25% Buttahfat
Chew the fat
Butter up
“Today's looker, Chloe, is tomorrow's buyer. Come here and admire this dress. See the buttonholes, HAND sewn. Alas, such workmanship today is so rare it's a pity. But there will always be that discriminating eye who needs to have something rare indeed; in fact that person will simply die if he or she goes without!”
All worked up, the Countess flung off her robe, an elaborate floor-sweeping number embroidered with tigers and lilies and pagodas and palms. Reclining in a signature silk-satin gown clinging to EVERYTHING, the Countess looked like a cool drink of lemonade. Yellow, she said, was her signature color—a color she encouraged Chloe to freely embrace.
“But Countess, don't you ever feel, well, guilty for having so much stuff?” The Countess was certainly decked out with major stuff today. La Rox, dozens of them, sparkled from her fingers and wrists and, of course, her infamous décolletage.
Chloe felt like questioning everything. She stood at ease in her signature Mary Quant—ish dress, her chosen uniform for these after-school tête-à-têtes, lessons of the garden fashion-school variety. It wasn't like the Countess told her she had to wear a uniform or anything fancy or that—she just felt respectful dressed this way. Dare I say, appropriate.
Chloe was summoned by Julius for “pre-cocktail” hour twice a week at four. She and the Countess convened in the Grand Dressing Salon which was just that—an entire suite of grand rooms devoted to even grander dressing. Chloe hadn't yet gained access into its candlelit recesses but she imagined it was all giant gilded mirrors, dramatically lit platforms, and cushy luscious couches for the Countess to lounge and loll upon as the minions tended to one of her many fittings, or fits.
Spellbound, Chloe would listen to the Countess recount her days in Paris as a coveted client of the haute couturiers, her stint as a designer in London, or her short career as a buyer in N.Y., the tales always interlaced with scandal or danger and romance, each adventure and affair complete with an accompanying wardrobe that followed her across whole continents.
The Countess often ordered fur-lined slippers or satin mules, a custom tiara or afternoon hat. Chloe got to sample and even offer her opinion on the deluxe goods about to be made. Then, sometimes, they just sat and ate bowl after bowl of ice cream while Chloe showed the Countess the latest from her growing portfolio—which was growing into something much bigger than the five original Cali pieces she planned to submit to Saint Martins.
“Guilt, Chloe, is a waste of my time and yours. Guilt serves no one, ever.” Waving the fake golden cigarette in the air indicated she was about to launch into another major lecture. (But a good lecture, mind you, not the when-Mom-reams-you-a-new-one kind.) Chloe perched on her little tufted chair and took perfect mental notes.
“I serve beauty, Chloe. That is my life's path and in that, there is no shame.” She spooned another helping of ice cream, something cherry red, and dreamily licked the spoon.
Today, the Grand Salon had been transformed into a full-on ice cream parlor! A harem of confectioners appeared at La Contessa's side, replete with old-fashioned creamers, tall bottles of syrups, and fancy demitasse sets. Heavy ornate trays appeared like magic, held up by miscellaneous schmos who offered Chloe tiny round cups and itty-bitty spoons.
“Twenty-five percent butterfat!” the Countess exclaimed. “Now that, Chloe dahling, is the real thing.” Coiled up like a satin ball, playfully dangling her slippered feet, the Countess was in ice cream heaven. A for-real butterfat reverie.
“But Contessa, like, don't you think the pursuit of clothes is, well, sometimes lame?” Chloe stared at a mile-high stack of chunky fur and heavy cashmere, now discarded by her side. The Countess already had ordered coats for fall and was now commissioning lighter peignoirs for “resort and holiday,” as in the winter “holiday” she planned to take along the coast of some faraway sea.
“Chloe, dahling, you are too young to be saddled with such guilty thoughts. Guilty guilty guilty, it's enough to depress me so! You are nubile, fresh, and new. Let your mind and body be the same! You have an eye and that eye is a gift! You may even have the all-seeing eye but since you are young you think that this eye will trick you—that it is bad, always wrong, that it sees too much. You judge it and call it trite, or rather what is that word you use ….”
“Rad? I mean, lame?” Chlo offered.
