by Babe Walker
“You know what we should do?!” I shouted.
“Drive to Vegas and get married?”
“Duh! And then we should take the bus home! I’ve always wanted to ride on the bus, ever since I saw that Keanu movie! I fucking love Keanu! Let’s get married and have Keanu officiate!!!” I was scream-laughing. “Will the bus take us to your place?!”
I was really able to let my hair down around Cam. He just made me feel so comfortable. That was our thing; we loved each other for who we were. I was realizing now more than ever that the key to a good relationship is acceptance.
We slept at his place that night, but nothing really happened because I was too busy trying to find the sea animals that were swimming in my hands and talking about how I was the founding member of the Illuminati. The next morning, I woke up to the sound of a shower running. I had no idea where I was for a second. Cameron’s room. It was so fucking chic for a guy. Minimal. Exposed brick painted white. A well-curated wall of black-and-white photographs. Understated and delightful. Then I heard his voice from the bathroom.
“Yo, Babe. I’m in here. Come take a shower?”
Without saying a word, I slipped out of my underwear and sauntered to the open bathroom door. “Okay,” I said to myself. “He’s gonna see you naked. He’s gonna love it. Your thighs are in perfectly respectable shape. Just do it.” I threw my hair around a little bit and walked in.
There, standing in the shower, was someone who looked exactly like Cam in the face but had boobs, and a vagina. And by boobs and a vagina, I mean tits and a pussy. Cameron was a girl. I stood and stared at Cam for about a minute. She was staring at me too, confused. It was awkward.
“So . . . you’re not a boy?” I asked.
“Is that a joke?”
“Yep.”
Silence.
“Are you coming in?” she said.
“Hmm. I’m going through a lot right now. It’s kinda dark for me. I’m gonna go. Great vagina.”
I turned around, grabbed my shit, got dressed in the hallway, and called a cab. I felt bad about leaving Cameron in the shower, and I wanted to want to get in, but I just couldn’t. I texted her from the cab:
Babe 10:39AM:
Hey it’s Babe (from earlier). I didn’t mean to leave you standing there, naked.
Babe 10:40AM:
But I was expecting you to have a penis. My bad.
Babe 10:40AM:
You couldn’t have been cooler about it.
Babe 10:41AM:
You’re such a sweetheart.
Babe 10:42AM:
I’m excited for us to be friends now!
Babe 10:50AM:
Your apartment is so chic. xxB
Cameron 10:51AM:
Ok . . .
Not the most graceful of breakups, but I had to follow my heart.
A lot of drugging and drinking had happened that weekend, but still . . . how could I have missed the fact that Cameron was biologically female? If you were to ask me now if I was gay, my answer would be no, but sometimes, as evidenced by my weekend with Cameron, it’s unclear. I mean, Cam was an amazing kisser and I was super-turned-on by her, but I couldn’t see myself fully committing to a guy that didn’t have a penis. I didn’t know what to think.
I bottomed out at Barneys.
In times of need and confusion, I almost always take myself to Barneys to collect my thoughts with a healthy dose of retail therapeutics. Some people turn to drugs, others turn to drinking, I turn to Barneys.
Fred Pressman, son of Barney Pressman, founder of Barneys, is quoted as saying, “The best value you can offer a customer is personal attention to every detail, and they will return again and again. Ultimately, the customer cares the most about how he or she is treated.”
So true. Unless your life is a serious shit show like mine was on this fateful day that changed my life forever—or for at least twenty-eight days.
Having the panic attack to end all panic attacks and ultimately bottoming out at Barneys was not entirely my fault. My life hadn’t exactly been a breeze leading up to my demise. The American workforce hated me, I hadn’t found a trainer who could give me the same results as Anthony, my therapist had just betrayed me by falling asleep during a really important session, I was on the sixth day of a text war with Genevieve, Roman was in “love,” Mabinty had been on vacation all week, and my new boyfriend had turned out to be a girl. I couldn’t trust anyone. And then I got a text message that sent me over the edge.
