Spooning

by Darri Stephens

  As I continued my quest for coffee and food, I shoved my hands deep into my sweatshirt pockets and decided that I really had to do something about my fashion efforts. As big as Manhattan seems, it is actually only four miles wide and sixteen miles long. And despite the numerous residents and thousands of commuters who invade the sidewalks each day, you inevitably run into someone you know. My second week in the city I had run into Pookie Saltmarsh (yes, her real name) with whom I'd gone to nursery school. She shrieked, I smiled. We traded numbers and hugged. Luckily, I'd felt inspired to motivate and take a shower and put on something halfway decent that day. Otherwise I knew I would have heard from my mother that afternoon. I could just imagine the phone call:

  “Tootsie Saltmarsh said that you saw Pookie. Charlie, why did you have on those ratty corduroys with the hole in the knee? If you need new pants, I can go look at Marshall's here at home. I can see if there's a sale on bras too.” My mother was always on the hunt for the perfect panty sale.

  “Mom, how did Tootsie just happen to bring up my pants?” She of course would miss the sarcasm.

  If I was ever going to be a true New Yorker, I really needed to make a bona fide effort in the fashion department each and every time I left the apartment. But that certainly wasn't the case right now. With every step I took I would notice another hip, trendy person walk by. A “hobo-esque” stunningly beautiful model-type woman donning the most gorgeous leather Balenciaga bag on her shoulder was doing the catwalk into a restaurant on the corner. The bag was the exact same one that Jessica Simpson and the Olsen twins owned. I knew this because I had seen pictures of them each carrying one in US Weekly last week. And just as she escaped my view, a hot guy with one of the best vintage army jackets I had ever seen darted right past me. God, why was everyone so fashionably perfect here? I definitely stuck out like a sore thumb. I still had pasta sauce remnants from last night's dinner on my wife beater. My boobs were bouncing because I wasn't wearing a bra. I had black mascara circles around my eyes because using just soap doesn't get it all off. On top of all that, I could have sworn there was a hole in my underpants. I was a train wreck. I could have possibly pulled this look off in the East Village, but here on the Upper West Side I felt totally inadequate.

  Looking around, I realized that my situation was even worse than my freshman year at college. Worse than Ashley Hancock, who would get all dressed up for English Lit at 9:35 A.M. The rest of us would stumble in with last night's hook-up's lacrosse cap on our heads (not for show, of course), ripped high school sweatpants, and the required blue and white flip-flops. And then Ashley would arrive. Her hair always had the proper amount of under-curl. Her pleated pants had the perfect dry- cleaned crease down the middle. She had every pastel cashmere cardigan sweater there was and they were always placed evenly over her shoulders tied in a perfect square knot. And the patent leather loafers she wore were never scuffed and were never, I repeat never, without two shiny perfect pennies in the tongue. God knows she was ready for the corporate world at age ten. We would all raise our eyebrows when she donned the pearls, obviously it was a wacky Wednesday or something. I didn't think much of her look, but she always did look put together.

  Now here I was four years later, in a baseball cap (remnant of a college hook-up long gone) and flip-flops in one of the most stylish cities in the world. Ashley would have survived in this city without a hint of static cling. I, on the other hand, was not so sure if I could be so Holly Golightly. I was not city chic. And how could I ever expect to find my prince looking like a slob? What should I do? Why, hit the sample sales of course!

  “Macie, what are the newest sales coming up?” I called as I charged back into the apartment. I handed Syd the coffee and patted her on the head. As she winced, I went into Macie's room and plopped on her bed. From under the covers Macie recited, “Bonbons, Monday through Thursday, promises sweet deals on intimate wear; a spot on Thirty-fourth Street boasts about its D&G and Gucci deals starting Tuesday through Sunday; and Diane von Furstenberg is having her once-a-year deal Monday and Tuesday only.”

  DVF! The Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress is timeless. It has survived the fashion cycle throughout the decades and while its price has amply increased with soaring inflation, any female New Yorker will tell you what an investment the wrap dress is. You can throw it on with sensible shoes and look corporate chic, and then deepen the V at your neck when happy hour kicks off. And boys love it not only for the flattering tie at the waist but for the easy access.

