From the Memoirs of a Non-Enemy Combatant: A Novel

by Alex Gilvarry

  What’s that, you ask? How does a young man veer from love to resentment in a matter of weeks? Well, as I’ve said, I wanted no attachments. And within two months of starting my new life I had found just that: an attachment. But this is a young person’s dilemma, not something to waste the precious pages of my confession on when there is so much dirt in the filthy air that needs clearing. The last I will say on the matter is that when one does fall in love, there is always a dose of resentment that comes along with it. They go hand in hand. Things get put on hold when two people fall for each other. I was spending all of my earnings on trips to Westchester and mediocre dinners for two, even though my presence was actually needed at parties and events in the city. Without my presence, the dream could easily slip away. The dream of Bryant Park. New York Fashion Week. You see, whenever I found myself on Forty-second Street I liked to walk over to the square plaza and take in the way the light came through the London plane trees and down upon the stone balustrades and trim lawn. Oh, how this small green enclave would be transformed twice a year into the center of my world! I felt a connection to this space. The bustle that surrounded the park—the offices and revolving doors—made no real impression on me. In the park I was in my zone. It’s where I planned to make my splash. To be remembered in the tent during fashion week is to be made immortal.

  Michelle, just by being with me, was steering me away from all of this. She was keeping me down and out in Bushwick. Ahmed’s three thousand was nearly gone. Between the puffy coat I had to buy for winter and the train fare back and forth each weekend, Williamsburg was being completely squeezed off my horizon. All the hip, artistic people—my people—were thriving in the industrial colony that was Williamsburg without me, foraging their bohemian urban dream out of the lost grounds of SoHo and Greenwich Village before it. Each time I rode past Graham and Lorimer and Bedford on the L train, the neighborhood called to me. Behind every garage door was a sculptor, a painter, a band practice, a recording‑in‑session, a designer, a fashion shoot, altogether united in the common pursuit of trying to one‑up each other in their respective areas of focus.

  Where was my label in all of this? Without the proper funding, there was no label. Just a man in a room making women’s clothing. How sad. I had all the right friends ready to help—Vivienne Cho, Philip Tang—but what I didn’t have were the investors. And so, while doing everything myself—designing, sewing, creating—I was my own headhunter too. My plan had been to finish a small collection, secure a proper studio in Williamsburg, have Vivienne and Philip fall in love with my line, and get them to introduce me to the right people willing to invest, all in the name of high fashion.

  The Friday before Thanksgiving, as I was hurrying home to grab my weekender, I realized I was being followed. Outside the Kosciuszko warehouses, where many of the SLC graduates took up residence in packs, I turned to look into the glare of the headlights of an idling car behind me. When I slowed my pace, this car didn’t pass, just coasted alongside of me. As anyone with good American street sense can tell you, this meant bad moons were rising.

  “Boy!” someone shouted, and I immediately recognized the voice. It was Ahmed. He pulled over to the curb in a small hybrid vehicle, a Toyota Prius. “I thought that was you. I know that walk anywhere. I said to myself, that’s the walk of a Filipinni. That ragtag bunch of opportunists! They’re everywhere at once. How the hell are you?”

  I went over to the car door and shook his hand. He was dressed in one of his new suits. The double-breasted gray plaid. He wore the jacket buttoned without a shirt underneath. His open chest reminded me of the TV actor Philip Michael Thomas, whose style I’d grown up emulating from the show Miami Vice.

  “Check out my wheels,” said Ahmed. “It’s a Zipcar.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s kind of like a rental, only it’s not. This one’s a hybreed. You should see the mileage I get on this fucker. Astounding. Get in. I’ll take you around the block.”

  “No thanks. I’m in a hurry.”

  “All the more reason.”

  Just then I heard a bottle smash somewhere nearby, and so I scampered around the front of the car and got in.

  We rode along Broadway under the overpass of the el. This was Brooklyn’s Broadway, a series of replicated blocks on which each shop was named after its service—Hair Braided, Checks Cashed, Jewelry Bought and Sold—and where young men huddled outside of Chinese takeouts, congregating with their dinners in white Styrofoam platters.

