I had been calling David Lilly to arrange to get together with him now that I had moved to Los Angeles and he let me know that he was on location filming with Roger Porter and as soon as he got back we would get together. In the meantime I was going out meeting people and networking and I was pleased to make the acquaintance of a stylist named Bonnie Rourke. She had been working exclusively with gospel artist Laine Joy and was interested in having me do some costume design for Laine Joy’s tour, similar to the work I had done for Dax from Low Society, but not futuristic. We got together several times to discuss the type of garments she wanted for the tour. She had already secured wardrobe from several designers in LA and New York for Laine Joy, and what she wanted me to come up with were complimentary designs for Laine Joy’s back-up singers. We collaborated on design ideas and met several times in the garment district to look at fabric. The garment district in downtown Los Angeles completely amazed me. Blocks and blocks of an innumerable amount of fabric stores with some of the best textiles readily available in the United States – every kind of fabric and notion imaginable, in every color, in abundance, with negotiable prices. I knew I would be spending every free moment I had on those textile filled blocks. In the garment district in downtown Los Angeles I was in design heaven. I looked up to the sky and said giddily, “Welcome to LA.”

It was exciting to be apart of preparing garments that would be seen by thousands of Laine Joy fans. Much like I had been a fan before I had ever got the chance to work for Low Society, I was a fan of Laine Joy. Growing up in a strict “gospel music only” household once on my own I never let go of my love for good, inspiring, soul stirring gospel music and Laine Joy had become a favorite on Sunday if I couldn’t get to church.

Bonnie and I had been meeting regularly for about two weeks and for our last meeting we were going to finalize the designs and fabric choices before I was to begin production on the garments the following week. I didn’t tell Bonnie that I had begun to draft the patterns for the designs. I was eager to get started and didn’t have any other projects to work on so I thought it would be good to get a head start. We quickly came to agreement about what would be produced then we began to discuss payment. I had already crunched the numbers and decided what I’d ask for each piece that I was going to make and I made out an invoice. During our final meeting I slipped the invoice that I had typed up from the back of my sketch pad and before I could present it Bonnie began talking.

“Here’s the deal. I am prepared to give you $5 a piece for your designs. I have a team in place to make everything and if you would like I’ll give you another $50 to be my eyes and ears as they work for the next two weeks.” I sat silently hoping I had heard her wrong, but she continued. “This is a great chance for you because you’ve been working with hip-hop artists up until this point, and now I am giving you the chance to work with someone legitimate. Someone who is doing God’s work.” Again, I sat speechless. I was hoping that at that moment she would break into laughter and confess that what she had just said had all been one big joke, but I had no such luck that evening. She was serious. $5 per design. $50 for two weeks work. I was curious how she came up with her figures so I asked.

“Well it’s only fair. That’s why I also offered for you to be able to be like an assistant for me while I have the designs made.” She said it with a straight face. She had no idea how offensive she was being. Or did she? I wanted to say something but I didn’t know where to begin. I was still stuck at $5 per design, or the fact that I could finally, thanks to her, have the privilege of working with someone “legitimate”. All the money and publicity I had got from working in Atlanta was not legit in LA? Just one month before I moved to California I had worked on a feature film starring an academy award winner. I thought for sure that could be considered legitimate. Maybe?

It took me a few minutes to get the words together to let her know that I was not interested in her deal at all. When she asked why not, I told her that I couldn’t sell her my designs for $5, nor would I be comfortable with overseeing someone else produce the designs. I knew that being her “eyes and ears” really meant that I would be Bonnie’s errand person and not have any creative input in the design execution. I let her know that whatever I design, I make myself. She was angry with my response.

“Well if my offer isn’t good enough, what do you think your designs are worth?” I showed her the invoice I had typed up. She scanned it and let it slip from her fingers. My invoice floated from her fingers, grazed the table and billowed onto the floor before she spit out, “Who do you think you are?”