Unknown Number 9:36AM:
Hi B. Been a while. Made your famous kale smoothie last night. Hope you’re well.
Unknown Number 9:37AM:
This is Robert, btw.
What a total mindfuck. I never thought I’d hear from Robert again after we broke up. Did he not remember how I’d completely botched our relationship? Did he not remember the part where I got a tattoo of his dad’s name? Or the fake pregnancy I made him endure? Was he trying to destroy me as payback? I didn’t know what to think, but true love is strong, so, after carefully weighing all the options, I decided Robert must be coming to LA, in an attempt to win me back.
Oh my God, I thought. He’s making kale smoothies? He’s texting me? He must be coming to LA. Oh, he’s for sure coming to LA! He’s probably going to call me and arrange a romantic dinner this weekend at a chic restaurant. I wonder what hotel he’s staying at? Hopefully Sunset Tower. I need something to wear. Goddammit, Robert, you are so tricky. I love you for that.
The morning hours at Barneys are the cleanest, the body traffic is at its lowest point in the day, and the store’s energy is positive because the snappy employees on the makeup floor aren’t depressed yet (that happens at about 3 P.M.). So I got there at 11 A.M., ready to find the perfect outfit and ready to drink a Valium martini for my nerves. The sun was pouring into the store, making everything look shiny and beautiful, yet I still felt a cloud of pressure and angst about my looming weekend with Robert.
I beelined to the second floor (Women’s Ready-to-Wear) breathing heavily and trying to remind myself that I would soon be in a better place. “Just get there, Babe,” I was whispering under my breath. A little mantra, if you will. I got to the top of the stairs and stood there for a moment with my eyes shut tightly, concentrating. Sometimes I allow my inner compass to direct my body toward the right designer. I walked with my eyes closed, hands sticking straight out, allowing myself to be drawn by magnetic force to the rack that called to me. After knocking over a mannequin and accidentally punching someone in her fake boobs, my intuition said to stop. Stella McCartney!
I wrapped my arms around the entire rack of clothing, squeezed everything together into one big bunch, and lifted the entire collection off of the rack, turning around to call for assistance.
“Melania?!” She’s my girl at Barneys.
No response. I tried again, which made me nervous because Melania’s always right there when I need her.
“Melani— uh . . .” That’s when I noticed that out of thin air had popped a strange girl with some kind of braids thing happening in her hair, standing right next to me. She smelled like the Bath & Body Works oatmeal soap that she’d probably used as face wash that morning, and the whole thing was very unclear to me.
“May I help you?” I said to it.
“May I help you? I’m Kelly. Can I start a fitting room for you?” it said to me, smiling.
“Hi, Keely. I’m in a pretty serious situation here, I’m not trusting people right now, and I’m afraid that you’re about to tell me that Melania isn’t here today. If that is, in fact, what you’re about to tell me, please just blink twice instead of actually saying the words. I will lose control, drop these clothes, and slap you if you say those words out loud.”
One blink. Two blinks.
For fuck’s sake. What had I done to make the universe so pissed at me? I dropped the pile of clothes on the floor and walked away, pulling my phone out of my bag. I called Robert.
“Hello?” he said. I miss
ed his manly voice.
“Hey Rob, it’s me. I’m having a piece-of-shit day—piece-of-shit week and month actually. I’m so glad you’re reconsidering us. I know you’re probably trying to surprise me by showing up in LA this weekend, but I’m kind of psychic, so I figured out your plan. Let’s try this new raw place on Larchmont when you’re here? I know you hate raw, but—”
“Whoa, whoa. Babe. I’m not coming to LA. What are you talking about?”
“What are you talking about? You fucking texted me!” I yelled into the phone.
“Yeah, to say hi.”
“Exactly!”
“Didn’t mean anything by it, just a simple hello.”
“NO! NO, no, no, Roberrrrrrrt!?” I screamed, before hanging up on him and throwing my phone back in my bag. People in the store were staring at me like I was some kind of a psycho, but they had no fucking clue that I was going through the worst breakup of my life, for the second time.