  “Diane von Furstenberg is a genius and a goddess!”

  “Yes, Charlie, I agree. But please, don't bounce. We'll go Monday before work.” Like a good little girl who had been promised new shoes, I stopped bouncing on the bed and high- fived Macie (whose head was still under her pillow). I immediately dialed my bank account to assess just how much damage I could do.

  On Monday morning, Macie and I both feigned doctor's appointments and high-tailed it to midtown. At 8 A.M., there was already a line outside. My blood began to pump a little faster. Macie smiled at me. God bless her. She always knew what I was thinking. We were delving into the inner sanctum of New York life. As we stood close to each other, not really having a choice since the line seemed to be constricting, whispers floated above our ears.

  “This line is nothing like the one at Burberry.”

  “The boots had been marked down from $1,473 to $975, how could I pass that up?”

  “What are these women waiting for, a casting call?”

  “Whose sale is this one … ohhh!”

  “Head right for the size 6 rack, it is always the most picked over.”

  Macie and I nodded to each other. Point noted.

  “Violet is in this spring,” Macie reminded.

  “And you know I love anything navy,” I responded.

  “I think if we are investing in DVF, we have to take a chance and grab some of her wilder prints,” she suggested.

  “You grab anything that will work for either of us and I'll do the same.” Before we could strategize anymore, the door opened from inside. A hush fell over the entire line. I craned my neck but couldn't see anyone. It was a climatic moment, and we were the chosen few. They let the first twenty of us inside. We tramped up three flights.

  “How am I going to look good with this sweat pouring off of me?” I asked.

  “Sweetie, once wrapped in a discounted wrap dress, that sweat will look like a glowing sheen!”

  We both hushed as we walked into a cavernous room with large windows filled with racks of brightly colored clothing. I could hear a little kid in my head shout, “Ready, set, go!” With a nod to Macie, I set off. Should I go to the cheap racks or the pricier ones first? I followed Macie's lead and we hit the expensive items. Under her breath, Macie explained, “The more expensive items tend to have the greatest markdown. Therefore, they're ultimately feasible. And they will be the first to go.”

  We ravished the left quadrant and then headed toward the right. My left arm was aching under the weight of the polyester frocks. Meanwhile my right arm was robotic as it slid hangers along the racks quickly and grabbed discerningly. Slide, grab, slide, slide, slide, grab.

  “Come on, let's try these,” Macie commanded. We twirled around looking for the curtained trying-on area. There was none.

  “So where do we …” I began and then stopped. A woman in front of us had dumped her items on the floor and was struggling to get her shirt off. I gave an “okay let's join them” shrug to Macie, and we weaseled our way toward one of the few mirrors. We had both planned ahead of time and worn easy access pants, loafers, and button-down shirts. The pants meant that we could slide them up and down with ease while kicking off our shoes (no shoelaces permitted!). The shirt meant that we wouldn't have that frumpled, bed head look after having pulled our shirt on and off countless times before we showed up to work. No smeared makeup on these faces! Time was of the essence as Macie and I threw on dress after dress.

  “Nope!”

&nbs
p; “Hugs your hips.”

  “Not your color.”

  “Don't even consider it!”

  “Ripped armpit.”

  “Panty lines.”

  It is wonderful to have a truthful friend, one who would never intentionally cut you down. Macie's brutal honesty was her way of saving me pain and suffering later; in this case, fashion pain. We both tried on about eight or nine items of clothing in a mere five minutes and on the last try I hit gold. I found a hot little black and white leopard print number that fit me like a glove. It hugged me in all the right spots. I mean, the dress was magic. Diane was a fashion genius. For the first time my legs looked like they came up to my waist. I felt absolutely beautiful. Excited about my find, I put my pants back on, slipped my shoes back on, buttoned my shirt halfway up, and grabbed Macie to head back to the racks for a final round.

  “Ahhhh!” I grabbed Macie's arm as a blood-curdling screamed echoed in the high-ceilinged room. Had someone just stolen a DVF dress out of someone else's arms, like a baby stolen from its mother? Suddenly the gaggle of half-dressed women by the large loft windows screamed collectively and rushed to throw some article of clothing over their fronts. Macie and I hedged our way over to look. Above, on some scaffolding on the building next door, about fifteen men were looking down at us. They were all sipping coffee and looking in the windows as if they were enjoying the most recent Maxim flick on an Imax screen. One actually waved to us.

