by T. S. Easton
‘Wow,’ I said.
‘I wasn’t sure what you liked so I got you pancakes, bacon and eggs and porridge. These are traditional breakfast foods in this country.’
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘Have you had your breakfast?’
‘I’m on the 358:2 diet,’ she said. ‘You don’t eat anything for three hundred and fifty-eight minutes, which is nearly six hours, then you have to eat as much as you can in two minutes, then you don’t eat for three hundred and fifty-eight minutes again, then you eat for another two minutes solid, and so on.’
‘Wow, sounds complicated,’ I said, shovelling pancake and blueberries into my mouth.
‘It’s all about controlling your metabolic rhythms,’ she said. ‘I read this book.’
‘I bet you can eat quite a lot in two minutes,’ I said, thinking about it. ‘I mean one can eat a lot in two minutes, not just you. I mean, definitely not you. I bet you eat like a bird.’
‘Well,’ said Brandi, looking quite pleased. ‘I try and keep in shape.’
‘You’re succeeding!’ I said, much too loudly, then pretended to choke on a bit of pancake to cover my embarrassment.
It had suddenly got slightly awkward.
‘Oh, by the way,’ she said when I’d finished my choking fit. ‘There was a call while you were in the shower.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘I think he was from New Zealand or something. He had a strange accent. His name was Gets, or Kecks or something.’
‘Gex,’ I said. ‘He’s not from New Zealand, he’s from Southampton.’
‘I knew it was somewhere exotic,’ she said. ‘Anyway, he said to say he’s fine and staying with his cousin and why aren’t you answering your texts?’
‘I lost my phone,’ I said through a mouthful of pancake.
‘I know that, I told him. He laughed.’
‘That sounds like him.’ I was relieved to find he was still alive at least.
I left a message for Mum and Dad and we went downstairs and out onto the street. I was excited about my first full day in New York. I felt like I was doing business, though perhaps not so much like Gordon Gecko. More like Ugly Betty. Still, things worked out all right for her, in the end. I was thrilled and nervous. I took in a great lungful of air and was immediately overwhelmed by a foul stench. I coughed and gagged.
‘Got any change?’ a man asked, rattling a plant pot at me which he seemed to be using to collect change. It was the same tramp who’d shadowed us as we’d waited to cross the road last night. He was a bit freaky looking, with staring eyes and a faded tattoo of Astro Boy on his temple. I dug in my pocket. A quarter hadn’t been enough to get rid of him last night. But I didn’t want to give him too much in case he became my new best friend.
‘Come on, Ben,’ Brandi called. She’d found a cab and was inside, the door open for me. ‘We’ve got a lot to do.’
I gave the homeless man a dollar.
‘You’re not supposed to give them money,’ Brandi said. ‘It only encourages them.’
‘I’m hoping it’ll encourage him to leave me alone.’
‘So did you look at the list of media commitments?’ she asked. I was too busy taking in my surroundings to pay much attention. Our driver was called Tarasalak Clontarf. He glowered at me from the ID photo stuck to the window behind his head. We hadn’t got very far. The traffic had suddenly snarled.
‘Yes. Sort of. No,’ I admitted. ‘I’ll look now.’ I opened the folder and looked at the first page. Then the second page. Then the third, and the fourth.’ Do I have to do all of these?’ I asked.
‘I’m afraid so,’ Brandi replied. ‘Is there a problem?’
‘There are just so many,’ I said as the cab finally turned onto 5th Avenue and crawled a few metres uptown. ‘You signed the form authorising us to arrange publicity,’ Brandi reminded me anxiously.
‘Did I?’
‘Yes,’ she said firmly. Through the window behind her I could see my Personal Tramp shuffling down 5th Avenue. I now saw he carried a Macy’s bag as well as the plant pot. I ducked down before he saw me.
‘Am I really such a big deal to warrant all these interviews?’ I asked. ‘Who’s going to be interested in my story?’
‘A lot of people,’ Brandi replied, turning to look at me. ‘People love a feel-good story like yours. Especially when it’s a boy doing something … ’
‘Unstereotypical?’ I suggested. ‘Girly.’
