Tales from the Back Row by Amy Odell Page A

being in a never-ending line at Starbucks. Isn’t that why publishing houses like Hearst maintain such glamorous in-­office cafeterias? So that their beautiful employees don’t have to subject themselves to the distress of midtown for any extended length of time?
    Of course, the problem with the opening being in midtown was that Karl Lagerfeld now had a really good excuse not to show up. But I had faith that it was my destiny to meet Fashion’s Santa in the flesh, and so to Karl I went.
    I recruited two companions for Operation Stalk Karl Lagerfeld at Random Midtown Art Gallery: (1) My friend Chris, fashion enabler and endearingly speechless in the face of any meaningful celeb, most especially Madonna. Necessary for moral support in case I found myself speechless in Karl’s presence. And (2) NYmag.com ’s videographer Jonah. Necessary to capture an interview for the website and the personal files I’d need if I ever felt like bragging about this occasion over the next several decades of my life.
    We arrived that misty Friday night and rode the elevator up to the gallery, which had gray walls that were absolutely covered in photos of Brad Kroenig. There was Brad looking out a window, there was Brad looking at his sleeve, there was a collage of wallet-­sized images of Brad’s face. We were all willfully trapped in a chamber of Bradness. Fortunately, they were serving free wine.
    â€œWhat are you going to say to Karl?” Chris asked, eyes wide.
    â€œOmigosh.” I was beginning to get tipsy and forget my plan, which amounted to engaging Karl in a brief but rousing discourse about sexism as it relates political candidates’ sartorial choices. AllI could think of, though, was, “Do you only have acquired tastes, or do you like normal things, too?” and “Does Brad come with vocal cords? If so, does it matter?”
    So, we waited. Chris and I decided Brad was attractive. Worthy of five years of documentation and an entire $80 art book attractive? Well, that at least gave us something to talk about. Seven o’clock turned to seven thirty, which turned to eight, which turned to . . . nine. Friends came, gave up on Karl, and left to go fist pump at nightclubs. One glass of wine turned to three. We forgot that it was weird that the face of one man surrounded us on all sides. I longed for the ordeal to end. Though I believed in Karl—have always believed in Karl—I started to wonder if he would materialize in this gray cell of his own imagination or if Brad would simply whisk him away to an Olsen twin’s house for a nice cold meal of aspic.
    â€œHe’s not coming,” Chris said.
    â€œDon’t talk like that,” Jonah countered. “He’ll come. Keep the faith.” Even though Jonah was not of the world of fashion, he somehow understood a few basic rules: that Karl is God, God is worth waiting for, and that God arrives on God’s own schedule.
    â€œWell if he doesn’t show up, we can’t feel too bad about getting stood up by Karl Lagerfeld,” I pointed out. Just think of the countless rock-hard abs that went unseen by Karl for the entire five years that he only had eyes for Brad’s. Besides, “It’s not like we found him on JDate.”
    Just as I decided the invitation’s promise— Karl Lagerfeld will be present —was a lie and resigned myself to heading home drunk with no story to show for it, the elevator doors parted, and out strode the man, the myth, the Karl. You know how you feel when you’ve been at a concert forever, waiting for the artist to come on, andyour feet hurt, and you’re blaming the person you paid too much to see and vowing to hate her forever, when all of a sudden the lights go down and smoke fills the stage, and suddenly Britney Spears or J. Lo emerges from an oversized floor tile, and everything is worth it? That’s pretty much exactly how Karl entered the