“LAME! That's the word and this is not so. This eye of yours is like magic. It is your window into a world so beautiful, so unique, soo filled with endless wonder you can't possibly begin to seeee. Your quest for the best will be a noble one indeed.”
“So then making clothes can be noble?” Chloe proposed.
“Why yes, because creation is noble!” The Countess tossed a spoon to the ground. It made a lovely pinging noise on the tile.
“Chloe, alas, I do not have this talent. I have the talent for seeinnng talent in others. And, as I just said, I celebrate creation because it is noble. In fact, I celebrate it all!”
Chlo sat up straighter now, nodding emphatically.
“Julius!” the Countess snapped. “Bring my little schoolgirl her letter.”
A letter? Julius emerged from the shadows carrying yet another tray. Upon this was a sealed envelope addressed to Central Saint Martins, stamped with La Con-tessa's wax seal.
Chloe lit up and dropped to her knees. “You wrote me a letter of rec! Omigod, Countess, thank you so much!”
“Pish-posh. It's just a little letter.”
“No, it's not. I could just cry! Or die! Really—you have no idea how grateful I—”
“Stop groveling, child, or you'll wrinkle that Mary Quant dress! Anyhow, I love letters, especially when they are about cute, nubile things like yourself… so delightfully odd.”
Chloe blushed.
“But no time for any more lessons today. Je suis fatiguée—all that boasting about you has rendered me quite exhausted.”
“I totally understand, Countess. I'm honored and flattered. God, no one's ever recommended me for anything!”
The Countess waved her off, but a mere trifle, and returned to a new tray of bonbons, this one placed next to a plate of gilded feathers.
“I'll let you get back to your sampling. Thank you, Countess. Thanks, Julius. Thank you so much!” Cradling the letter close, Chloe curtsied and skipped out into the marble foyer, Mary Jane heels loudly clickety-clacking down the hall.
Would You Like a Topping with That?
Bond with family over frozen treats
Treat family like a frozen bond
Chloe walked back up the meandering driveway and crossed paths with Stan, or what was a full-on view of Stan's crack, sadly exposed in bad Bermuda shorts. He was all bent out of shape cursing the Beemer's Assist computer system—you know, one of those things that, like, control a car's everything.
Stan kicked the door hard and lost a shearling moccasin in the process.
“Jesus, Chloe, good timing. Listen, you're good with technical difficulties, no? Come here and show your old man somethin'.”
Hmmm. He was talking to her like his usual, irritated, not-making-any-mention-of-her-disgracing-the-family self? A cell phone headset cord dangled from his ear, and a button popped off his current Hawaiian shirt—this one a poppy number with several ukuleles and totem poles going at it at once. Chloe eagerly went over to help.
“Sure thing, Dad. What's up?”
“What's up is this stupid mother—or, as Lupe would say, this pinche car—cost me eighty g's and I can't even set the goddamn clock! It's like NASA in there. That little, what do you call it, that mouse thing is so small I can't even see it let alone use the damn thing!” Stan patted the tiny beads of sweat on his forehead. Just like Zeyde.
“Dad, it can't be that hard. You just have to ask the car nicely and it'll do everything for you.”
Stan did not look convinced.
“Maybe the car already knows the time? Like, has a satellite situation wh
ere you don't have to program anything.”
“Oh yeah? I don't think so, Chlo.”
He scooted on in the passenger side and pushed a series of buttons. A walnut panel lit up and a voice politely greeted them with “Good evening. Pardon me?”
“Just watch this,” Stan whispered. “CLOCK ON!” he boomed.
“RADIO OFF,” the car responded in a clipped, full-on-mechanized-but-kinda-English accent. Stan looked at Chlo like See what I'm talking about? Then he repeated “CLOCK! ON!”
“PARDON ME?” the car replied.
Stan gripped the wheel and repeated his request one more time.
“CLOCK ON!”
Nope. Not. On.
“CLOCK ON YOU GODDAMN PINCHE CAR! TELL ME THE GODDAMN TIME ALREADY!”
“CD CHANGER, THREE,” the car replied.
Chloe didn't know what to do. The car was possessed.
“Oy gevalt!” Stan shook his head, cord dangling, one moccasin on, the other on the lawn, sad eyes looking at Chloe for kinda a while.
“Chloe doll, say … you wanna grab a yogurt?”