  “Hope they enjoyed the show,” Macie muttered. “Come on, we don't have time to waste.”

  About thirty minutes later, we stood in the cash-only line with four dresses each. The total was about half of my rent money, but the savings were something to be proud of. I suspected my math happy Dad wouldn't quite see it my way, though.

  I ran to work and crept through the back hallway to get to my cubicle. It was the secret route for all late arrivers. Julie had tipped me off on it a few months back. I was only about an hour and a half late, but I don't think anyone noticed. Plus, I'd brushed my teeth with some of Syd's Brite Smile this morning to make it look like they'd been freshly cleaned by the dentist. I did tell them it was a dentist appointment, right? Whatever. Out of breath, I slumped into my chair and noticed that there was no flashing red light on my phone indicating the usual slew of messages from perturbed coworkers. Luckily, I'd also happened to leave my computer on last Friday so it sort of looked like I'd been there all along. Flying toasters flittered across my screen. Breathless, I shoved my DVF bag underneath my desk in order to hide the evidence and went straight to work. Or so I thought.

  Bling! (My IM went off.) It was Tara.

  T-Doggie: you are going to die

  Snoopy: why???

  T-Doggie: i got O'Divine-d.

  Snoopy: you got what? what's that?

  T-Doggie: you'll see tonight at Cooking Club … trust me … it's fantastic!

  Snoopy: OK. see ya tonight.

  T-Doggie: oh hey, I'm bringing the dessert … it is a coordinating dessert btw. ciao baby.

  Tara could be so elusive. I figured that's what made her alluring to the male species (that and her talents in various other areas). Even our Cooking Club, a domestic venture, could not remain demure in her presence. Tara could never be part of something without adding her own thumbprint, her own signature, her own spice.

  “So I just had the most orgasmic time at O'Divine!” Tara shrieked with joy as she unveiled her new platinum blond hair as well as a plateful of matching blond brownies. The recipe was appropriately called, Hey Blondie!

  “Y'all, what's O'Divine?” Wade asked the question on all our minds. Considering that Tara was involved, I imagined some gentleman's club or Chinese rub and tug.

  “My new beauty salon! Oh and girls, these divine treats are not store-bought like my hair,” she laughed. “I made these from one of my dear old great-grandnanna's secret recipes. They are absolutely sinful, but so worth it. Trust me.” She passed out the blondies, all the while tossing her hair back and forth in an odd, deliberate way to make sure we really noticed the lack of underlying roots.

  “Hey, girls, I also brought something sweet for tonight's Cooking Club meeting,” Wade chimed as she walked back into the living room. “I thought it would be cute to make homemade dark chocolate brownies. What complimentary desserts—the blonds and the brunettes.” She walked around handing one to each of us. Tara eyed her as she went around. You could sense a little cooking competition in the air.

  “Now, my chocolate brownies are really rich because I used real cocoa beans. Did you use margarine or butter in your recipe, Tara?” Wade quizzed as she handed her a brownie.

  “Butter!” Tara cheered. “Nothing but the best ingredients in my recipes, Wade.”

  “Good girl. You've been taking notes at our meetings.” Wade sat down to enjoy her own sweet treat. “Mmmm. So good. If you can tell, I mixed in some finely, and I mean finely, chopped walnuts too. I didn't want the walnuts to dominate the chocolate in the brownie, so there's just a hint. Oh, but if anyone is allergic to nuts, don't eat one.” She just couldn't get out of teacher mode. “Okay, so what did I miss?”

  “So what's so great about O'Divine?” Macie got us back on track. O'Divine. What a weird name for a hair salon. Where do they get those names anyway? And why do most stylists have horrible hair? Not just bad styles mind you, but frizzed, burnt, discolored hair! Tara had been verklempt recently after a botched meeting with a home-coloring kit. It said auburn on the box, but it was more like a burnt pumpkin with yellow splotches. Yet now, after O'Divine, she was glowing, literally and folically. Her hair was back to the brilliant blond she loved, and boy was she beaming. I usually saw this type of enhanced state only after a late Friday night date or an energetic ride on the cardio bike.