  “So what’s the hurry?” Ahmed asked.

  “I’m going to Bronxville tonight. But I need to run home first.”

  “Bronxville, eh? What the hell is in Bronxville?”

  “My girlfriend.”

  “Your gelfriend? That’s a lot of trip for a little pussy. She must be worth it.”

  “She is,” I said. “She’s totally hot.”

  “What’s her name? Your gel?”

  “Michelle.”

  “Ah, Michelle. ‘Mee-chelle, my belle. Sont des mots qui vont très bien ensemble’…It’s French for ‘these are words that go very well assembled,’ or ensemble. The Beatles. Nineteen sixty-something. The year rock was born.”

  Ahmed had an enthusiasm about him, a live-for-the-moment kind of feeling, which made you overlook the incongruous details. And we were foreigners, remember, speaking a second tongue. In Ahmed’s case it was his forth or fifth language. Together we spoke an outsider’s English. A language that sometimes incorporated terms from our homelands, words in our hearts that couldn’t be translated. Out of our mouths came the world ensemble.

  “You know where I live, Boy. Why have you insulted me by not coming by? Unless, of course, you’ve been working. You genius.” He tugged at his lapel. Then he reminded me of how we had established a bond of trust, likening it to a California redwood.

  “You seem preoccupied. If something’s on your mind, out with it. Don’t let these things fester. It’s no good for the heart, man.”

  “I’m late, that’s all.”

  “You’re late. I’ll drive you.”

  “It’s like an hour. Don’t be silly.”

  “Nonsense. I’d be honored. Besides, I have the hybreed for the rest of the night. And I still have to show you the mileage this beby gets highway.”

  I ran upstairs to grab my weekender—giddy, I admit, over scoring a ride to Bronxville. What good fortune! A girl was waiting to see me. A little money was still in my pocket. Why couldn’t I have just been happy?

  When I returned, Ahmed was fiddling with a GPS gadget.

  “So, Boy, I’ve been thinking about the dress on that blonde.”

  “You mean Olya?”

  “Olya. How could I forget Olya. Your business is very high-end women’s wear, yes? Boy, I have to say. Ever since I started wearing your suits I’ve felt like a beautiful blonde myself.” Ahmed belched. “Excuse me. It’s amazing what a primo piece of clothing can do for your confidence. I’ve been a success in whatever I’ve chosen to tackle, as you may or may not know. But wearing something like this makes me feel like a success. When you get to be my age your successes pile up and nothing seems to surprise you anymore. You need to take losses just to let yourself know you’re alive. I don’t expect you to understand. But know this: Lately, I’ve been rejuvenated. With this suit I’ve been garnering respect and attention wherever I go.”

  “You see,” I said, “this is what fashion can do to you. This is its raison d’être. To make you feel good about yourself. When I hear this I know I’ve done my job.”

  “A confession, Boy. I suppose your artistic endeavors have been making me envious. To be so young and talented. You’re leading the life that I wanted to lead, once upon a time. The social constrictions of my upbringing prevented me from exploring my true fashionista. I was brought up a Muslim. Allah is great, Muhammad his prophet, haraam this, haraam that, praise Allah. Look at how the women still go around in hijab, covered up, unable to flaunt their tremendous beauty. What
a shame. Possibly the greatest shame of Islam. To be a fashion designer would never have been an option for me where I come from. Especially as a man. I’m not the first to call out the elephant in the room when I say it isn’t the most masculine of professions. And now, at my age, would you believe that I’m getting the sudden urge to dress myself up? To be shameless for once!”

  We drove through Williamsburg, where I knew I belonged. A safe haven for the artistic mind, where youth and fashion seemed both effortless and destructive. It was precious to me in that way.

  “Look at that bitch with the rainbow dreads,” Ahmed said, pointing out a pale, white, quasi-Rasta girl in a parka. “She’s tattooed her face!”

  “But you see, Ahmed, these are the people who set the trends for a good part of the world—the hipsters, the young, the transients. And that’s the edge my collection will exploit. It’s not necessarily beautiful. If anything, one might call her a freak. But what attitude! Am I right? She has so much attitude that you felt absolutely compelled to call her out on the street.”

