Recessionista
It was a frigid Thursday afternoon, and I had just left Dalyah on Fifty-eighth Street, where I sold the diamond necklace Donovan had given me for my birthday for three thousand dollars.
The jeweler had gotten over like a fat rat, but I couldn't argue with the fact that the recession had hit so many people so hard that I wasn't the only one trying to unload my baubles for extra cash. Dalyah's display cases were filled with OPJ (Other People's Jewelry), and I was told that there was plenty more of it in the back.
Still, I was happy to have gotten even that small amount of money, and next up for sale was the infamous chinchilla coat.
I was ashamed of the amount of time that it took me to come around, but the fur was the most expensive thing I had left over from my life with Donovan, and I had been reluctant to give it up for that very reason.
I guess you could say that the coat was my trump card and as long as I had it in my possession, I felt like I was somebody, even if in reality I was a poor somebody who was living in the guest “bedroom” of a man I hardly knew.
Plus, it was just time. Not only did I desperately need the money, but karma-wise, I needed a clean slate. The fur coat, the diamonds, the designer this and thatânone of it ever truly belonged to me, because every last one of those things was bought with ill-gotten gains.
And bad karma was more than likely the reason why my entire set of Louis Vuitton luggage had been lost in transit, and I had completely given up hope that I would ever see any of it again.
Of course I hated to give it up, but there would be other furs. Ones that I would buy for myself, with my own hard-earned money.
With the decision made, the only thing left to do was find the right furrier, who would give me a fair price for the coat. If I played my cards right, I could walk away with at least twenty-five thousand dollars. Easy.
If that was the case, I would be able to pay Tameka the twelve grand I owed her and have enough left over to repay Vance's kindness and get myself an apartment.
My thinking was, J. Mendel was where the coat came from, and they would probably be the best place to start. I was so confident that I would make the sale that I had stuffed a jacket into my tote bag so that I would have something warm to change into.
After leaving the jewelry store, I headed down Madison Avenue, on my way to J. Mendel. I looked like my old self, which was a well-pulled together fashionista with the world at her fingertips.
I strolled through my old stomping grounds wearing the full-length chinchilla and matching hat that Donovan had bought for me in Paris, and a wicked pair of black Balenciaga boots that Anne Dorsey hadn't stolen, for whatever reason.
Probably because they were thigh-high with spiked six-inch heels, and had a definite dominatrix look about them. They weren't for everybody, that was for sure.
I was looking fabulous with nothing but lint in my pockets, but like Holly Golightly, you couldn't tell just by looking at me.
I had a couple of coins in my pocket, but window-shopping, or “window licking” as the French call it, was all I could afford to do. Before the scandal, window-shopping was an activity that I had never understood or engaged in. I never had to. If I went shopping, I did it all the way. If I wanted something, I simply went in the store and bought it.
Now that I was broke, window-shopping was what I had to be content with if I wanted to do any shopping at all.
I had credit cards of my own, and decent enough credit, which would be foolish of me to take the chance of ruining just to satisfy my urge to shop.
It was hard enough to find a decent apartment in the city
with
good credit, so I could only imagine that having a low credit score would make the task next to impossible, which would only lead to additional headaches that I certainly did not need while trying to put my life back together.
As I got closer to my destination, I noticed that there was a milling crowd a little farther down the avenue, apparently some kind of protest demonstration. People with faces red from anger and the cold waved homemade cardboard signs and offered flyers to passersby who more often than not refused to take one.
I didn't think anything of it. People were always marching, picketing, rallying, and just generally raising hell in this town. If it wasn't Al Sharpton taking to the streets, rest assured someone else would take his place. To avoid the surging crowd, I crossed the street and inadvertently ended up right in front of the Chanel boutique, where my heart went pitter-patter longing for the days when I could walk right in there with my head held high and come out with bags galore.
It took every ounce of dignity I had to refrain from pressing my nose up against the glass windows the same way I had literally seen many a low-end fashionista do, while I was on actually on the other side of the glass window getting my shop on.
Just as I was getting into the new quilted Chanel bag that was prominently displayed in the window, I heard a voice close behind me chant, “Fur is murder! Fur is murder!” I felt something heavy and wet plop against the back of my coat, and turned to see a lunatic holding an empty bucket of paint, with the color red dripping down the sides.
“Fur is murder! Fur is murder!”
I knew what had just happened, but it didn't register until I looked over my shoulder and saw that the entire back of my gorgeous, insanely expensive chinchilla coat had been doused with paint.
Goddamn PETA supporters!
I was so stunned that all I could do for a full minute was stand there looking horror-stricken, like Carrie after being drenched with pig blood, and right before she went berserko and started fucking everybody up.