“You approached me to design for your client, I didn’t approach you,” I told her. Before I could continue to state my argument she interrupted, “I’m offering you a chance. I’m offering you a break. You need to realize you’re new and this is the type of deal new people get.” Then she went on to let me know all of the big name designers that I was not. I was so angry I felt tears welling up, but I was determined not to cry. I grabbed my purse and notebook to leave, but before I left I told her, “I may not be a well known designer yet, but I know enough NOT TO WORK FOR YOU!” I stood up fast to leave because I felt the tears beginning to break lose. I had not encountered such nastiness working as a stylist/costume designer before. As I turned to leave she yelled out, “I was going to offer you $10, but you can forget about that!”

She had no idea that I was already praying to not only be able to forget that ridiculous offer, but I was also praying to forget her too. What disturbed me most was that she was a representative of a gospel artist. I had not had that kind of trouble with any of the rappers or R&B artists I had worked with. I was fuming when I said to myself, “Someone doing God’s work!? Yeah, right, with the devil negotiating.” Welcome to (bleeping) LA.

While I was back in Atlanta I reconnected with friends from The Chase Records. A friend that worked at The Chase before it closed landed a position at Christian Network, a television network that broadcasted Christian based programming exclusively, and she asked if I would work as a stylist for a new gospel music video show that was going to air on the network. She said there would be one day of rehearsals and that they were going to shoot six episodes of the show the following day. I agreed to do it. Even though I was in Atlanta working for the old school artists I had enough down time to take on an additional styling job.

One of the first persons I met when I got to rehearsals for the music video show was Vivian Waters. She was a powerhouse of a gospel singer whose music I grew up listening to, and she had a very contagious personality. After two minutes of rehearsal of the commentary and another three minutes of her comical ad libs for the show it was clear to me and everyone else in the studio why she was the perfect host for the show.

There were quite a few observers at the studio while Vivian rehearsed. She had two assistants, both were on the phone non-stop, so short of polite chit chat about the weather I didn’t talk to them much. There was also a young fashion designer there who had his portfolio for Vivian to take a look at. He had expressed to me that he hoped she would place an order for one of his signature suits but he seemed disappointed when Vivian raved on and on about the shoes he was wearing and not his designs. She wanted to know everything about his brown leather loafers. She said she’d like to get her son a pair. The young designer tried to redirect the conversation back to his talent but Vivian had moved on.

After she talked to the young designer she seemed to be really pleased to make the acquaintance of the son of one of the executive producers of the show. He had come to the studio with his wife and their new born baby daughter. Everyone cooed over the beautiful infant and Vivian very graciously took pictures with the proud parents and their baby. Also there to see Vivian was another gospel great. She belted out hymns and songs of praise in a tradition similar to Mahalia Jackson. She waited impatiently as Vivian took pictures with the family. She openly complained about having to wait for Vivian to make time for her. She had come to the studio accompanied by two heavy set ladies who were dressed as if they were headed to Easter Sunday service. They made failed attempts to try to calm the gospel virtuoso, to get her to lower her voice, but she wouldn’t comply. Once the man and his wife moved from in front of the camera after having their picture taken she bombarded her way pass them to get Vivian’s full attention. As the man backed away to make room for her rude intrusion he unintentionally stepped on her foot. She yelped, and he apologized profusely.

“I’m so sorry. I apologize,” he kept repeating.

“You’re sorry huh,” she asked rudely. Then she snapped, “How would you like it if I stepped on your baby’s feet?”

The room went completely quiet. No one said a word. The new mother clutched her baby tight to her chest and quickly walked out. Her husband followed close behind her and one of the church ladies that was with the ornery aging gospel performer followed after them offering apologies for what the singer had said. The awkwardness in the room was palpable to everyone else except for the rude gospel singer. She went on to talk to Vivian as if nothing happened. She was there to discuss the possibility of her making a guest appearance on the show. I had decided that if she was brought in to do a guest appearance that on that day I’d bring in my own video camera. I would need proof of her unbelievable antics for anyone to believe that she had carried on the way I was witnessing first-hand.

