” She walks away, then pauses, and comes back, lowering her sunglasses, her bloodshot eyes staring hard at me. “You ever see that movie Working Girl ? Melanie Griffith? Before your time, I bet. Well, there’s a line in it. ‘Sometimes I sing and dance around the house in my underwear. Doesn’t make me Madonna. Never will.’ Think about it.”
She puts her sunglasses back on and walks away.
“Bitch,” I say under my breath, in an attempt to master the panicky fear inside me. She treated me like I was nothing. Like I was totally worthless.
I’m never going to get a job.
I turn and face the barista, just as he hands over my black coffee.
He smiles, whispering loudly, “I’m launching a Navajo-inspired jewelry line in the fall! You should check out my blog! We could collaborate on something!”
Suddenly I just want to go home.
I wheel my dress form out of Starbucks. She looks as dejected as I feel. I’m going to call her Drakey. As a reminder to myself that the Sarah Drakes of the world probably didn’t get their first job hanging out in Starbucks.
I walk toward the subway along Seventh, along the Fashion Walk of Fame. Do you know it? It’s like that Hollywood thing, only instead of dead movie stars, each star honors American design legends. From Mainbocher to Diane von Furstenberg to Donna Karan to Norma Kamali. They’ve all walked this exact sidewalk. They all started out with nothing more than a love for fashion and a desire to create clothes, just like me. And they all made their lives happen.
Just like I can’t.
CHAPTER
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