  “It takes cojones to tattoo your face, I’ll give her that.”

  As we coasted down Metropolitan, an Englishwoman’s voice instructed us to turn right and then merge onto the BQE after two hundred yards. I can’t explain it, but everything on this night seemed to be happening with such absolute precision.

  True to her guidance, we rose onto the BQE.

  “I am beginning to see your vision, Boy. You’re very persuasive. I like that. As I said, I’ve been envious lately. Allow me to expand. I’ve linked this envy to two desires. I am envious of your talent—some of us can only be so lucky. The second is related to the fine suits you have made for me. I was once satisfied, but now I want more. Don’t get me wrong, the suits are perfect. But I crave a closet filled with suits of the finest quality. This is a very strange feeling for me. It’s like your former first lady with the shoes.”1

  “Ahmed, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. This is what keeps the industry going, don’t you see? We’re all hooked. It’s insatiable. Nothing is satisfactory, certainly not for the customer.”

  “Enough, Boy. You don’t have to sell anything to me. Our trust is like a beautiful flower. We both need to care for it. Oh, let it rain! Let our garden grow! You see my enthusiasm. It’s unwavering. And from the perspective of an investor, I know of no other industry with a five hundred percent markup on product. Well, besides oil. And we all know the Saudis have that cornered.”

  I didn’t know how to respond to this. “What do you mean?”

  “Do I have to spell it out for you? A‑B‑C‑D? I want to be in business, what else? I’m a fabric salesman, but there’s no honor in that. There’s no art.”

  Bronxville suddenly seemed as far away as Siberia.

  “We have trust, no? Trust is one‑on‑one. Otherwise it’s a cluster fuck.” He slammed his fist down on the dash. “I want to invest in your clothing line.”

  “Ahmed, start-ups are too much for a sole investor to take on.” I was thinking on my toes now, trying to stay one step ahead of this dubious benefactor. “First I need to move the operation into Williamsburg. Then I need to find cutters, people who can sew. I need a good publicist.”

  “Don’t bullshit me. What’s a start‑up? Sixty? Seventy thousand? So there are overheads. I talk to my accountant, Dick Levine. He handles all my finances. And I know landlords in Williamsburg who owe me. Converted warehouses. There’s one I already have in mind. A former toothpick factory.”

  I was beginning to think of Ahmed’s lies as just another occupational hazard. Models dieted. Writers drank. Athletes enhanced. And businessmen lied. I lowered my window.

  There is a distinct change in the atmosphere along the Major Deegan. A transition from stuffy Bronx air into the more temperate chill of lower Westchester. The wind numbed part of my face. For a flash I saw myself trailing along the Major Deegan, my essence removed from my body, soaring above the Zipcar. I was flying. I let the air fill my lungs.

  Then Ahmed swerved the car. “My God, did you see that pothole? It was bigger than you.”

  Maybe securing my financing this way was truly as foolish as I felt deep down at the time. But look at my position. Monday through Thursday I was selling my label to anyone who would listen, and no one was biting. Here was a guy who seemed genuinely excited about fashion. I didn’t see Ahmed as a sucker, someone I could dupe into financing my label. I saw him as someone who believed in what I was doing. All of the flattery aside, I thought he had recognized me for what I was, a talented designer. You might be shaking your heads, “Look, look at the nincompoop! Just like a jihadi, swayed by all the virgins he’s been promised in heaven.” I ask of you once again to put yourself in my size 7 shoes. My life depends on it! The prospect of me being his patsy never even entered my mind. Why would it?

  “We’d be in West Nyack if it weren’t for this GPS bitch,” Ahmed said. “She’s one hundred percent accurate. Entering Dodge in two point seven minutes. And look at the fuel gauge. The fucking needle hasn’t even moved! Did I tell you this gets great highway or what?”