She talked to Vivian non-stop and longer than the time the shows producers were willing to allow for Vivian to mingle. When one of the assistant producers came into the room to get Vivian to come back to rehearse the rude gospel singer grunted and said, “This is a gospel show, right son? Well, make room for Jesus because I’m not finished talking.” The assistant producer looked at her as if she was crazy and walked out. I looked over at one of Vivian’s assistants and he was trying to hide his laugh. I wanted to laugh at the crazy old lady too but I just shook my head. When Vivian wrapped up her conversation with the singer and made her way back into rehearsal she said with a laugh, “God help her.”

At the conclusion of rehearsals one of the shows producers decided to have a meeting with Vivian and me to discuss what the Christian Network wanted Vivian’s wardrobe to look like. Once we were in the meeting the producer began by complimenting Vivian on her comedic and colorful delivery of the shows script and he went on to say that if she gave a performance like that on the day of shooting the show would be a runaway success. He also told her that he and the Christian Network were counting on her faithful fans to be the base of the shows viewership. He said her fans loved her and they were looking forward to seeing her let her light shine on television. After he said that she said, “Baby, I’ve been on TV letting my light shine for over twenty years.” He laughed nervously and began to fidget. Vivian didn’t crack a smile.

“What I mean to say is,” he continued uncomfortably, “You have a huge following and we don’t want to lose not one of those fans as viewers and neither do we want to offend any new viewers.” Vivian folded her arms tightly across her chest and moaned. That’s when I got nervous and began to fidget. He tried clarifying his statement again.

“What I’m tyring to say is that the Christian Network wants to be sure that new viewers who may not be familiar with your style of dress feel comfortable with tuning in and staying tuned in,” he clarified.

“So you want me to take my 100 watt light and put a lamp shade on it so it looks 40 watt,” she questioned perturbed. She was offended. He let out another nervous laugh then he pointed to me and said, “Well, we thought it would be a good idea for you not to have to worry about wardrobe so we hired a stylist for you.”

“So she’s here to hide me,” she snapped.

“No. She’s here to help enhance what you already have,” he explained.

“Look honey,” she said pointing her finger at him, “When y’all asked me to do this show you knew who I was. You knew what I would bring to the table. If you want me to do this show I’m going to give the people who love me the real me. And if somebody else doesn’t like it they can change the channel.” Then she looked at me and said, “No offense to you baby.” I quickly replied, “None taken.”

The producer tried one last time to explain the vision that the network had for Vivian’s wardrobe but she quickly dismissed him. The network wanted her to dress more conservative, “Like Oprah,” he said specifically.

“When Oprah starts hosting a music video show then we’ll talk. Until then . . .,” she stopped talking and shot the producer a look that said if you keep going down this road there’s going to be a serious problem. He quickly held up both hands in a posture that said he had decided to concede her point. She walked out of the room and he asked me to talk to her. He said that it was important for her to tone down her image so she wouldn’t turn off any new viewers who weren’t already familiar with her. Then he looked at me and asked, “You understand, don’t you?” I shook my head yes, but I understood more than he was willing to admit to.

What he was saying was that the Vivian Waters who had been singing gospel music all over the world, who had legions of faithful fans, and who in every way exemplified the most colorful and soulful experience of the modern day church, needed to tone down everything that made her who she was in order to appeal to the Christian Network’s core audience of Judeo-Christian evangelicals. Vivian knew it, I knew it, and he knew it. It just would not be politically god-like to say it.

The reason the network had decided to try to put together an “urban video gospel show” (their words) was because a retired professional boxer had said he would lend his name to the show in order to try to ensure a high volume of diverse viewership. He was an executive producer on the show and one of his first executive decisions concerning the show was to have Vivian Waters be the host. The network had been getting complaints that their programming didn’t appeal to the contemporary gospel crowd (which they branded urban). The video gospel show was their attempt to cater to a forgotten audience.