‘That’s right,’ Brandi replied seriously. ‘Something that breaks conventions. You’re a pioneer.’
‘Well, I don’t know about that,’ I said, going red.
‘Pioneers built this country,’ Brandi said, suddenly passionate. ‘People who took a chance. People who escaped their English oppressors … sorry … ’
‘That’s OK.’
‘ … and came here to build a new life, to follow their dreams.’
‘Steady on,’ I muttered, embarrassed. ‘I knit. That’s all. Nothing world-changing.’
‘Ben,’ she said. ‘You can realise your dreams here. It’s that kind of place.’
Uplifting stuff for 9.15 on a Monday morning, you might think. And only undermined slightly by the presence of my tramp, who’d suddenly appeared at the window behind Brandi, rattling his plant pot.
‘Anyway,’ Brandi went on. ‘Most of the interviews won’t get used.’
‘Oh,’ I said, slightly deflated.
‘This is the circuit,’ she said. ‘You have to go through it in the hope that you get one or two hits. That’s the way things work.’
I was really nervous as we turned up at the first round of interviews, in a big, slightly shabby office block on 56th Street. The building was mostly occupied by magazine companies. I saw three different junior editors, working for three different craft and knitting publications, each with a slightly different focus.
There was:
Let’s Knit and Crochet
Crochet and Knitting World
Knit and Crochet, USA!
I picked up a copy of Crochet and Knitting World to check the cover stories.
Marine-O Woollens – Practical garments to keep our military heroes warm this winter
Primary Colours – Donkey or elephant? How to knit your party’s emblem before the elections this fall
Needlepoint Break! – 5 different patterns for that perfect surfboard cover
Cast Off – We meet the dressmakers of Les Mis and find out how they create those gorgeous rags
Angora Management – Robert De Niro drops by to talk about how knitting helped him to control his temper on set
What’s that? Robert de Niro knits? Amazing! How would Dad take this news? I wondered. Could go either way. Either he’ll be pleased to hear his son’s knitting love affair is shared by one of his favourite actors. On the other hand it might trigger some kind of mid-life crisis to have his illusions so cruelly shattered. He’s still not forgiven Gavin Henson for competing in Strictly Come Dancing.
There was a Cellophane packet stuck to the front of the magazine with some cheap acrylic needles and some thin yarn. I saw the needles were a US 10.5 size. A good size for knitting Hoopies or scarves. Maybe these would do for me until my bag turned up. I asked the receptionist if I could take a copy and she shrugged and nodded.
I was interviewed by three young interns separately, each of whom had a huge smile pinned to her face which couldn’t quite disguise the boredom underneath. This is not what I went to journalism school to do, their body language said. I sympathised. I didn’t really want to be there any more than they did. Most of the questions were about me being a boy and how unusual it was to find a boy who knitted and were my parents very accepting? And so on.
No surprises there.
After that we got in another cab, me clutching the magazine, and went across to 58th Street, two blocks over. It would have been quicker to walk, and I could have done with stretching my legs, but when I suggested that Brandi gave me a look as though I’d suggested we trave
l by magic carpet. On the way, Brandi talked non-stop. ‘Some people call New York the city that never sleeps,’ she said. ‘By that they mean that it’s like a twenty-four-hour city, do you know what I mean?’
‘I think so.’
‘There’s always something going on. I love it here.’
‘Are you not from here originally?’
‘No, I’m from Washington State. Not Washington DC. A lot of people get those confused.’
‘Really?’ I asked. I wondered if she thought I was dim, or just didn’t want to take any chances. Rather than feeling patronised, I quite liked the way she didn’t make the assumption that I knew everything about the US. Or indeed anything about the US.
The next interview was with a newspaper. The Herald. Again, it was a young, intense-looking intern named Miranda who asked me questions. She seemed fascinated by the fact that I actually knew how to knit and asked me to give her a demonstration.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘The airline lost my bag, so I don’t have my knitting with me at the moment.’
She seemed disappointed. ‘Well, maybe you could give me your number and we could meet up tomorrow night and you can show me your stuff.’
