Over and Over
Oh man. We're in reruns now, dear blahg. Last night, I had about an hour to kill before my friends’ show at Pianos, so I ended up wandering into a little boutique on Orchard Street. I had just stepped through the door when I was greeted by a tall, lean fellow with golden locks.
“You special. Give good vibes. What’s your sign? Libra? Aquarius? Taurus? Scorpio? Capricorn?”
“No,” I tell him, “Pisces.”
“I was about to guess that! I could tell. You’re such a Pisces. Beautiful. You’re beautiful. Find something in my store; you must have something as beautiful as you are.”
I began looking around the store, which features off kilter garments from independent designers based out of LA and New York and wherever. Among the t-shirts held together by safety pins, puff painted tank tops and dresses festooned with rhinestones, I selected the most conservative item in the store: a light grey, wrap-around skirt that gathers at the bottom, with only the slightest hint of ruffles, and a small slit up the side.
“Oh yes! Perfect for you! You must try it on right away. With these t-shirts made by my friend, Julie. Perfect for you. Try it on right now. Wait, are you carrying a Marc Jacobs?”
“No!”
“Good. Marc Jacobs is shit. All these Marc Jacobs whores come into my store and I’m sick of them!”
I went behind the curtain of the dressing room and emerged two minutes later wearing the skirt. It was only then that I noticed the price tag. For somebody who hates Marc Jacobs, this retailer has no problem with selling items at Marc Jacobs’s prices. Oh well, there's no harm in playing a round of dress up.
“That skirt is you. You are the skirt. You must take that skirt right away.”
“Yeah, I like it, but it’s a little far out of my price range. Thanks anyway, I love your store.”
“NO! Forget the price. You need that skirt.”
I looked in the mirror. He was right, I do need that skirt. I started rationalizing spending the money: if I didn’t eat for the next two months, maybe found a second job, yes! that skirt would be mine. Also, if I owned that skirt, I'd never have to buy another article of clothing ever again. It’s so versatile and timeless, that I could dress it up or down to suit any event and, eventually, would pass it on to my great grandchildren.
“What you do for a living?” he asked me as he fooled around with the tie, shifting the skirt into a dress.
“I work in publishing.”
“No! You too beautiful for publishing. But maybe you look at my poetry manuscript, tell me what you think?”
“Sure, you should e-mail it to me sometime; I’d love to take a look at it.”
Next thing I know, a manuscript is being shoved into my face – New York, My Whore, by Apollo Braun. Turns out that Apollo, who moved here five years ago from Israel, has been looking for an editor; turns out that Apollo has a deal for me: in exchange for editing his poetry manuscript, he will not only give me a large discount on the skirt, but also a free purse, store credit, and a credit in his book. Oh, and pay me $8/hour for my time. And take me out to dinner with his boyfriend.
Now how could I possibly turn all of that down?
Instead of shaking on our new deal, Apollo embraced me in a three-minute hug. He told me all kinds of things; how he loves me, how he’s not cheap with his love--true, he loves everybody, but only to varying degrees--how we will be lifelong friends, how special I am.
And then he directed me towards his computer and told me to get to work. I looked more closely at the manuscript. Not only is it 300 pages long, but it’s also rife with errors in form, more specifically, the line breaks are totally off and every single one needs adjusting. This will not be easy. But I will do it for my new friend and, mainly, because I need that skirt.
Apollo thinks this is fate: that I happened to walk into his store at the very time he was looking for an editor. I disagree. No, this is just the way my life unfolds.
“You special. Give good vibes. What’s your sign? Libra? Aquarius? Taurus? Scorpio? Capricorn?”
“No,” I tell him, “Pisces.”
“I was about to guess that! I could tell. You’re such a Pisces. Beautiful. You’re beautiful. Find something in my store; you must have something as beautiful as you are.”
I began looking around the store, which features off kilter garments from independent designers based out of LA and New York and wherever. Among the t-shirts held together by safety pins, puff painted tank tops and dresses festooned with rhinestones, I selected the most conservative item in the store: a light grey, wrap-around skirt that gathers at the bottom, with only the slightest hint of ruffles, and a small slit up the side.
“Oh yes! Perfect for you! You must try it on right away. With these t-shirts made by my friend, Julie. Perfect for you. Try it on right now. Wait, are you carrying a Marc Jacobs?”
“No!”
“Good. Marc Jacobs is shit. All these Marc Jacobs whores come into my store and I’m sick of them!”
I went behind the curtain of the dressing room and emerged two minutes later wearing the skirt. It was only then that I noticed the price tag. For somebody who hates Marc Jacobs, this retailer has no problem with selling items at Marc Jacobs’s prices. Oh well, there's no harm in playing a round of dress up.
“That skirt is you. You are the skirt. You must take that skirt right away.”
“Yeah, I like it, but it’s a little far out of my price range. Thanks anyway, I love your store.”
“NO! Forget the price. You need that skirt.”
I looked in the mirror. He was right, I do need that skirt. I started rationalizing spending the money: if I didn’t eat for the next two months, maybe found a second job, yes! that skirt would be mine. Also, if I owned that skirt, I'd never have to buy another article of clothing ever again. It’s so versatile and timeless, that I could dress it up or down to suit any event and, eventually, would pass it on to my great grandchildren.
“What you do for a living?” he asked me as he fooled around with the tie, shifting the skirt into a dress.
“I work in publishing.”
“No! You too beautiful for publishing. But maybe you look at my poetry manuscript, tell me what you think?”
“Sure, you should e-mail it to me sometime; I’d love to take a look at it.”
Next thing I know, a manuscript is being shoved into my face – New York, My Whore, by Apollo Braun. Turns out that Apollo, who moved here five years ago from Israel, has been looking for an editor; turns out that Apollo has a deal for me: in exchange for editing his poetry manuscript, he will not only give me a large discount on the skirt, but also a free purse, store credit, and a credit in his book. Oh, and pay me $8/hour for my time. And take me out to dinner with his boyfriend.
Now how could I possibly turn all of that down?
Instead of shaking on our new deal, Apollo embraced me in a three-minute hug. He told me all kinds of things; how he loves me, how he’s not cheap with his love--true, he loves everybody, but only to varying degrees--how we will be lifelong friends, how special I am.
And then he directed me towards his computer and told me to get to work. I looked more closely at the manuscript. Not only is it 300 pages long, but it’s also rife with errors in form, more specifically, the line breaks are totally off and every single one needs adjusting. This will not be easy. But I will do it for my new friend and, mainly, because I need that skirt.
Apollo thinks this is fate: that I happened to walk into his store at the very time he was looking for an editor. I disagree. No, this is just the way my life unfolds.
posted by Toby Shuster at 1:52 PM
5 Comments:
OMG, Apollo is friggin' outrageous...I met him once at a fashion show and mentioned that I was a songwriter and he insisted that we work together, even though he apparently writes and performs electronic music and I write pop and hip hop tracks. LOL...Same ol' Apollo.
you make me wish random things happened to me. alas, they don't.
- jimbo.
Shalom!!!
i'd do it for the skirt, too.
Just found your delightful blog, it's lovely and funny...reminds me of myself many, many yrs. ago.
Keep blogging, I'll keep reading. I love your masculine name. I would bet you have a terrific laugh. I sent your blog to my daughter who is leaving NY next month. Makes me sort of sad now. I had hoped her 1 1/2 yr. there would have been more like yours.
P.S. I think it was "Gawker" who linked you.
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