I marched back over to Keely. “Hi, Keely. Don’t look so scared, it smushes your forehead. Okay. What’s going to happen now is that I’m going to calmly collect myself by taking five sips of kombucha and tapping my third eye twenty-one times. Then I’m going to slowly walk over to the dressing rooms, where I’d like to find a comprehensive array of chicness waiting for me. I’m talking shoes, accessories, and prêt-à-porter. These are my needs. I just really have to buy something right now, you understand.”
“No problem,” she responded quickly. “Also, my name’s not Keely, it’s Kell—You know what? Never mind.” And she scurried away.
The dressing room was full of hanging clothes by the time I got in there. The shoes were lined up in ascending heel heights, and the accessories were coordinated by color. Keely must have read my mood, because the garments were telling a murky story about a girl on the edge. She was smarter than she looked. I rifled through everything like an animal, trying things on and throwing them to the ground.
I didn’t allow Keely into my dressing room, because I was vulnerable, and she was not to be trusted with my emotions. Plus I was ashamed of the huge mess I was making. I usually re-hang everything as soon as it’s been given a test run, but that day I was moving through the outfits so fast that everything ended up on the floor. Complete loss of control. I was a murderess.
“Keely!” I called out. “This stuff is great. I think I’m going to take some of it.”
“Great. Which items?” she asked.
I was fiending, and I refused to let any of the garments out of my sight, so I’d bitten off the price tags to give to Keely, bless her little soul. I slid two handfuls of price tags under the door.
“These items. You can charge them to my account.”
Over the next hour, if I tried something on and I liked it, I’d bite the price tag off and slide it under the door to Keely, who’d charge it to my account. I bought fourteen sweaters, thirteen pairs of black jeans, twelve going-out tops, eleven long skirts, ten day dresses, ten pairs of sunglasses for driving, ten pairs of sunglasses for walking, ten pairs of platforms, ten T-shirts, nine pairs of flats, eight blouses, seven formal gowns, six short skirts, five pairs of sandals, five necklaces, five bracelets, five rings, four pairs of day trousers, four blazers, three pairs of stilettos, two pairs of wedges, two motorcycle jackets, one fur jacket, and a pair of socks.
Normally I am able to maintain some semblance of composure when shopping, but today I was a ravenous she-beast. I couldn’t stop spending. After six hours of trying clothes on, Keely passed my receipt under the door for me to sign: $246,893.50
“Fuck,” I whispered to myself. My breath was short and my vision was getting hazy. I started panting. I looked at myself in the mirror, only to see a zombie-faced girl with bloodshot eyes and wild hair staring back at me. She was all alone, in a dressing room at Barneys, and she was one pound overweight. I threw a studded Louboutin at the mirror and collapsed.
I must have passed out, because I woke up to loud knocking on the door and Keely asking, “Babe? Are you okay in there?”
I sat up, looked around, took in the scenario, and realized that the dressing room was destroyed. The mirror was broken and the floor was covered in clothes, shoes, and purses. Not an inch of carpet was visible. I was lying amidst a knee-high melange of the fall’s finest pieces. I had written “I LOVE HIM” in red lipstick on the wall. I noticed an indentation in the middle of the mess where I’d been lying. And then it hit me. My eyes filled with tears. I’d been nesting at Barneys. I was horrified. I had never nested anywhere besides my own closet after a bender. How did it come to this? Who was I? My shopping had spun out of control.
“This has got to stop!” I wailed.
I looked up at Keely standing by the now open dressing room door with a key in her hand.
“Oh my God,” she said under her breath. For a split second, I could see the terror in her eyes, and then it was gone as quickly as it came. She handed me a Pellegrino. “Honey, it’s okay. Here. Drink.” I took three large gulps and collapsed again, sobbing in the center of my nest. This is the end of the road, I thought. Tears poured down my cheeks as I began digging a hole in the pile. I was going to burrow, and then die. As I was furiously digging, I found a giant Balenciaga bracelet in black lambskin with rose gold hardware. I held it in my quivering hands and softly whispered the four words that you never want to have to say to your Balenciaga.
