Christ, Ben was born into this world just as we all are—with no say in his damned name. And he would help me make mine.
Philip opened his own boutique in the summer of 2003 at the intersection of Howard and Crosby—the crossroads of Chinatown and downtown chic. Opening Ceremony, Rogan, Chinese teashop, bad dim sum, and then Philip Tang 2.0. Philip had just been awarded best new designer in women’s wear by the CFDA, beating out Zac Posen, who came in second. They gave Philip one hundred thousand dollars for his promise. Me, a familiar face from Manila and a close personal friend, I got to share in Philip’s success. I spent the rest of that year helping him with his seminal fall/winter and spring ’04 collections. I sat front row at the shows with Ben, Vivienne, Rudy Cohn, and even Chloë. I was introduced to editors and buyers alike as Ben toted me around on his arm like a trophy lay, displaying me throughout the tents in Bryant Park, the after parties at Hiro and Masquerade. It had been a year since my stroll down Forty-second Street had brought me face‑to‑face with menu man, my doppelgänger, in front of the Sovereign Diner. How it could have gone that way for me! I owe all I owe to myself, because I was not going to let it happen. I was not going to be a walking menu! And now I had Ben and a whole crew of important people who would shepherd me away from all that darkness.
I was also consistently working on my line in preparation for the (B)oy launch scheduled for the following winter. We were planning a small runway show for February during fashion week. Ben would make sure all of the right people showed, and after, depending on whether anything sold (which was unlikely for a first collection, even I knew that), I’d adapt whatever worked best into a line of knitwear that I could sell out of consignment shops. There was indeed a market for handmade clothing by new designers on a small scale. One couldn’t make a living off of it, but it was a way to get some notice. And if an editor was putting together a story on rising New York designers, particularly Brooklyn designers, Ben would make sure I got in.
Throughout the year Ahmed stopped by the studio intermittently to check in on his investment, or his “garden,” as he put it. “Look at all of these clothes! How our garden does grow! Didn’t I pin the tack on the camel’s ass? You and me together will take over the world!”
But more often than not he would disappear for long periods of time, sometimes weeks. I never really knew where he went off to. One day he’d stop by for a look at the collection; the next he’d be in Moscow or Marrakesh. Yes, it’s true. Michelle always hassled me about whether I thought I could trust him. But she hassled me about everything, and I honestly didn’t think I was in a position to question Ahmed’s trust. I mean, he was funding my label entirely. He had set me up in Williamsburg in the toothpick factory. It was Ahmed who should have been worried about trusting me. I could have run off with his investment.
Plus, it wasn’t like I’d been completely relying on Ahmed’s payments, anyway. I had plenty of money coming in from my work on Philip’s line, combined with filling in some days at his new boutique on Howard, as well as the odd job for Vivienne Cho.
But as 2004 approached, and Ben and I started scouting locations for our first runway show, I was suddenly in need of capital I didn’t have. And of course the one time I desperately needed Ahmed, he decided to take off for an entire month, only to reappear at my doorstep one January morning straight from JFK.
“Where have you been?” I said. “I’ve been trying to get ahold of you.”
“Russia. Scouting mission with modern-day Cossacks. It’s another business venture. I’ll tell you all about it if and when it pans out.”
“We need to put a large down payment on a space for the fashion show,” I told him. “Somewhere near Seventh Avenue.”
“Talk to Dick. What’s the problem?”
“I did talk to Dick. He has me on a spending freeze.”
“Why?”
“You tell me. This is a crucial point in our business. If we don’t have a show we have nothing. We have a collection that doesn’t get seen. Tell me, what good is that?”
“Boy, not a problem. We call Dick now. We figure it out. And stop giving me that look.”
“What look?”
“Like you need to crap.”
Immediately, we got Dick Levine, CPA, on speaker. It was over my cell phone, so the speaker volume was a little weak. Ahmed and I had to lean into each other, our heads turned at a most uncomfortable angle.
“Dick?” said Ahmed. “It’s Ami, beby. I’m here with Boy Hernandez, our designer.”
“Don’t beby me,” said Dick. “I knew this was coming. You ratted me out, huh Boychik? You little snake. As if this is all my fault.”
