We wouldn’t have gone to a party considering we had to work at the stall the next day, but it was a themed party, so we couldn’t possibly say no. As much as this summer is about branching out into a semblance of adulthood, it is also about fun. I take both seriously.
I received a message from a friend I had met in Paris when I was nineteen: “Kimono Party, Nolita. It’s a must.” I had actually packed a summer kimono I’d been given by a worldly Japanese woman on business in London. It’s called a Yukata and is decorated with blossoms, which the woman said made it suitable for my age and demeanour (because I am sprightly). It was made in Kyoto, a place I have only dreamed of going, and whenever I wear the thing, it is funny to think it has travelled farther than I have and seen much, much more. Bringing it seemed serendipitous. Gala, on the other hand, didn’t have one and went into Alex’s room, as she’s seldom home. I had never been in her room, but Gala seemed to know her way around. For whatever reason, Alex has several kimonos in her closet. Gala’s choice was a deep red with gold leaves that looked like the clubs in a deck of cards. We arranged our hair atop our heads in buns, tied expertly with a ribbon that Lucian came down from his room to secure. Upon seeing us in our full dress, Lucian remarked, “The little geishas have grown up!”
The street to the subway was dotted with police towers and garbage blew down the sidewalk like desert tumbleweeds. We stopped into a store so Gala could buy cigarettes, and a group of boys on the stoop next door asked, “What the hell are you wearing? One stop to Chinatown!” I think they directed that at me. Gala met them with a disapproving look. “Haven’t you ever seen a kimono before?” It should be normal to see one girl in a kimono, but two—I suppose it would stand out in our part of Brooklyn.
People are very friendly in our neighbourhood. They’re always calling to us from their cars to say nice things. The neighbours have nicknamed Gala “Snowflake” because of her blond hair, and, depending on where they’re from, call me “Princesa,” or, if they’re younger boys, “Ma.” I like the latter because it denotes a family tie. I’m still waiting for an invitation to one of the cookouts.
The place was, rather appropriately, below a fancy-looking sushi restaurant. There was a crowd standing out front and a diminutive girl holding a clipboard. People who came up to the door wearing normal clothes were sent away. I tried to call my friend who had invited us, but it went straight to voicemail. Finally, the door girl motioned to us, and I told her our names and said we were friends with Daisy. The bouncer looked at both our IDs, and upon inspecting Gala’s birthplace, he said with interest, “Sarajevo? Hard times, huh.” She stared at him coldly and grabbed her passport out of his hands. “Yeah.” This is more or less the reaction Gala gets whenever she shows her passport.
The bar was modelled like a Japanese subway station, with smaller rooms separated by large painted panels. The crowd was mostly arts related and sat on benches, cross-kneed in kimonos. The music was a variety of Japanese punk and traditional shamisen. Gala said, “Eat it up, Isa. This is probably the closest to Japan we’re gonna get.”
While we were waiting to order drinks, Daisy came up to us at the bar. “What are you doing standing over here? Come to our private room. We’ve ordered three bottles of cold saké! And you must meet whom I’m with! You won’t even believe it!” Daisy is a real ingénue. She grew up wearing braids on a farm somewhere in the Midwest, or maybe in the South, before she hopped on a bus and ended up in New York. You can tell because she still pronounces words that start with w as though they start with an h, like hwhat, hwho. Daisy has the look of farm ilk, all strawberry blond with strong teeth and American freckles. It adds to her charm in a city used to irregular faces. Her plainness is always being photographed. I find she is reasonable as a person, almost old-fashioned. She has a lot of what people consider “moral fibre,” which simply means a variety of fears instilled in you when you’re young enough to be scared. In New York, people find her Authentic. She’s fallen in love approximately forty times and always with someone who has something to offer. It’s a gift of dumb luck. Men find her alluring because she has one of those open faces—all wide-set eyes and large forehead. Daisy likes to admit, “Men are such fans of innocence.” Crazy things are always happening to her, and she never knows how or why.