“I can’t quit you.”
Rock Bottom, meet Babe Walker.
I turned to Keely, who was now on her knees rubbing my back. “I think I have a serious problem,” I said, tears streaming down my face. “I should probably go to rehab, right?”
“Or . . . you could return all the stuff you just bought?”
“No. I don’t think so. I really love all of it, like, really love it. It’s too late for me. I need rehab. I need to go to Cirque Lodge. In Utah. Now.”
Without missing a beat, Keely wiped my tears with a $3,000 Mary Katrantzou dress, jumped to her feet, and was immediately on the phone with Cirque Lodge arranging my transportation and check-in. I was in the presence of an angel. We went through my purchases and selected the perfect wardrobe for my time in Utah. I decided on three pairs of sensible Lanvin flats, an array of chunky Prada knits, and an Isabel Marant rainbow fur. Rehab was starting to look super-cozy, and super-fun. I felt so much better already.
On the way out of the store, I said something to Keely that I’d never said to any employee of any establishment in my entire twenty-three years.
“I fucking love you.”
“I fucking love you too,” she replied.
“What’s your name again?” I said, looking at her face for the first time. She was a perfect mix of beautiful and plain.
“It’s Kelly.”
“Oh right. I knew that,” I said. “Keely, you will be my new personal shopper/fashion sherpa. See you on the other side, I’ll send you a postcard. P.S. you have the nose of a Disney princess.”
“No, you do.”
“Shut up. Thanks. You’re the best,” I said, walking away.
“Oh, and Babe? You still want me to wrap up the rest of your purchases and send them to your home address, right?”
“Duh. Of course I do, you little muffin.”
We air kissed and I climbed into the waiting black Escalade that Keely had waiting for me. “This is gonna suck,” I said to the driver. “Do you have any blow?”
“Sure do,” he said. And off we drove into the rest of my life.
I surrender, aka excerpts from my rehab diary.
Day 1
I’m on my bed, sitting across the room from another bed, which I guess means that I have a roommate? Unclear. Don’t really know anything about her yet. She seems to be a minimalist though. Nothing on the walls above her bed. No books. No photos. Who are you, roommate? Are you my age? I don’t especially like girls my age, so I really hope not. Will I be able to heal properly if I don’t have personal space? These people have got me all wrong if they thin
k I can share a sink with someone for an entire month. The last time someone tried to give me a roommate, I turned right around and walked to the next available university, but the closest rehab facility is over five hundred miles away, so that’s definitely not an option today.
Wait. There’s a Birkin hanging off of my roommate’s bedpost. Black with silver hardware, beat to shit. Are those tire marks? Scars of a life thoroughly lived? I fucking love my brilliant and chic new roommate! But when will we meet?
Hey, I’m back. I just had to pee ’cause I was so excited. So, okay, while I was peeing I noticed that the maids hadn’t folded the toilet paper into a triangle at the end, and there was a dead moth on the floor of the shower. Now I’m looking around and coming to terms with the fact that Cirque Lodge isn’t exactly the wintry vacation scenario I was hoping for. I mean, the girl at reception was wearing a scrunchie, and the room I’m in is bare, not super-cozy like I had expected. Also, Cirque is mainly for drug and alcohol addicts, so I’m hoping that my new rehab friends will accept me for being the odd girl out. My spending addiction is way more interesting than any of their addictions, so they’ll probably look up to me for being unique. I’m usually a hit when it comes to meeting new people.
Earlier today I had a meeting with some hippie named Jackson who told me that treatment should not be seen as a punishment, but rather a positive experience. Um . . . okay? This is rehab, not The Grove. I want to change my life. Not like, become a different person or anything, but I want to be open to the right suggestions that I need to take, or whatever. This is my moment to finally build a relationship with myself, a loving relationship. I’m standing on the snowcapped mountain of my life, and the horizon looks beautiful. I don’t know, I just copied most of that from one of the pamphlets they gave me. I’m on a lot of Ativan right now.