Vivian had no intentions of giving in to the predictions of their statistical data which said that her style wouldn’t appeal to their established audience. “I’mma be me,” she insisted as we talked later in her dressing room. “They must be crazy,” she said with a roll of her neck and a smack of her lips. Then she added, “They better recognize.” That’s when I cracked up.

And indeed, they should have recognized. They should have recognized that the next day when Vivian came in to tape episodes of the show she showed up with four huge steamer trunks filled with her own designer clothes, shoes, and accessories. They should have recognized that her style wasn’t matching two piece cardigans sets with pearls and pleated trousers even if they brought me in as a stylist to convince her otherwise. Her style was vibrant colors, rhinestones, and bold prints. Her style was sculpted hair and airbrushed nails. I recognized it as Detroit. (I could pick that style out anywhere.) They should have recognized how few mistakes she made while taping and as the day went on how she kept everyone on the set motivated to keep working with her jokes or an impromptu song. They should have recognized how charismatic she came across on camera, how she seemed to be speaking to each individual viewer, and how that would have made the show a success. They should have recognized but they didn’t, and the show never aired.

At the end of the day of taping they asked me to turn in an invoice so I could be paid. After thirty days of not receiving payment I called. After 90 days of not receiving payment I kept calling and starting faxing letters threatening to sue. After nine months I finally received payment with a note asking me if I would be willing to donate the money back to the Christian Network to help further their cause of broadcasting the teachings of Jesus Christ. I laughed to myself and said, “Father, forgive them, for they know not that they are crazy!”

We arrived in Georgia the day before the show, which gave me a short time to prepare. I went shopping at Lenox Mall to get undergarments and other wardrobe staples that could easily be mixed and matched. I was also able to connect with a friend who knew an upscale men’s boutique owner who upon hearing the act I was working with agreed to let me pull looks from his store in exchange for tickets to the show and an autographed photo of Eddie made out to him and his store. Even if I had to revert to my record label internship days and sign the autographs myself I would make sure the owner got everything he asked for.

Eddie was a nice man and nice to work for. He would try to hard sometimes to be funny though. His jokes were corny, but it didn’t stop him from telling them to anyone who would listen. He would start, “What did the sun do?” I’d shake my head and say, “I don’t know. What did the sun do?”

“It made Keith Sweat and Bobby Brown.” Then he would burst into wheezing laughter. I’d laugh too. Only I wasn’t laughing with him. I think he knew it but that didn’t stop him.

He didn’t travel with an entourage. Usually he would only have his manager by his side. Even at the show he wasn’t surrounded backstage by lots of people or assistants before he performed.

The crowd that came to see him perform was mature, not old. They were the “you look to young to be somebody’s grandma” crowd. They were the players of their day. They were the matchy matchy crowd. The man’s red hat, red suit and red shoes matched his dates red dress, red pocketbook, and red pumps. They loved Eddie’s music, they knew all the words to his songs. They grooved to his solo hits, but they went wild and got up and danced to their favorites when he performed songs from his band days with Too Tight. It was exciting to see him perform his encore requests because he seemed to lose himself in those songs. He let the music take over completely and it even made all of us backstage join in the party.

When his show was over he had a meet and greet set up for his fans. I had arranged his wardrobe in the dressing room so he could quickly change from his performance gear into a clean dry outfit for the meet and greet. He had a great show and the fans who had been granted an opportunity to meet him after the show were getting anxious. I had even arranged for the boutique owner to be able to come backstage to meet Eddie and take pictures with him.