  “Oscar is, ohmigod, o'divine, o'orgasmic!”

  “What are you talking about? An orgasmic Oscar? Because of that?” Wade said pointing to Tara's do.

  “You have to go! Just go. Oscar is the owner of the salon. He gives you highlights for under one hundred dollars and he gives the most amazing head massages. He can actually cradle your head in one hand, and then rub his thumb gently over your throat as he rubs and tugs your hair with the other!”

  “Totally suspect, Tara. You're saying that this man, Oscar, basically has you in an exposed position, ready to thrust his thumb into your windpipe and snap your neck in the wash basin while you're mid-orgasm? He sounds more like a serial killer stylist to me,” Sage scoffed.

  “Come on, girls, it would take Matrix Keanu mixed with a little Hannibal Lecter to pull that off,” Tara joked. “Seriously, O is amazing. He gives your shoulders a full rubdown, pressing on those spots that hold all of your tension. Then he goes for the armpits—”

  “Stop! Who goes for the armpits?” Macie asked. “A boyfriend never goes near the armpits! A husband of forty years never goes for the armpits.”

  “Yes, shave before you go. It's totally relaxing, the armpit massage. Trust me. Then he goes back for the head and rubs your ears. Now I have had my ears sucked and kissed before, but he sticks his fingers inside your ears, and rubs gently behind your lobes and—”

  “This is turning into a Harlequin romance novel!” I squealed. “Who is this hair man?”

  Okay, I admit it, I was entranced. Entranced and extremely interested. Hell, who wouldn't be interested in highlights, a blowout, and a full rubdown for under a hundred dollars? The girls and I had been facing the harsh reality of the astronomical cost of foils in the city. It was pretty outrageous what they charged especially since at the end of the day the hair folks were basically using bleach from a bottle and wrapping our hair in the cheap foil from Food Emporium. A process that probably cost them a couple of bucks could cost us upward of three hundred.

  For the past few months, we'd all had hair anxiety. Personally, my roots were kicking. I even heard one of the girls at work whisper “nice roots” to a coworker as I walked by them in the bathroom. It was getting pretty noticeable, but it wa
sn't due to lack of effort. We'd all been hard at work trying to find someone who was good and cheap. They didn't have to be great, just good and cheap, dirt cheap. I was really strapped in the cash flow department especially after this morning's DVF purchase. But it looked as if our hair prayers had been answered. Tara had done the dirty work for us and found us our ideal hair man.

  “So he's cradling my head and rubbing, and his wet thumb slides gently over my lips. I'm totally ready to suck the thing for Christ's sake! Then water dribbles down my chin and I swear it is the juice of life. The whole experience was just so fucking unbelievable. Doesn't it look fabu? Oh God, he's great. Don't know if he's straight, and I don't care!” Tara threw her hands into the air. We were all salivating for more at this point as well as salivating for more of her grandnanna's delicious blond brownies. I had a weakness for nuts in desserts.

  “Oh, but wait. There's more!” she went on. “It's the best part, the drying. You toss your head upside down between your legs, and he brings the hot dryer toward you. He tousels and shakes your head and you just have to let go. He then pulls your head toward his crotch—”

  “What!” I yelled. “His crotch?” I bit into another nut.

  “Yes, girl, and there's a nut on your lip,” she responded. “Now here's how it goes. O is standing, and you're sitting with your head upside down, your head is just about crotch level. Personally, I think he does it for leverage, so that he can give your hair ultimate volume. How else can he tousle effectively?” Tara paused in deep contemplation.

  “Now I don't know if he had a hard-on, but I think he did. It was hard to tell because he wears those damn tight Euro pants, so he might just have had a big package.” She nodded at Sydney's and Sage's agape mouths.

  “Yeah, those Euro pants,” she went on. “Actually, come to think of it, I don't even know O's ethnicity. He sort of looks Latino, but has a slight French accent. Oh yeah, and those striking dark Italian eyes. On top of that, I can't figure out his age either. He's way too wise to be our age.”