We followed Daisy past a curtain, through a narrow hallway. The music of the main room became muffled, and Daisy rapped on a panel that was hidden to the side. A tall man slid the door open and said, “Daisy, where’ve you been? We thought you deserted us.” Daisy hit him lightly on the chest and took a long stride into the room. “I was just recruiting better hosts!” She beckoned us in. The place was built like a Japanese tea room; the walls were different shades of beige, and everyone was sitting on the floor, where there were mats and pillows. I wondered whether the club’s owners were of Japanese descent, or if Japan was a theme. There were only about ten people in there, and when we entered, they all stopped talking and turned to us. Daisy clapped her hands. “Everyone! This is Isa Epley and her most dearest friend, Gala Novak.” They all smiled in our direction and pointed at empty spots around the table for us to join them. Everyone seemed nice enough, but knowing Daisy, they were all in some way useful. Gala nudged me hard in the ribs and nodded to a man sitting at the head of the table. “Don’t you recognize him?” I briefly looked over to him and smiled. “No, who is he?” I squinted at him, and Gala laughed, nudging me harder. “Cut the bullshit! You know exactly who that is!” “No, I don’t! Who is he?” I covered my mouth to suppress any sort of smile. Gala rolled her eyes. “You’re going to have to try harder or you’ll ruin that little ruse you have going.”
The one thing you can be sure a celebrity does not have is anonymity. Which, as it happens, is something I can always afford to give. Daisy put her arm around me and led me to the man. “Sage, you must meet Isa. She comes up with strange and fascinating things to say about every subject.” Daisy softly held my chin to accentuate her point. “Any topic! She has so many ideas.” She made me sit in the place next to him. “You see, Isa, he finds all of us so, so boring, and I can’t help his feelings, but perhaps you can.” Daisy is in fact a great facilitator. She turned around and took Gala by the shoulders to introduce her to a film producer of some kind. Gala caught my eye and waved, assuring she would be fine. In times of high pressure, I can manage fairly well. It is my one saving grace.
Sage Hopkins studied at Juilliard but gave up the skimpy meals that came with being true to his craft to move to Los Angeles. The magazines say he grew up on one of those Mormon compounds, but who knows if that’s really true. He used to study method. Daisy said she met him at Actors Studio when she thought being an actress would give her something to do. Obviously he was in everything until a couple of years ago when he had a meltdown at that film festival. Now he does independent movies here and there and performs sound poetry at press conferences. This, of course, only increases his notoriety.
“Isa is a beautiful name. How do you spell that? Here.” Sage poured saké into a small ceramic cup until it over-flowed. “Never mind the spill. It’s supposed to symbolize prosperity and wealth.” I wiped my wet hand on my kimono and politely took a sip. “Oh, thank you twice then. It’s spelled I-S-A.” He lightly sighed and repeated my name under his breath in succession: “Ee-sah, Ee-sah, Eesah.” I smiled, trying not to laugh. He asked what I was doing in the city, and I said, “It’s an experiment,” and he said, “You mean for New York?” I asked why he thought his present company was so boring. He contemplated his guests gently before saying he didn’t mean to be cruel, it’s just that he knew what everyone was about and what they all wanted from him. I told him he couldn’t possibly know what everyone was about because people are always trying to hide a deep, dark history. I whispered to him, “Daisy’s real name is Mary-Anne. What’s your real name?” He shook his head with embarrassment. “John, yours?” I withdrew from him and said seriously, “I’d kill you first.” He laughed.
“What is your history? Where are you from? Your parents, I mean.” Sage looked at me shyly. Having heard that line before, I turned my shoulder at him and lowered my eyes in a move my mother would have called “coquettish.” I said, “Are you asking why I’m so pretty? If you are, just ask me that.” Did you know it is possible to push back without anyone even noticing?
It’s odd to already be familiar with someone’s face. I knew things about him, like how his brow wrinkled or what he looked like crying. It was all documented somewhere, and that gave me an unfair advantage. I knew him intimately, and he knew me not at all. I could tell he was used to this kind of dynamic because of how he approached strangers. Often, people who are tired of themselves are inexhaustibly curious. “But out of all the places in the world, why here?” he asked softly. “It feels like it would be harder for you.” I said, “I guess that’s true. But there are some things that are only possible in New York; it’s both harder and easier.” I smiled. “I have a unique skillset.” He looked as though he was trying to figure me out. “You seem so mysterious.” I laughed. “How can I seem mysterious? I haven’t stopped talking.”