“Easy, Dick. What’s the problem with the account?”
“What’s the problem? I’ll tell you the problem. It’s dry. We’ve run dry. Boy has been spending like it’s going out of style. No pun intended.”
This was a gross exaggeration.
Ahmed turned to me. “Boy, is this true? What Dick says—”
“I had to hire a publicist. A good one. Ben Laden.”
“Who?”
“Christ O mighty,” said Dick.
“Ben Laden. There’s no relation. He’s the best publicist in town. We’re getting all sorts of good press because of him.”
“Dick, you heard Boy. He had to hire a publicist. This Bin Laden.”
“I heard. Way to go. Bin Laden. We’ll all end up in federal prison by mere association. I can see it now. Dolce, Gabanna, and Levine indicted on tax fraud and conspiring to commit acts of terror. Listen, I’m just telling you two how it is. We’ve run out of money.”
“How?” I pressed him.
“How? He asks how. How should I know? You don’t keep receipts. We’ve been an all-cash operation so far, so who’s keeping track of where the money’s going. Not me. Boy, I’ve said it before. You have to be vigilant about keeping receipts. Vigilant.”
“Vigilant, Boy,” repeated Ahmed, who had once called receipts reeshmeets just to mock me.
“Okay,” I said. “But both of you have been giving me mixed signals.”
Dick continued: “You’re my only two clients—who may or may not be legal residents—schlepping pricey product in a very public sphere. Before you two Versaces steer us through the fog into that very big iceberg up ahead, I’m putting a cap on all spending.”
“Ah, so there is money left. You see Boy, he’s good at what he does.”
“Oh no, we’re definitely in the red,” said Dick. “I wasn’t kidding about that.”
“Hmm, Boy here says we need to put a down payment on a space for the fashion show.”
“Somewhere downtown,” I added.
“Well then, we’ll need a loan. I can do the paperwork if that’s what you want to do.”
“Hold on that, Dick. Let me talk to Hajji first. I think I can get one without going through the banks.”
This was the first mention of Hajji, a man who would come to plague me in my final days before the Overwhelming Event. Had I known what I was getting into then, maybe things could have worked out differently. Damn these known unknowns.
“Ahmed, let me say this. If I don’t know where the money is coming from, we’ll be entering some very scary territory,” Dick said. And he was right. I suddenly thought of my auntie Baby,
the moneylender, who was murdered in her hotel room at the Shangri‑la.
“It’s Hajji, beby. You know Hajji.”
“The Indian gangster?”
“He’s a businessman.”
“God help us. Just call me back when you figure out what you want me to do. Maybe the less I know the better. They can’t flip me if I don’t know anything.”
“Beby, cool your jets. It’ll all work out. If it doesn’t we’ll think of something.”
“Like one-way tickets to Venezuela.”
“He’s such a kidder this guy. You’re such a kidder, Dick. Ciao, huh.”
Expecting a reprimand, I quickly tried to explain myself to Ahmed. But
he wouldn’t hear me out. “Zip! ‘Am I my brother’s keeper?’ as Cain once said to Abel.1 Money shan’t ever come between us. This is why we have Dick, accountant nonpareil. We’re a legitimate business company now, Boyo. I’ll talk to Hajji.”
“This Indian gangster?”
“Listen, I was borrowing money from Hajji when you were still feeding from Mama’s teat.”
Without fail Ahmed always got the last word, dropping such bestial metaphors from philosophical heights. He could go from French jargon and biblical tales to tits and ass in two seconds flat. Tolerating him was at times incredibly difficult. Though it would be nothing in comparison to what I’ve had to tolerate here in No Man’s Land. I’ve never spent so much time with other men, and it becomes increasingly testing. Tolerance? Ha! I knew nothing about what I could or couldn’t tolerate. Which leads me to mention that my circumstances here grow more absurd and inhumane by the day.