  Once we hit campus, driving slowly along Kimball Avenue, I took in the pleasant offerings of a night in Bronxville. The smell of a wood-burning fire, the pock of tennis balls echoing off the courts even in November, the imposing Tudor buildings magnificently lit. Crisp fallen leaves, like cinnamon and dried flower petals, were being crushed under our tires.

  I directed Ahmed to drop me off in a faculty parking lot.

  “Fancy pantsy,” he said as he pulled in. “All this education shit costs a fortune. Your gelfriend, she comes from a rich family?”

  “I think so. To tell you the truth I don’t know much about them.”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “Never went to college myself. I started working at thirteen and I never looked back. I’m not a great artist like you, but I could always make money. Maybe that’s my talent.”

  Before I got out, we agreed to meet Monday morning, as soon as I was back in the city. We would further the details of our partnership.

  “Boy, know that I’d like to be a silent partner in all this. To be included in your business alone would be enough. I am not after your spotlight. Our trust can be a thing of beauty. Now, let’s get out and hug like two men who aren’t afraid of how it looks.”

  The way things have turned out for me here in No Man’s Land, it could be said that I used very poor judgment. In fact, maybe this whole confession so far makes me look like a complete dunce. But what is good judgment? Good is too often confused with morally sound. In business, morality is a hindrance. I’m just saying. It is at complete odds with the fashion industry. There’s no morality to it. Good judgment, in business, equals profit. In fashion, profit translates into fame. For all his contradictions, Ahmed did manage to convince me that he could make a profit. And I wanted to be famous.

  Yves Saint Laurent said it best: “I began uniquely for the fame.”

  Michelle lived in her own handicap room in Titsworth, a Tudor-style building bordering the commons. When I first broached the subject, she said that she’d been lucky: The college had a surplus of these rooms with not enough disabled students to fill them. One of the room’s amenities was a private bath with a large tub. I always thought the blue handicap symbol plastered to the outside of her bathroom door was typically ironic, a flourish she embellished by referring to it as the loo or the toilet or the powder room. She called all bathrooms everything but the bathroom. It was her way of acting desirable.

  She signed me in with the RA, and we retired to her room for a nap. She took off her knit sweater and I undid my shirt. We kissed for a while and then held each other in deep loving embraces on her single mattress.

  Lying on my back I told her about what had just transpired between me and Ahmed. “I can’t fucking believe it. I have the start‑up money.”

  “You think he’s for real?”

  “We just hugged on it in the parking lot.”

  “Uh! Yo
u’re so weird. I mean, are you sure he’s going to come through? It seems like a lot of money.”

  “With Ahmed, we have a special bond. I made him two suits, remember. This guy flipped over my work. I think I roped him. We’re meeting Monday.”

  “That’s so great, baby.” But there was hesitation in her voice. In the word “baby.”

  “What?” I said.

  “Nothing. It’s great.”

  “No, what?”

  “It just seems like a lot of money to get your hopes up. And this man…”

  “Ahmed.”

  “He’s your neighbor. He seems so strange. He doesn’t seem trustworthy. I mean, he just picked you up and drove you here? That’s so random.” This was another famous outlook of Michelle’s. According to her, everything seemed to happen at random, or with great irony. We were completely different in this respect, because as I just said, everything about this night had felt precise to me. As if predetermined.

  “We’re friends. He trusts me.”

  “And what was this car? He borrowed it. He doesn’t even own his own car?”

  “I told you, it was a Zipcar. It’s like a rental, but not.”

  “I can’t see how a man without a car, who has only met you a couple of times, is just going to hand you seventy thousand dollars. I’m sorry if I’m being a total pessimist, but I’m trying to protect you. This, this, Ahmed”— and here she stressed his Arabic name “has something else on his agenda. And it’s not to see you succeed. You said yourself, you thought he was a liar.”

  “He is a liar. I know this all sounds so crazy. But he has a compulsive disorder. Like ADD or something.”

  Michelle slapped me across the face. It was the first of her many violent outbursts. “Uh! Have some sense. Don’t you mean OCD? I swear, you have the intelligence of a sixth-grader.”

  “God, why would you hit me? That fucking hurt. Right, ‘OCD.’ What the fuck?”