I thought I should leave or else I’d lose my head completely. I slowly rose (it was quite the challenge in a kimono), and Sage took my wrist. “Don’t leave yet, this is the only place I can be that’s private. Stay a little longer.” I looked down at his face, well proportioned and helpless, and I did feel sympathy for him. I told him I would check on Gala and then return. Gala saw me standing and stood as well. “Where are the washrooms around here?”
My face was flushed. I sat on the counter near the sink putting on lipstick. The music from the main room came through the vent near the ceiling. The lighting was warm and flattering, good for appealing to a shaky confidence. Something about retreating to a washroom always provides a comfort. I have given and received plenty of advice in washrooms. It’s always the right place to have a summit. Gala took a small brush from her bag, letting her hair out of her bun and roughly combing it out. “I may have gotten us a little job with that producer, Larry. I told him I didn’t think it’d appeal to you. It’s a lot of traipsing around asking people for money.” I felt tired thinking about a job like that. “We wouldn’t be so bad at it. Only if we get desperate.” Gala pinched my arm and asked me what the hell was wrong. She’s become physically invasive since I went to London. It’s not at all charming. I hit her hands away and breathed deeply, looking in the mirror. Gala stopped arranging her hair. “Oh, Isa, I know what you’re doing. Don’t be so unoriginal. You’re always feeling sorry for the wrong kinds of people.” I really wasn’t being anything. Sage was sweet and timid and cultivated. Though Gala finds my romantic ideas to be symbolic as opposed to substantial: “You can’t go off with an actor. One of you will always be in stage makeup.” Honestly, when she said that I really think she meant me.
I’d told Sage I’d stay longer. Gala smoothed her kimono down and said, “Don’t waste your time. Anyway, that producer is taking me to a dive bar on Fourteenth Street. Wanna come?” I declined and we agreed to meet at 3 a.m. This seemed like a decent time to get to bed before going to the market in the morning. I hugged Gala and told her I would abstain from any more saké. She seemed a little annoyed at me for staying, but how could I not? I returned to the tea room alone, and a red-haired girl was sitting in my place, intimately close to Sage. He asked what had taken me so long. While still standing, I ignored his question and said to the girl, “Excuse me, you’re in my seat.” The room had emptied a fraction since I had been gone, but a couple of the guests glanced over at us. The red-haired girl looked at Sage and then back at me, as though it were some kind of mistake. I stood silently with my arms crossed. It took her about five seconds to get up, which was longer than polite. I resumed my place: “I’ve been thinking about something recently.” Sage stretched out onto the mat. “What’s that?” I rested my chin on one hand. “Well, in London, people said I was lucky to be there because after a while I would smooth out all those hard North American sounds, the r’s and b’s and d’s. I would sound like an old Hollywood actress—Mid-Atlantic or something like that. This would give me a certain edge.” I glanced at Sage to see if he was listening. He gestured for me to continue, as though I needed encouragement. “A man I used to see told me it took years to smooth out his ‘working-class birth.’ Because once you open your mouth, people know where you really belong. I had an easier time there because I was hard to map. People thought I’d gone to an international school because I spoke English so well.” I reached over to him, exaggerating shock. “Don’t you just die!” He shook his head, laughing. “And for me, where I really belong is almost never where people find me. That’s something I often think about when I am met with hostility. It is never that I have done anything to warrant it; it’s that I’m simply there.” Sage reached out, brushing his fingers over my arm. We sat quietly for a while. He looked absorbed in thought. He sighed, “I can only try to understand. You made it here though, and I’m happy you came.” He had a wholesome touch that I found alien. I rested my hands over his, feeling guilty for creating a sombre moment. I smiled. “Sage, you’re so handsome and generous. Why don’t you buy me presents and I’ll take you for granted. That’s what you really need.” He got up quickly, and I thought perhaps I had upset him, but he laughed. He pulled me up, leading me out the door by the wrist. “Daisy said you had all kinds of ideas.”