For instance, yesterday—Columbus Day, in fact—they took away our plastic water bottles. We each get a plastic water bottle in No Man’s Land, and as punishment, they were taken away from us. All because one of the men on the block tried to eat his during the night. The man crumpled the bottle up and then began to chew. Of course, it’s a piece of plastic, so he didn’t get anywhere by chewing alone. Assisted swallowing is what the guards are calling it, I believe. Meaning once the man determined he couldn’t swallow the bottle by means of chewing, he used his hands to force it down the hatch. Though he didn’t manage to eat all of it. It was early morning when we were woken up by the medics and guards rushing to his cell. He was taken out before the morning prayer. I caught a glimpse of him convulsing on the stretcher as they took him out, the bottle already removed from his mouth. Blood spatter covered his shirt and face. So much that it looked as if he had slit his own throat.
Because of yesterday’s incident with the water bottle, everyone on the block suffers. No more plastic. They’ve switched us to Styrofoam cups, which Win tells me is what they used in No Man’s Land at the beginning.
Me, I couldn’t care one way or the other what I drink my water out of. But the others reacted very badly to the Styrofoam. Today, as the guards administered the new cups, one per cell, the prisoners started up a protest by cursing and spitting. It was a synchronized protest, everyone at once. I am used to their outbursts by now. I have been its target in the prison yard, remember. But this time, when the guards told them to quiet down, they resisted, and continued to act like a bunch of animals. Each prisoner did a fine job of contributing to the overall chaos, banging his cell door, kicking and screaming, throwing piss at the guards with the new Styrofoam cups. I could make out Riad’s voice at the other end of the block. He was carrying on just like the others. Cursing, not in his British voice but in the voice he used when he spoke Arabic. The guards put on face protectors to shield themselves from the urine being hurled into the corridor. I tell you, it was madness. There was a brief second when I thought the prisoners were really going to take control of the cell block, that somehow they had the power to get out of their cells and overtake the guards.
What happens to the animals in their cages when they become unruly?
The SMERF2 squad is called in to sedate them. The SMERF squad is composed of four guards in black riot gear, and they come marching through the corridor, one behind the other, at a slow, intimidating pace. One, two, three, four. The first soldier carries a shield, and the others have various contraptions: shackles, cuffs, clubs, pepper spray, etc. They tell each prisoner individually to stand down. The prisoner does not listen, of course. In fact, at the sight of the SMERF squad most everyone goes ape shit. So the SMERFs proceed to enter the cell while the prisoner stands at the back of his cage. First he gets doused with pepper spray. Then he is rammed with the shield. All the SMERFs hold him down while he is shackled, and if the prisoner resists he is met with a series of non-injurious acts (clubs, fists, boot heels, etc.). Once the SMERFs have the prisoner sedated, they drag him out by his feet, sometimes facedown. It is a most violent display of authority, but completely necessary, especially when the prisoners carry on as they have been today.
Oh, if I could only transport myself back to my first show in New York, moments before curtain! February 10, 2004, a Tuesday. Each model backstage standing at attention, perched in dress. Olya, Anya, Dasha, Kasha, Masha, Vajda, Marijka, Irina, Katrina, etc. Anya in silk organza, Vajda in a lilac taffeta, and Olya, dear Olya, running around topless with sequin pasties! To see this again would give me the most fulfillment. All of my girls did the show for free as a favor to me, though I made sure I paid them in trade after the trunk show. Always return a favor. Ahmed taught me that. When the loan came through from Hajji, Ahmed shipped him a case of scotch, Black Label.
My first collection, Transparent Things, was composed of a modest twelve looks. Striped evening dress in black and gray-asparagus. Ultrashort bloomer skirt in gray silk organza. White tucked schoolmarm blouse. Sequin cocktail dress in seaweed with matching mittens and skullcap. Transparent black lace burka over sparkling G‑string and matching pasties. Black silk crêpe cocktail dress with velvet turban. Unstructured pantsuit in floral black lace atop silk blouse. Bias-cut dress in black lace with embroidered web overlay. Bustier sheath dress in lilac taffeta. White A‑line skirt in thick nylon sailcloth. Stretchy gabardine skirt, dyed seaweed. Evening dress, double-layered pink organza. I used the faintest splash of color when I could, an occasional pink or yellow atop a controversial black or antiseptic white. Because fashion, as Chanel once said, is both caterpillar and butterfly.
