15
Apr
08

Me and the Gossip Boy

The drummer calls just after work. It’s fashion week. He’s more than a drummer. He helps out behind the scenes of such things. Do I want to go to the John Varvatos show in one hour?

Until this moment, evening plans consisted of a Gossip Girl rerun and ice cream.

My outfit? No time. I’m wearing black Target skinny jeans and my big Anjelica Huston glasses. No makeup. I do, thankfully, have on my T-strap Mary Janes—from Aerosoles, not Miu Miu but they look like classic vintage Capezio jazz shoes. A funny old woman once stopped me on the street to tell me so. They fortify me.

I’m in. What if someone talks to me? What if no one does? The view from 7 World Trade Center leaves me speechless anyway. The catwalk is a cement floor. The backdrop is the cityscape, simple and incredible. The drummer takes me to a staging area for more floor-to-ceiling window views. “This is the real show,” he says. I giggle. We take seats.
In a flash of men’s Edwardian jackets, flared trousers and blackened silver lace-up wingtips, it’s over. Twenty minutes at the most. I’m elated. “You can scope for celebrities. Be right back,” he says. I wander.

I stop approximately 15 inches from Gossip Girl’s Nate Archibald—known in real life and fashion shows as Chace Crawford.
He sees me see him, maybe. Half an eyelid raise and back to chatting with a friend. This is good. Neither calls security to ask why a girl whose entire outfit cost $100 was allowed in.
There are no fans here, just people. I can’t say, “I love your show.” What to do? I look at Nate/Chace’s shoes.

White John Varvatos Chuck Taylors (I think), which cost little more than my Aerosoles. Refreshing.

As I leave, exhausted, the drummer, busy, yells, “Bye Wendy.”

My name sounds alien but resonates, twists and hangs, buoyant in the passing glamour.

Once at home, Gossip Girl just ended. With an urgent spoonful of ice cream I picture those sound waves, my name, lingering. I weigh it down gently with each wistful bite until I’m full.

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