Shocked at the invitation, Chloe gushed, “Sure thing, Daddy!”
She prepared to switch seats with her dad but, to her surprise, he even let her drive. So she turned the ignition on and they headed down the driveway, into town, to the Promenade.
The Promenade food court was pretty standard mall fare but stepped up a couple notches—like, with sushi and chai. This, of course, was to service the finicky clientele who frequented the sprawling better-than-average shopping arcade. Seated in an upholstered booth, Chloe was trying her best not to style passersby and to keep her FD on the down low. But this was hard! Her mind was in overdrive as she sat next to her dad. Like, she hadn't been alone with him for months and she really wanted to say or do, or NOT say or do, whatever would make him forgive her.
“Don't you want one, Chlo?” he asked, rummaging through a deep pocket. Out popped a worn cocoa-colored wallet, water and coffee stains everywhere. Chloe leaned against the glass counter. Nope. No butterfat here. More like runny, watered-down lactose that was sure to unsatisfy but keep you coming back for more.
“Hmmm. I guess I'll have the same as you, Dad.”
Stan rifled through a crumpled wad of bills while a young girl hopped up, her cheap plastic “FroYo Palace” visor coming into view. She was wearing an all-purpose “smocked” apron three sizes too big over an ankle-length skirt trailing to a pair of, like, white nurse shoes.
“Would you like a topping with that?” she chirped. Chloe stared blankly at the girl for a long time—no reply. The FroYo Palace gal politely grinned back, her grin becoming confused, uncomfortable, and then annoyed….
Chloe blinked. “I'm sorry.”
Stan and the FroYo Girl exchanged mutually confused looks.
“She asked you something, Chloe.” He raised a furry brow.
“Oh, right. No thanks. No topping for me.”
Chloe was still staring. Stan coughed. And then Chloe was unable to keep it to herself.
“That uniform just sucks!” she shouted. She had to. You know how when something didn't look right she just had to say something.
“I mean, what I meant to say was: I'd really love to restyle your sucky uniform! Do you mind?”
Stan choked on a spoon while Chloe hopped over the counter. She grabbed a pad and pencil while both the girl and her dad stood stunned. And then Chlo started to draw, explaining what she was doing aloud.
“You see, the oversized smock and high-waisted A-line skirt do no justice to your silhouette. Doesn't this place realize that Calicuties like you are a, what would you call it, Dad? An asset. Yeah, cute girls in cute uniforms mean more customers with carbs to burn eating crappy, I mean, de-licious frozen yogurt! If only your manager would let me design something simple and fresh, something, like, cute, then you FroYo Palace gals would be la bomba at the Promenade. Really. No joke. I'll show you what I mean.”
Chloe drew something cool and clean with tri-colored stripes—in part inspired by vintage Hot Dog on a Stick uniforms, minus the stupid hat. It was a look that, as the Countess would say, was Swaucy Mary Quant Meets YSL Mondrian. Chloe added smoky mod eyeliner and frosty lips, but frosty cool like the frozen yogurt—not frosty trailer park, like, bad mall victim. She drew white mid-calf go-go boots with exposed zippers, like her own, and offered to customize them herself. She even wrote down the number for the store in L.A. that carried the dead stock and felt very generous for sharing the valuable tip.
So in Mondrianish mini shifts cinched with logo-studded belts—a tiny band in milky white, orange, and blue that read “FroYo Palace” in the company's signature font, the change was a surefire way to make the place cool.
Chloe handed the manager a couple of napkins with the full-on sketched-out look. The girls were nodding in agreement, and the manager was thanking her no end. She hadn't meant to say or do anything. It all just kindaspontaneouslypouredout. Like, for some reason she felt inspired instead of afraid. She even felt really good for sharing, like she was being a model citizen of some kind. Then she realized her dad was sitting there too, listening. Like, listening for real. Stanley watched her in amazement while vanilla streaks ran down his chicken legs.
“You know, kiddo, I think you might be pretty good at this fashion business. But you oughta charge people for that kinda advice. You can't be giving it away for free! You may not bill four hundred an hour, but heck, every novice has to start out somewhere.”
Chloe blushed as her dad patted her back, a definite sign of encouragement and, dare I say, forgiveness.