In the audience were a few minor editors low on the totem pole; Binky Pakrow for Neiman Marcus and Chester Pittman for Barneys were the only two buyers maybe worth naming. Chester was a Telly Savalas look-alike, a real fatso with a penchant for handsome young boys. He once tried to bed me after a lunch meeting at the Thompson Hotel, promising a room he’d booked upstairs with a bottle of Dom Pérignon on ice. Getting my clothes into Barneys could have been that easy, but I wasn’t willing to whore myself beneath the folds of Chester Pittman.3
In the front row was Gil Johannessen for Women’s Wear Daily. He was sandwiched between Natalie Portman and one of the members of The Strokes.4
Ben was there, of course. So were Philip, Rudy Cohn, Dreama Van der Sheek, Ester Braum of Pho(2). Most of my friends from Williamsburg came to fill out the seats and support the label. Musicians and artists and models. I had rented a dance studio, and the mirrors on both sides gave the show a crowded importance. The guys from the design-build collective at the toothpick factory cut me a deal and built us a runway.
Michelle came, all alone, since I had been preparing for most of the day. She looked adorable in a Jill Stuart dress I had given her on her birthday. I sat her up front next to Ben, away from
Rudy, with whom I had begun a working relationship filled with not‑so‑innocent flirtations. I knew it would only be a matter of time before we became lovers. Our advancements in friendship, the constant making of plans so as not to leave our next run‑in to chance, confirmed my suspicions. After being in Rudy’s presence, off I would go, my hyperactive imagination working. I dreamed of kissing her flagrant lips and then having them wrapped around my anaconda while I moved on to kissing her other fragrant lips.
Ahmed turned up backstage to wish me luck on his way out of town.
“Cover up, gels,” he said. “Grandpa coming through. Boy, there you are! Look at these clothes! We’re really making waves in the garment business. Anywho, as this is our first fashion show together, I wanted to wish you much success with tonight’s big event. As they say in our adopted country: break a leg. Break ’em both. It just so happens I have business tonight out by the airport and I won’t be staying. But I see that you have everything under control.”
“But Ahmed?”
“I know, I know. I’ll make it up to you, Boy. Ciao, huh?”
“I can’t even be mad right now I’m so nervous.”
Olya came over
and kissed Ahmed hello. She was wearing only the sequin pasties over her nipples and a matching G‑string. Both were to be visible through the transparent burka.
“Darling, you are beautiful as the day is long.”
“Ahmed, why don’t you call me like I ask?” she pouted.
“My dear, I wouldn’t last a minute with you. You know that. You’ll kill me in a heartbeat.” He tapped his chest.
“Olya, where is your top? And why aren’t you in makeup?”
“Boy, I’m wearing a burka with a veil over my face. God, reelax. I go to makeup now.”
“Yeah relax, Boy.” Ahmed winked. “I will see that Olya finds her top. Come, dear. Show me.”
She took his arm and Ahmed escorted her over to makeup where most of the girls were getting their faces powdered stark white.
I peeked through the curtain and the house was filling up. But there were still more people backstage than there were out front. I had called on all of my friends to help with the show, and the downside of this was that my friends invited their friends, and so everyone was hanging out backstage. Sure, it was festive and exciting but we were running thirty minutes behind.
“Listen,” I announced, “if you’re not working get the fuck out of here! I’m sorry to be an ass, it’s just too confusing. Ahmed? Where is he? Ahmed?”
The line manager began the curtain call. “Dasha, Kasha, Masha…”
“Where is Ahmed?”
“Anya, Olya…Olya…”
“What? I’m coming,” she said, running to the curtain in the burka and a light veil over her face, deep red lipstick perfect and visible. The girls lined up in order. “Vajda, Marijka, Irina, Katrina…” The room began to clear. Olya parted her veil, leaned over, and gave me a big kiss. I looked around again but there was no sign of Ahmed. He had vanished. In his place: a panoply of (B)oy-clad nymphs and goddesses.
From the Memoirs of a Non-Enemy Combatant: A Novel Page 14