So very much is in a name. Ralph Lifshitz and Donna Ivy Faske are nobodies, but Ralph Lauren and Donna Karan are gods. A name can bring happiness, fame, fortune, but it can also destroy you. Such was the case for my publicist, Ben Laden.
Ben was an architect of fame. He could build names into brands, and he operated with panache. He had everything to do with getting my own name exposure. Ben had been an established name himself in New York in the late nineties, representing all of the hot ethnic designers, mostly Asians. Doo Ri Chung, Derek Lam, Pho(2), Yellow Bastard, and later Philip and Vivienne. But after 9/11 Ben felt the hurt, personally and professionally. His brother, Patrick Laden, a police officer twice decorated, was in the north tower when it fell. Then, without a minute’s notice, more than half of Ben’s clientele dropped out—most of the aforementioned, with the exception of Vivienne and Philip. All because of a name. When I finally worked up the courage to ring him, Ben was willing to take on even the smallest unknown designers. Though he would have taken me on Philip’s word alone.
We first met over dinner at Freeman’s. We were drunk by the time the appetizers were served. One Manhattan after the next, we talked about fashion, art, and all the latest gossip: which sellouts had an eyewear or fragrance deal in the works, who was banging whom. By the time I dug into my pork chop it had gone cold. At the end of the night, out came the Macallan, and Ben couldn’t contain himself.
“Boy,” he started in, “you think I give a lick about what people think of me? Do I look like an Osama to you? I’m a gay Irishman from Queens. The youngest of four. Our name used to be McLaden, but my grandpappy dropped the Mc because he didn’t like being called Mac everywhere he went. In his day it was derogatory. He took an offense. This was at a time when an Irishman couldn’t get a cab in this city, let alone a decent job. My, how everything comes back around. So he changed the family name, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to change it back because some jihadi thinks himself Allah’s messenger. Disgrace my grandpappy? I’ve lived lies for most of my life, but when I came out to my parents in 1987, I said, ‘That’s it. No more.’ ” Ben took a swig. “Honest to God. That’s all we can be.”
“True that.”
“There isn’t a lot of loyalty in this business. Believe me, I’ve borne the brunt of it. But I’m a goddamn patriot first and foremost. I’ll be the first in line to wring al‑Qaeda around the neck. We’ll skip trial, verdict, what have you. And my brother, the hero…After all this, would you believe the FBI has been to my house? Do you know that I was detained trying to fly out of JFK. I missed London Fashion Week altogether. I never made it past check‑in. The clerk looked at me like I was putting him on. This is the age we’re living in. My job will be to shield you from all of this nonsense. The world as it is will not be your world. With me you won’t have to worry about a goddamn thing. Now where’s that rugged waiter? I’m running on empty.” Ben snapped his fingers and the waiter appeared.
“We’ll get the check,” I said, trying to inspire our exit. I didn’t want Ben to become any redder in the face. I’d soon learn that the scotch whiskey only came out when he talked about his namesake.
“Nonsense, we’ll have two more,” he told the waiter. He turned to me. “They made us wait forty-five minutes for a table, now they can wait on us forty-five minutes more. It’s an eye for an eye where I come from.”
“You come from Queens,” I said.
“I mean America, Boy. America.”
He was hungry like I was. His clients were still dropping out by the fistful, only he used that betrayal as fuel to salvage his reputation. He was a stand‑up, all-around, cutthroat guy’s guy. He had grit, guts, and gusto—the three Gs as he called them. His rough, leathery face had seen one too many hours in the tanning bed, and written in the lines around his eyes was the story of a man who wouldn’t be defeated.
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? 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 then on everything began to move so fast.
Nothing from the shows sold, but I was able to adapt those twelve looks into a knitwear line that could be produced by two Chinese cousins out in Sunset Park. Ming and Lei. Strong seamstresses who followed directions. Ahmed found them for us. The knitwear we were able to place in consignment shops downtown and around Brooklyn. Some boutiques in Los Angeles got onboard too, and before you knew it, things were selling out. The shops and boutiques were finally asking for more.
Unfortunately, with each new stride my line made, the heavy drag-ass feeling I’d been suffering with Michelle only worsened. Your work takes all of your soul, proving it difficult to come up with another energy reserve, that which is needed to sustain a serious relationship. Now that my label was a full-time job, being asked to travel out to Sarah Lawrence was nothing but a hassle. I don’t want to cheapen her feelings for me, but it seemed like I was under pressure to carry two loads, my label and Michelle’s mental state. In fact, I was beginning to suspect that Michelle suffered from manic depression. The occasional staring off, the tears after sex, the unmarked bottle of pills in her YSL handbag, the obscenities that came out of her when we fought, like a seasonal Turrets5—“faggot,” “gay bastard,” “twat.” She had some mouth on her. It was all related. I came from a family of doctors, remember. She had to be bipolar.