My paint-can-wielding assailant looked like Peppermint Patty come to life. She had pimply skin, wore horrible clothes, and was clearly of the belief that women looked better
with
facial hair.
“Fur is murder! Fur is murder!”
It was thirty-something degrees, but I stepped out of my ruined coat and commenced to beating the mustache off that blockhead bitch.
Poetic Justice
On the outside, the Fourteenth Precinct is really quite lovely as far as police stations go. But on the inside, it's a shitbox just like all the rest of them. Trust. Even though I viewed my actions as self-defense, I was arrested for assault and thrown in the slammer with a thuggish and ruggish bunch of broads who all looked as though they had been there, and done that, several times over.
After I was booked into the jail, I was allowed to make one phone call, which I placed to Vance at his office. Unfortunately, he was in a meeting and his secretary had to take a message. I was highly disappointed because Vance's secretary and I hadn't exactly met on the best of terms that day when I burst in demanding to see Vance without an appointment.
When she said, “I'll be certain to give him the message,” I was certain that she wouldn't. I was in jail without no bail. Payback was a bitch.
Once the iron door to the holding pen slammed shut behind me, I gripped the bars and shook them with all my might, as if I could somehow pry them open and free myself.
An anonymous voice from the back of the holding cell said, “Bitch, if that worked, I'd have been outta here a long time ago!” which elicited a few laughs from some of the other detainees.
A woman with heavy eyelids and crusted scabs on her face sidled up to me and asked, “Hey, sis, what'chu in here for?”
I loosed my grip on the bars and turned to look at my cellmate.
Frankly, I didn't want to be bothered because she was obviously stoned out of her mind on something that was making her feel mellow and itchy at the same time, but I'd heard it was best not to make enemies while locked up in the pokey.
“Assault,” I snarled, trying to look hard and tough.
I relayed the story of what landed me in the slammer, and the woman laughed. “Whoo, I bet you whooped her
ass!
” she said with a hoarse laugh that suggested that she was a heavy smoker.
“What about you,” I asked. “What got you in here?”
“Girl, sheeit . . . dealin', hookin'âyou name it,” she said. “I'm probably gonna get sent out to Rikers, but it's cool. I get three hots and a cot, and can kick my habit all at the same time, so I'm good.”
“Hey, two for the price of one is always a good deal,” I joked, and we both laughed.
“I like you, you good people,” she said, looking down at my thigh-high Balenciaga boots that now had splatters of red paint all over them. “You one of Reno's girls?”
“No, hon, that's not my line of business,” I said in a lighthearted tone. “No judgments, though!”
The high, itchy hooker shrugged and moved along to make other, more like-minded friends.
I looked around at my surroundings thoroughly disgusted, thinking that this was definitely not on my list of things to do before I die.
It was cold, and stunk to high heaven with a combination of every foul thing you can think of. Heroin addicts suffering from the effects of withdrawal took turns vomiting into a nonworking toilet that was already full of shit and stale piss.
In every corner of the cell, there were women curled up on the floor fast asleep as if they were enjoying the most comfortable Sleep Number bed in the world. I shook my head, thinking that I never want to get that comfortable being locked up behind bars.
Peppermint Patty, who had been arrested for assault as well, sat on a wooden bench holding a blood-soaked paper towel up to her nose. I walked over and sat down beside her. “You know that it's your fault we're both in here, right?” I asked.
“I think my nose is broken,” Peppermint Patty said as if she were expecting sympathy or an apology.
“Well, you got what you deserved,” I said. “What gives you the right to go around vandalizing someone's property?”
“I'll bet you wouldn't want to wear mink if you knew exactly how those coats were made, and how many tortured animals it takes to make just one coat.”
“Pardon you, but it wasn't mink, bitch, it was chinchilla. And how presumptuous of you to assume that I don't know how furs are made. It's the food chain, sweetie. I didn't invent it, and like it or not, it is a practice that will still be in place long after you and I are both dead and gone.”
“That doesn't make it right,” Peppermint Patty said, self-righteously, “and if I had it to do all over again, I would still throw paint on that hideous fur of yours.”
“And ditto for the ass whooping, Boo-Boo!” I said. “So minus the twenty to thirty thousand dollars you owe me for the coat, I guess that makes us even, huh?”
We fell into an uncomfortable silence. After giving her the side eye, I determined that Peppermint Patty was probably much younger than I initially thought she was.
“How old are you?” I asked.
“Nineteen.”
Wow, and already so passionate about her beliefs.
That caused me to ask myself, Who are you, Eva, and what are you passionate about besides trunk shows and customer appreciation day at your favorite high-end department store?
Before moving to New York, I was not that girl. I cared about looking good, but I was not a slave to fashion, and was definitely not the label whore that I had become.