I hesitated.
‘I don’t think that will be possible,’ Brandi said, stepping in. ‘Ben is very busy.’
‘I’m not that busy,’ I said.
‘Yes you are,’ Brandi said. ‘Especially tomorrow night.’
‘Well, what about … ‘ the intern began.
‘If you’d like to watch Ben knit,’ Brandi said coldly. ‘You can come along to KnitFair USA this weekend. Ben will be demonstrating his skills there.’
‘Will I?’ I asked.
‘We need to talk about that,’ Brandi said.
Brandi wrapped things up after that, which was a relief.
‘Aren’t we near Bloomingdale’s?’ I asked as we left the offices.
‘That’s right,’ Brandi replied. ‘You wanna pop in?’
‘I want to look at the knitting gear,’ I said.
So we went in, and oh my days.
Bloomingdale’s knit shop is to Pullinger’s what Jessica Swallow is to Susan Boyle. Sorry, Natasha, but that’s the truth. There were so many varieties of wool. Types I’d never heard of. Colours that don’t exist in other countries. Weaves that had dropped through a portal from another dimension. Rack upon rack of crochet hooks from around the world. Specialist, exquisite hand-carved needles in long cardboard boxes like from Ollivander’s wand shop in Harry Potter.
I could have stayed in there for hours. Brandi just stood, texting absently and watching me at the same time, one eyebrow permanently raised. Eventually she coughed and looked at her watch. I bought some basic merino wool in blue and white, Hampton FC’s colours. No needles. I needed to conserve my money and I had the free needles to get me by for now. I was glad I’d bought something though because it meant I got a huge paper Bloomingdale’s shopping bag, which I’d really wanted. I put my magazine into it and grinned at Brandi.
‘Ready?’ she asked.
‘Ready,’ I said. ‘Let’s go.’
On the way out I couldn’t help but notice a lovely knitted top with a cowl that was slightly reminiscent of the Hoopie. I stopped to admire it. I was pleased to see that the design wasn’t close enough to the Hoopie to raise any awkward questions about copyright, but close enough to suggest that hooded tops were most definitely in.
After that we went to a radio station. Now that was fun. I was getting the hang of all the questions by then and felt confident I would know what to say. I thought there’d be all sorts of preparation and release forms to complete and someone to explain what swear words I wasn’t allowed to use and so on. But not a bit of it. They just ushered me straight into the studio, and the DJ, whose name was Craig something, ignored me for a bit while he chattered inanely and then played a song. As the music faded he began talking over the top.
‘And we’re back on the Craig something show on WKPP morning and today we have Ben Felcher with us. Ben, tell us why you’re in town.’
‘Erm, it’s Fletcher.’
‘OK, Fletcher, tell us why you’re here.’
‘Er, I’m here for KnitFair USA,’ I said. ‘I won a knitting competition in England and one of the prizes was a trip to New York.’
‘What were the other prizes?’ he asked.
‘A book of patterns, a voucher for wool and needles, some champagne, but I’m not old enough to drink so I got fizzy apple stuff instead.’
‘So you knit?’ he said. He wasn’t watching me as he spoke. He was flicking his way through a stack of CDs.
‘That’s right.’
‘Do all boys knit in England?’
‘No. Not at all.’ I wasn’t sure I liked Craig.
‘How long have you being doing this?’
‘Oh, not long. Nine months maybe.’
‘You must be an expert by now, huh?’
‘Well, I don’t know. But I’ve got pretty fast. That’s how I won.’
‘So this is speed knitting?’
‘Speed is one of the criteria on which you’re judged. There’s technique, creativity, accuracy … ’
‘Yeah, yeah. What I don’t get, about knitting,’ Craig said, now shuffling through a different rack of CDs, ‘Is what is the goddam point?’
‘Er … well. I find it relaxing.’
‘Because, tell if I’m wrong,’ he said. ‘But they have machines that can knit, right?’
I definitely didn’t like Craig something.
‘Yes, of course.’
‘And they’re more accurate, and they got better technique than a person?’