Getting out of the party took half an hour. Sage told me to leave first and get in the car that was parked outside waiting for me. The driver went in circles for a while before pulling up to the exact same party. He had suggested I put a blanket over myself while we waited, but I really wasn’t cold at all. The moment Sage came up the stairs to street level, three photographers came running and started taking photos of him. I suppose it was funny—I forgot to mention—that he too was wearing a kimono. He rushed towards the car, and as he opened the door to get in, a photographer held it long enough to take a photo of us. Throughout the drive, Sage kept saying that the result of such a photo wouldn’t be too bad.
We sat on patio chairs on the roof of his building. All he had to drink in his fridge were tall cans of beer. Sage watered a small vegetable patch he’d cultivated over the years. He said it was the only piece of earth that was his. It must be nice to need only a degree of sentimentality in order to feel grounded. We discussed the future until our beers became warm. He confessed to having many regrets in his life and never being able to forgive himself. I told him a regret is just doing something bad when you know better, and he should be proud that he takes the long way, because that is how you achieve emotional intelligence. He leaned towards me, and I thought this was finally the moment where we would eclipse. He took my face in his hands (which I have an aversion to because of germs) and said, “Isa, I feel like I can tell you something of a secret, and you wouldn’t tell anyone.” He still held my face firmly, and I could feel his fingers pressing into my skin. I said his instincts were indeed correct, and I can be especially discreet. “There are some things I have never even put in my diary.”
Lucian burst into our room at nine fifteen in the morning. I sat up, panicked. “Oh my god! No!” We forgot to set an alarm. Lucian huffed, “Who cares about being late for your damn stall at a time like this!” Gala rubbed her eyes. “What are you talking about?” “You never invite me when Exciting things are bound to happen!” Lucian pushed a copy of the New York Post under our noses. I was on the cover with Sage in the back of a car, with the headline “MADAME BUTTERFLY.” Underneath the photo, the caption read, “Sage Hopkins leaves club with exotic party girl.” Lucian continued to complain. “I went across the street to buy more eggs because you two are going through a carton every other day, and our deli guy—our deli guy!—says, ‘Isn’t that the little girl you live with?’ And there you are! The deli guy knows before I do!” He went on to say he’d experienced deep feelings of missing out on something good. I grabbed the paper from him and looked cockeyed at the headline. “Madame Butterfly! Isn’t that offensive?” Gala chimed in, “At least you look nice and tanned.” It was funny they said exotic because I have never been south of the equator. I’ve barely made a dent in the eastern hemisphere either, not without trying. I don’t even speak a second language except for elementary French. I felt grossly misrepresented. Gala said it was surprising the Post knew anything about opera at all. Lucian said I should feel pleased to have evoked such a highbrow allusion.
I couldn’t think about it for too long, as we both felt, as Gala would say, like hell, and probably needed showers. We were expected at the market at nine, and it was already a quarter to ten. We frantically threw the clothes in suitcases and got dressed. I calculated it would take another hour for us to get to Lower Manhattan with walking and subway included. I thought to get a cab, but how does one even get a cab in our part of Brooklyn? Gala said there was no way one would just happen along our street. I got a number from a directory, and we took the bags downstairs to the top of our stoop. Gala thought we should coordinate our outfits to encourage sales. I wore all white and Gala wore all black.
We sat in the cab, stuck in traffic on the Williamsburg Bridge. As much as I am prone to getting into trouble, being late makes me feel nervous. Gala was also reeling, but for reasons other than tardiness. She pulled out the kimono from her bag and shook it in agitation. “We’re going to have to fix this before Alex sees it.” The kimono had several stains, which did not look water-soluble, on the bottom hem and the arms. Gala confessed that she had consumed far too many picklebacks and had gotten a little sick. I asked her what exactly constituted a pickleback, and she said a shot of whiskey and a shot of pickle juice.