Had I grown
up
during the time I had left Chicago, or did I grow
away
from my authentic self? The answer was both. Here I was several years older than this girl, yet there was nothing I was as equally passionate about as this PETA supporter who was willing to get her ass kicked for what she believed in. I didn't have the answers just then, but it was definitely food for thought.
In court the next morning, I was sweating like a whore in confessional. Would I be given a prison sentence and sent up to the big house? It was my first time being arrested, and I had no idea how the judicial process worked.
As it turns out, Vance's secretary did give him my message, and he was there to serve as my attorney when I went before the judge that morning.
In court, the PETA supporter wanted money for medical bills as well as pain and suffering. I wanted money for pain and suffering, and destruction of property.
“Miss Marshall, you are hereby ordered to pay Miss Cantrell five thousand dollars for the value of her coat, and I am giving you both eighteen months' probation.”
“Excuse me, Your Honor,” Vance said, “but my client was essentially the victim in this case, and eighteen months' probation or any probation at all for that matter is excessive and unfair.”
The judge regarded Vance with an impatient scowl, but was silent for a few minutes, considering.
“Six months' probation for Miss Cantrell, and that, young lady, is because you went above and beyond what was necessary to stop your attacker. Miss Marshall's nose is broken, and she had several lacerations in two places, and for that, there must be some retribution. Do you understand?” the judge asked me directly.
“Yes, sir,” I replied, relieved that I wouldn't be going to jail and that I at least came away with a moral victory, even though I was certain I would never see a dime of that money.
Defining Moments
The first thing I did after getting sprung from jail was to take a long, hot shower. The second was to pack. More than ever, I wanted to get back to Chicago to be around people who knew and loved me.
When I told Vance what my plans were, he recoiled as if I had said I was on my way to Timbuktu. “Chicago?”
“Yeah, Chicago!” I said. “Don't tell me that you're one of those geographical snobs who think New York is the end all, be all of human existence.”
“Well, isn't it?”
He was teasing, of course, and I laughed. “Umm . . . no! Although some of you native New Yorkers like to think so, but I assure you there is a world beyond this city.”
“So how long are you going to be gone?”
“A couple of weeks, a month maybe.... I'm not sure yet, but I do know that I have taken up space on your couch long enough. So, I'll be back to New York, just not here all up in your space.”
“Well, I'm sorry to see you go, but my door is always open,” Vance said. “And I mean that sincerely.”
“Really? Wow! If I didn't know better I would think that you cared.”
“Of course I care. Do you think I would have opened my home to you if I didn't care?”
“How should I know? I thought that was something you do for all damsels in distress.”
“Only the really special ones.” Vance stared at me with an intensity that he had never directed toward me before.
“Well, thanks again for your hospitality and generosity. I don't know what I would have done without you.” I felt like I wanted to kiss him at that moment, so I did. But it was on the cheek, and my feelings were purely platonic, of course.
“Will you do me a favor and leave the addresses and phone numbers where I can reach you?” Vance asked. “You know, just in case I need to contact you regarding Donovan.”
“Yeah, sure. . . .” I said, giving him the side eye. Again, if I didn't know better, I would really think that he cared about me.
Later that evening, Tameka and I met at Allegretti on West Twenty-second Street for cocktails and appetizers. We also exchanged Christmas gifts. Of course I couldn't afford to do much, but I bought her a box of Godiva passion truffles and a nice, but inexpensive, bottle of Freixenet champagne. It cost me less that fifty bucks total, and either Tameka was an excellent actress or she really was pleased. “Ooh . . . thank you, girl! You know how I love me some chocolate and bubbly, so I will be getting into this tonight.” She laughed.
“As you know, my coins took a major hit this year, but I hope you like it” was Tameka's disclaimer as I unwrapped her gift to me, which was a four-piece Thierry Mugler fragrance set complete with perfume, body lotion, shower gel, and a travel bag.
“Aww, thanks, Meka!” I sprayed a little of the perfume on my wrist and sniffed. It may not have been what she would normally give as a gift, but it was thoughtful and it smelled delicious.
“No problem. I'm gonna miss you while you're gone, but if anybody can help you put things into perspective, it's your mama.”
“Girl, you don't know my mama!” I said. “I love her and all, but we get along best when I'm in New York and she's not.”
“Eva, that's cold.”
“It's the truth! When I was growing up, that woman didn't have a maternal bone in her body,” I said. “Now that she's getting older, she wants to try to rewrite history and come off like she was Claire Huxtable.”
“Well, all I know is no matter what differences you two have, you really ought to work them out once and for all,” Tameka said. “After all, you only get one mother. Lord knows I wish I had one right now.”