‘Well, maybe, but there’s creativity … ’
‘But that’s just down to the guy who programmes the machines, yeah? He does the creativity.’
‘Well, I suppose.’ I was getting a little cross with Craig by this point. It wasn’t as if I was some crooked politician. Or some businessman caught with his hand in the till. I was just an English boy in New York.
‘And you’re no way near as fast as a machine.’
I shrugged. Not wanting to answer.
‘That’s right, isn’t it? The machine is much faster.’
‘Depends on the machine,’ I replied sullenly. ‘Depends on the knitter.’
‘Wait,’ he said, stopping his search for a song to look at me finally. ‘You think you can beat a machine?’
I shrugged again.
‘You’re shrugging. He’s shrugging. You can knit faster than a machine? That’s what you’re telling me?’
I don’t know what made me do it. Maybe because I didn’t want him pushing me around, maybe because I felt I needed to stand up for God, for Harry and England. But for whatever reason. I leaned forward and fixed his eye.
‘Damn right I can,’ I said.
‘That was awesome!’ Brandi said, bouncing up and down as we left the building and walked out into the mild spring sunshine. Big American cars rattled by, just about every second one a yellow cab. Businessmen and women walked briskly up and down the street, carrying huge cups of coffee, talking on cellphones. People yelled at each other for no apparent reason. This was New York! I felt exhilarated. I felt as though I could knit faster than a machine.
Which, obviously, I can’t.
Brandi took me for a celebratory bite to eat after that.
‘I know this great place,’ she said. ‘You like Jewish food?’
‘I don’t know.’
It turned out that I really did like Jewish food. What’s not to like? I had chicken soup with matzo balls.
‘Wow,’ Brandi said, watching me eat. ‘You were hungry.’
‘It’s this town,’ I said. ‘Ever since I arrived I’ve been hungry all the time.’
‘Jet lag,’ Brandi said. ‘I always eat like a pig when I have jet lag.’
‘That’s why pigs don’t like to fly,’ I said.
She was drinking diluted grape juice. It was still three hour
s before she able to eat again. I’d decided I really wanted to be around for one of the two-minute eating windows.
‘How many matzo balls do you think you could eat in two minutes?’ I asked. I wanted to see those amazing teeth in action.
‘Thirty-two’ she replied instantly. ‘I really go for it. It’s not a pretty sight.’
‘I’m sure you’re very demure, even with a mouth full of matzo balls,’ I assured her, before I registered what I’d just said.
Thank God my parents weren’t here.
But again, Brandi was oblivious.
‘You’re so sweet,’ she replied. ‘Thank you.’
As we came out of the restaurant I saw a giant billboard that caught my attention.
DIABLO. THE INNER SANCTUM
There was a picture of an unshaven man with lots of curly hair. He looked a lot younger, and hairier, than Dad.
‘Diablo,’ I said, pointing. ‘My mum knows him.’
‘Really?’ Brandi asked. ‘He’s hot!’
‘You mean his career is doing well at the moment?’
‘That too,’ she said, gazing up at Diablo’s glowering face.
The billboard left me a little unsettled but I soon forgot about it during the next round of interviews. I felt tired after my poor night’s sleep but it was kind of fun too. The irritating Craig something had got me worked up. Besides, I was determined to stay up so as to get over the jet lag as quickly as possible. We saw one more newspaper on 6th Avenue and then there was another building full of magazines somewhere on the East Side, near the river. I don’t remember exactly. It was all a bit of a blur by then. What I enjoyed about it most was simply going inside the buildings to see what was inside. Waiting in reception, meeting real-life New Yorkers, being led through crowded offices with Americans talking loudly and drinking coffee. I couldn’t get enough.
‘Ben’s loving the vibe in the city,’ Dermot O’Leary intones. ‘But is it really him? If he wants to make a go of this knitting business, he has some questions to answer.’
Then we arrived at the New York Courier offices. The windows were open, even though it was cool, and I could hear the traffic honking a few floors below. There was an older journalist there, a guy with thinning hair and braces. I’ve never seen someone wear braces in all seriousness before and I was too busy staring at them to really listen to his first question.