Everyone backstage was on pins and needles waiting because it was taking Eddie a long time to come out of the dressing room. His manager was getting antsy and he asked me to go and check on Eddie. I knocked on the dressing room door and asked if it was OK for me to come in. The first thing I noticed were the clothes I had laid out for him to change into were still where I had originally placed them, and Eddie’s show clothes were thrown over a chair. I was confused because he was undressed, except for a very tight pair of blue Speedo swim trunks that he was wearing as underwear.

“Is everything alright,” I asked. He was pacing very fast, and even undressed he was sweating profusely.

“I’m trying to wait for my underwear to dry,” he said frustrated. “I know they’re waiting for me, but I don’t want to put on my clean clothes with wet underwear. Do you think you can find a fan or something so I can dry them faster?” He was fanning the Speedos with his hands as he paced. It was the silliest sight. With the amount of sweat that the tight spandex underwear was holding it would have taken ten fans to dry them. I held in my laugh and walked over to where I had laid out his change of clothes on the chair and lifted them up to reveal to him a clean dry pair of boxer-briefs. While I was shopping for undergarments I wasn’t sure if I should get boxers or briefs for my new client, so I settled on boxer-briefs. It never occurred to me to consider Speedos. His face lit up when he saw the new dry underwear.

“That’s what I’m talking about,” he said grinning from ear to ear. “I listened to the lady at the store and I’ve been wearing these tight drawers ever since because she told me that they were sexy. I should have just kept it old school with white cotton drawers like my mama used to buy for me.” He grabbed the dry underwear and began to change. I quickly exited to give him privacy and within minutes he emerged from the dressing room with a huge smile. He walked toward his manager and the others waiting and as he past me he gave me a thumbs up. I smiled because I loved getting positive feedback about my work.

As he signed autographs and posed for pictures I made my way back into the dressing room to gather up and pack the wardrobe, and there on the vanity sat the very damp pair of tight blue spandex underwear steaming up the mirror. I decided to let them sit there until I was finished packing the rest of the wardrobe. I kept zip lock bags to hold jewelry and safety pins, but this time I decided that I would fill one with the steaming blue undergarment that I would put into the bag using a hanger hook because I refused to touch them. While I packed Eddie popped back into the dressing room quickly explaining that he had forgotten his wallet. When he turned to leave he noticed the fogged mirror and said, “What do you call a dresser that’s on fire?”

“I don’t know,” I answered. “What?”

“Hot drawers,” he said laughing as he pointed to the steaming blue spandex before he left the room.

I just shook my head.

Eddie Hill was nice. Ronnie Wilson was magnetic. Eddie Hill’s singing was sweet, but Ronny Wilson’s singing was infectious. Ronny Wilson owned the rooms he entered. His last chart topping hit may have been years ago but he was still a star, and unlike Eddie Hill who only traveled with his manager, when Ronny moved we all (label reps, manager, hair and wardrobe stylists, publicists, and his wife) moved with him.

The buzz around Ronny’s upcoming concert was growing, and unlike Eddie Hill he was doing a lot of printed press, television, and radio to promote his new CD and single that was climbing the charts.

Our first stop was a local early morning news show where Ronny was scheduled to do a short interview and perform his latest solo single. Also scheduled to appear on the show, and sharing a very large green room with us, were hair stylists previewing avant garde hair designs to promote an upcoming hair show. One of the hair stylists was a huge Ronny Wilson fan and she was sure to let us know. As he talked during his interview she cosigned, and when he sang she swooned. When his performance was over he made his way backstage into the green room where we all waited. When he came in the hair stylist clapped softly. I remember thinking how cute her excitement was. She was standing nearby and grabbed my arm and asked me to introduce her to Ronny. When I made the introduction she nervously stumbled through her words of admiration for Ronny, and in his cool way he put her at ease. He moved on to greet the rest of the people in the room and when he walked away the hair stylist asked me if I had any tickets to Ronny’s upcoming show. I told her I didn’t have any on hand but I would see what I could do. She gave me her business card and said that if I could get her two tickets to the show that she would do my hair for free. At the time I was wearing my hair short, kind of like Toni Braxton, so I figured that if I did let her do my hair and she messed it up I didn’t have much hair for her to mess up. I told her I’d work on getting her the tickets. She started begging, “Please, please, please. Please try as hard as you can. I swear, I’ll hook your hair up.” I told her that I would call her later with the ticket information.