A Belt Is Never Just a Belt
Top it off with a good accessory
Be an accessory to stay on top
This had been an experiment, An Ode to Pleats and Ink, something Chloe thought she'd call the Look of Love.
The bodice of her strapless dress was severe and bone crushing but felt and fit right for the occasion. It was a silk and canvas bustier wrapped together by wide asymmetrical bands, kinda like a straightjacket. A long, lone red zipper twisted around one side and attached itself to a mini circle skirt of sorts: a thigh-skimming burst of black puffy lace, wool, and alternating plastic pleats, each the color of tarnished gold. At the last minute Chloe had felt compelled to smear it all with black ink with sponges and an old makeup brush. She had sewed the complicated piece herself for weeks while Pau nodded approvingly over dozens of tele-novelas, Fritos, and Oreos.
A sudden cry, and Dante collapsed. Ouch. He quickly picked himself up off her dress and yawned. Glad it was thrilling for you too. Chloe watched him zip his gray peg-legged jeans and pull an olive sweater over his head. For the first time, Chloe noticed the red cuffs—a surprising detail.
Was that it? Were they done? She should've stayed home to watch telenovelas with Pau. Then again, Chloe felt like she had just cheated on Dante, but, like, in her head, with her clothes.
Her breath got really short and quick—she definitely felt like—You thought I was gonna say she was gonna cry, didn't you? No, au contraire, she felt pissed and ready to destroy. Or did she feel ready to create?
And then Dante fastened his belt: a studded, black and white checkered belt. Chloe winced. That was a girl's belt. Definitely a run-of-the-mill borderline-alternative belt that, like, could be purchased anywhere. She didn't own a belt like that. Who would've given him a belt? She had made him a customized, beautiful, one-of-a-kind belt and he didn't even wear it tonight. Her belt. Their belt. He, like, could've at least done that. Whose belt was this?
“I hate that belt,” she muttered. That was about the best she could do. Or, like, say.
Dante shrugged.
“Oh yeah. It doesn't really matter, does it, Chlo? It's just a belt.”
Just-a-belt. Well, that just-said-it-all.
Suddenly, Dante swelled up completely. He literally became an enormous, jumbo, red-flag-waving mayday-mayday—so saturated with red that any message inside was impossible to read!
That was it. She was dating a jumbo red flag who spoke a totally different language than her because if he, like, actually was sensitive at all and got who she was he would totally get that, like, a belt, was never just a belt!
Right about now Chloe felt like a cheap and used piece of non-vintage, secondhand shmatte. She wanted to see the Countess. Then she felt guilty, like she had just cheated on Dante not just with her clothes but also with the Countess. But wait; obviously Dante had been cheating on her with the Brazilian Shopgirl! Chloe felt confined and confused and wanted to take off the bone-crushing corset dress. Right. Now.
Chloe held her wristlet clutch close—a little zebra-print style, ruched at the sides, with a detachable bangle to loop over your wrist. She just got now why these things were called clutches.
“Dante,” she ventured, “that belt doesn't even fit you. Or maybe it actually does. Or what I really meant to say, I guess, is … you don't really fit me.”
Stunned, he blinked. She blinked too. Did she really just break up with him? Like, for real break up—break up with him?
“Whoa-whoa, hold up. Don't get all crazy here. It's just a friggin’ belt. Sue has been talking trash—I knew it!”
“This has nothing to do with Sue.”
“Then this is because of your family—”
“This has nothing to do with them either.” Chloe sighed, since it wasn't really about any of them anymore.
“Then this is cuz my life isn't like yours, right? You know, the kind of life that makes it easier for you than me to get in?”
Get in where? This was, like, the most intense conversation she had ever had with Dante and the irony was that it would be their last. And yes, even though she could understand, she didn't agree.
“Dante, maybe getting in isn't so great. Like, once you're in you might not even like it! You might even realize you were only trying to get in cuz everyone around you told you how rad it would be when inside it totally blows. Or once you do get in, you, like, might not even bother to see what's really happening inside cuz, like, you were too focused on getting in rather than being there. Everyone's always talking about needing to get into this school or party or show or whatever. Once you're in, you might even be, like, Well, all right, now what? Is this even where I wanna be? Is this even who I am? Sometimes the answer's yes but it might also be no.”
Chloe Leiberman (Sometimes Wong) Page 11