Gala has never been a drinker, but she enjoys getting convivial from time to time. Whenever alcohol touches her lips, she makes a face like she’s undergoing torture. It’s rather painful to watch, and it does not relax me. So when she drinks, she makes it quick, which can be a disadvantage when you’re suddenly projecting all over the sidewalk. I, on the other hand, enjoy all good wine and champagne, the piney scent of gin, and the dusky taste of tequila. There is really nothing like a cold Mexican beer on a hot day or a glass of Chianti in the winter. Though, I should make it clear that I always strive for moderation. Gala’s one ruling principle is: start drinking water once you can no longer read what’s on your phone. Sometimes I catch her looking at her screen with one eye closed.
Once we got to the market, I made a beeline towards the organizers and launched into a story about how our stock had been stuck in New Jersey. They didn’t mind too much anyway, and since we looked so flustered, they gave us a larger space than we’d paid for to assuage our nerves. Gala styled the stall, as she has always had the more unique visual aesthetic. We were behind schedule compared to the other vendors but in the end created what Gala called “a shopping experience.” We sat behind our table while people walked past; they would linger for a couple minutes and then leave once they thought we were going to talk to them. Gala started to become impatient. “These people don’t know anything about spending money.”
Our evening adventures were taking a toll on us, and we both felt rundown and dirty. I started to braid Gala’s hair, noting the ends were dry and dead. She said they should be, since it took about four boxes of bleach to get her hair this light. Gala’s typical state was dark eyes and dark hair, in crisp contrast to her pale complexion. She had only dyed her hair blond after separating from a boyfriend whom she had deep affection for. She felt it rejuvenated her sense of self, Blond Ambition, that type of thing. I actually don’t know what her natural hair colour is; before she was blond, her hair was dyed bluish black. A close friend of ours once noted of Gala’s chameleonic appearance, “It must be so interesting to wake up every morning and decide who you’re going to be.” This was also in reference to Gala’s dress sense, for every day is an occasion to be somebody else. Her art is in understanding the fine line between an outfit and a costume. An outfit is what you wear, but a costume is something to really believe in.
I went to a deli to get cold drinks for us, and when I returned to the stall Gala was talking to a good-looking Middle Eastern man with a groomed beard and an expensive bicycle. She was doing this wringing of her hands that made her seem damselesque. Having been away from her for so long, it is interesting to observe the techniques she’s developed. I can’t imagine what Gala is like with men. For the most part, it’s alien to me; when we were teenagers, she was seeing a lovely girl. The man asked how we got the stall, and Gala, in her state of delirium, began telling him our whole story. “We’re not legally allowed to work here. We didn’t need any kind of paperwork to sign up for the market. It was perfect.” I honestly could’ve killed her right there. The man proceeded to question Gala about the clothing and whether we had made it ourselves. I interrupted and asked him if he could please direct his questions elsewhere. I was worried he was going to pull out a police badge or something, but he reached in his bag for a business card and handed it to Gala before leaving. She seemed disappointed I’d sent him away, but I took her by the ear and said, “That’s a dumb way to get deported!” Gala promises she won’t speak to any more strangers about our legal ambiguity. If anything, she should recognize a honey trap when she sees one.
By mid-afternoon we had sold two dresses, which made up the cost of the cab to get there and the dry-cleaning bill for Alex’s kimono. We couldn’t buy lunch until we made a profit, so we ate a couple of samples from other vendors—fruit bars and ice cream in small pots. We changed into matching dresses from the stock we were selling, trying to boost sales by taking turns walking around the market. If someone complimented us on what we were wearing, we would point out our stall. Nicolas, ever the ad man, would call that Bridging Social Capital. While we were refreshing our display, a girl who had been walking back and forth along the line of stalls came up to me. She pulled a copy of the Post from her handbag and asked if it was really me in the photo; it had slipped my mind till then. I took a deep breath and said, “Obviously.” The girl bought the same dress in the colour I was wearing. By the end of the day, we had sold a couple more in that style, which was lucky because the dress was rather poorly made. Gala methodically counted our earnings for the day. “Good riddance!” She reassured me that sometimes being in the wrong place at the wrong time was the best PR.