Once Ronny was finished at the morning show we were on our way. We had multiple stops to make that day and among them was a scheduled speech at an in-patient drug rehabilitation facility. Because of my limited exposure to Ronny’s band Party Train I was only familiar with some of their music, not with each individual member of the group. So I had no idea of Ronny’s past struggles with drug addiction. When I met him he had been many years clean and was very passionate about being able to inspire others to get clean and sober and stay clean and sober. As a part of our day of planned activities we (label reps, manager, hair and wardrobe stylists, publicist, and his wife) all accompanied Ronny while he spoke to in-patients at a drug rehab facility.

Having never experienced anything like it I was surprised by everything at the facility. But mainly I was shocked at the diversity of the patients. They were young, old, Black, white, and Latin. They were male and female, beautiful, pretty, and ugly. They were corporate CEO types, cookie baking grandma types, athletic types, and there were some who looked like the type you expected to see at rehab.

When Ronny spoke to them his sincerity was captivating. A counselor had introduced him and mentioned some of his accolades, but at the end of his introduction he added, “He’s just a recovering addict. He’s no better than anyone in here. So we’re going to listen to him and welcome him in as a brother.” That amazed me because it did make me look at Ronny differently. It made me feel protective of him.

He began to give his speech and his earnestness captivated the room. He spoke about how his addiction caused him to lose out on lucrative endorsements and strained his relationships with his band and family. He also shared how changing his friends and environment and how meeting his wife, a former drug counselor, helped to keep him on the path to sobriety. Even while sharing some of the darkest moments of his life Ronny owned that room. He stood out like a star. When one middle aged, blond haired, blue eyed all-American CEO looking type asked Ronny in a sarcastic thick crackling southern drawl, “Well, I heard everything you said, but who are you? Ronny Wilson, that’s your name right? Are you related to Jackie Wilson? Because I know who that is.” The question didn’t shake Ronny. He stood tall in the midst of that circle like a pro.

After the CEO type made those comments he went to scan the room for endorsement from some of the other patients that his questioning of Ronny’s identity was legitimate, but there was a group of three Black men who sat maybe two yards from the man who had asked the question looking at him with disgust. Before Ronny could formulate an answer everyone in the room could hear the rumblings of the three men who had clapped the loudest when Ronny was introduced and who were the most captivated as he spoke. It was obvious they were offended with the man’s questioning of Ronny. One of them shouted out loud enough for everyone to hear, “Man you trippin! He ain’t related to no Jackie Wilson.” There were chuckles throughout the group as the three slapped each other five and let their displeasure for the man challenging Ronny’s fame be known. Even Ronny giggled as one of the men called the CEO type a jive turkey. The rehab director had to call out for the entire group to settle down.

Ronny went on to tell the man that it wasn’t important if he knew who he was but that it was more important to focus on sobriety and maintaining a healthy lifestyle. Then Ronny went on to tell a story about when he had been using at a music festival that included some very big names in the line up. He dropped a few names in an attempt to find one that the all-American CEO type might recognize but the man showed no signs of being willing to be wooed by Ronny. Ronny later tried to assure us, unnecessarily, that his intentions were to inspire the patients, to encourage them to live soberly, and in turn continue to uplift himself to maintain his clean lifestyle. However, if any part of him needed an ego boost it would be found in the three Black men who sat giddy as school children as he recounted stories of his drug filled hay days. They laughed when he laughed, wiggled in their seats as he built up to the climax of his story and when Ronny was somber and reflective they were as quiet as church mice.