These bouts took a severe turn around the time of her beloved nana’s death. The old bugger had made it to ninety-one, nearly a full century of toil. And Michelle didn’t think Nana had been given a fair chance. I was by her side during the wake for two full days at the Montauk Club on Eighth Avenue in Brooklyn, forced to come up to the casket with her to view the body. “She had just begun a new chapbook of poems,” Michelle said. “She was so happy writing again, looking back on her life. Why now? Why couldn’t it happen after she finished them?”
“Maybe you can finish them for her?” I said. “Like a collaboration.”
“Not while I’m grieving. Let me grieve, you miserable twat. Just hold me.”
Ahmed tried to help me through the small crisis of guilt I was having in wanting to leave Michelle. “Go, have this fling. It’s a cure-all,” he swore. “How do you think I got over my second wife so quickly?”
“I thought you were only married once.”
“That was Sheela. I was married again for six weeks to a dancer in Lahore. Yasmin. She ran off to Bollywood and I never knew what became of her. I like to imagine she contracted some horrible skin disease and had to have one of her legs amputated. What beautiful legs too! I know—cruel and unusual, but that’s love. Anyhow, it was a blonde with big tits who got my mind off of her. A prostituta. Go out and get your ramrod sucked, and don’t feel like you owe anybody anything.”
“That’s not exactly what I wanted to hear at the foot of temptation.”
“Consider this. During both my marriages I remained completely faithful. It’s true. Now I’ve told you some stories about my adventures in the sheets, but it’s time to come clean. The truth is, I never strayed. Not a slipup. This was at a time when I was dining with the world’s upper classes. Lady Di, the Prince of Wales, Boutros Boutros-Ghali. These were the circles that your Ahmed ran in, beby. And I grappled with temptations on more than one occasion. Real propositions, Boy. These weren’t the models you’re so fond of, but some real sexy gels. Now what do I have but regret? I was a complete fool. I think back on that free-loving time—the early nineties—and how I should have done everything differently. You’re young, Boy. You should be having fun. Don’t do what I did. Don’t be a fool. Fuck around a little. If this new gel is a mistake–”
“Rudy. Her name’s Rudy.”
“—if this Rudy’s a mistake, you go back to Michelle. If Michelle finds out, she leaves you, and you’re free to enjoy all you want. What you won’t have is regret. Guilt comes and goes. Regret looms.”
“I don’t know.”
“Just listen to what I’m saying. What is it you want to hear?”
None of Ahmed’s advice ever stuck, but he did make me realize what I needed to do. I would have to change my good-natured self in order to get what I wanted. As children we do this. Perhaps to fit in with the right crowds, or the wrong ones. Things don’t change much by the time we become adults.
Our finale would be quick, but not quiet. I would choose one of those warm September nights in the city when the moon still made an otherworldly appearance at dusk. A gallery hop in Chelsea. Unremarkable art. Cheap white wine to work up the courage. Once I felt I had enough courage, I would complain to Michelle about a headache, a migraine. She would take my cue and suggest we head home to Brooklyn. Once there I would gently extract myself from our two-year relationship, during which time that word, “relationship,” was never uttered.
The breakup went pretty much according to plan until we got back to my place, where I was to drive the stake into the poor girl’s heart. And how could I not succumb when Michelle pulled me down on the bed and kissed me with a biting, taunting aggression? She sat up and undid my belt. We continued to kiss as she worked me in her hand. Guilt barged in only when she took me in her apathetic mouth.
I had to stop her.
“What’s the matter?” she said.
“I’m a bastard, Michelle. You don’t deserve me.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I was with someone else.”
“What?”
“Today. I was with someone else.”
“Who? I don’t understand.”
“I was with someone. I cheated.”
By then, Rudy Cohn and I had been seeing each other, on a casual basis, but certainly not that afternoon. I wasn’t as disgusting as I made myself out to be. I was lying. But how could I tell her the truth? It’s you. The reason is you. I’m tired of you.
There’s no such thing as a clean break. It’s a whole process, breaking up—meeting for coffee or a drink at the right platonic hour, exchanging possessions, phone calls at two in the morning. I was looking at months. And I remember thinking throughout this excruciating period of my life: When will I just be free?
Funny, it has been two years, and I’m asking myself the very same question now.
1. It was Cain who asked this of God after Cain murdered Abel.
2. Secure Military Emergency Reaction Force.
3. A spokesperson for Barneys has publicly denied this allegation.
4. Natalie Portman wasn’t there. According to my notes, I was seated in the second row between Kelly LeBrock and Scary Spice of the disbanded girl group the Spice Girls.
5. Tourette syndrome.