During the question and answer portion of the meeting the three men took exclusive possession of the time and when it was over many of the patients and Ronny, lead by the trio of men, retreated outdoors for a cigarette. Ronny’s management and label reps had asked the facility’s management to allow him to give out copies of his new CD but the director refused. He felt that such activity would undermine the message that Ronny was an addict just like the rest of the patients. Ronny’s management tried to haggle with the director to at least allow autographs but was unsuccessful and we all ended up helping to carry out the boxes of unsigned CD’s and promotional pictures back to the waiting car. When we exited the facility carrying the boxed merchandise we had to pass the three Black men who were having a smoke with Ronny. The four of them were laughing and joking like they were longtime buddies. As we passed on the way to place the boxes into the waiting car one of the men asked Ronny could they have a copy of his new release. Ronny informed them of the directors instruction that no music, pictures or autographs were to be given out. Then one of the three band of brothers said with a wink, “But if you dropped it on the floor and I picked it up that wouldn’t be you technically giving it to me.” There was thunderous laughter that came from the entire group after that suggestion, followed by the other two repeating, “Drop it on the floor man. Drop it on the floor.” We all laughed with the three and Ronny hugged each one before getting in the waiting car to leave.

We had been riding maybe fifteen minutes in complete silence, with the exception of the radio playing lightly in the background. “That was a good meeting,” Ronny reflected, and we all nodded in agreement. He went on to say how he remembered being right there where those guys were in his journey to get clean.

“I’m grateful for my support,” he said as he grabbed his wife’s hand and squeezed it. Her face beamed. Then she went on to recount the story of how they met. He was a patient and she was a counselor. They broke the rules and got together. She said she missed counseling but she knew she loved Ronny and made the choice to be with him. Ronny went on to say how happy he was to know that some of his peers who had been under the influence in the past were now clean and he expressed sadness at the sight of some of those who hadn’t quite made the connection yet.

“Yeah, man I just saw one of my boys from the Party Train days not to long ago. At the time this cat sold gold every time he came out. It messed me up because I could look at the dude and tell what he was up to. I tried to talk to my man. I tried telling him he didn’t have to do what he was doing.” Ronny’s wife was shaking her head in agreement. Then Ronny laughed and asked, “Do you know what the dude said to me?” He looked at us, hanging on his every word, then he continued, “He told me, ‘I hear what you’re saying man. I know you’re right. But if I go out, I’m trying to go out on top. I want to go out on top.’” Then Ronny let out a quick laugh and said, “I told him, man, if you want to go out on top, you should have died 20 years ago.”

Later that night we had a ball at Ronny’s concert, and the mix of artists there to see him made it even more exciting. From Isaac Hayes to Lenny Kravitz, from Keith Sweat to Ashford and Simpson, everyone dropped any pretense and joined Ronny when he sang all of his Party Train hits. The record label had baby tee’s printed up for us to wear for the night that read “Ronny’s Angels”, and at every turn people begged us to have them, including the hair stylist who I was able to get tickets for. She asked me to bring her my shirt when I came to get my hair done. She said I didn’t even have to worry about washing it first.

We all partied good that night.

I gathered up a few of my most photogenic friends and promised them that they could keep the clothes I would have them wear and that I would give them copies of the pictures if they agreed to be models for my photo shoot. Word got out that I was doing a shoot and my voicemail was flooded with willing volunteers. Amongst the messages was one from a music producer asking if I would consider a friend of his to model for me. I knew that he had a thing for the young lady and this was going to be an opportunity for him to brag that he could help get her work as a model. It was no question that the young lady was pretty on the outside, but her rottenness inside was seeping through her pores. Not to mention that for some odd reason all of the fat in her body had congregated at her knees. She had a nice shape except for her knees. “Big knees” is what I dubbed her after she called me leaving a nasty message demanding pictures two days after the shoot. After I reminded her that we hadn’t taken Polaroids, that the pictures we took needed time to develop, she threatened to kick my ass. Her threat was to ridiculous to take seriously, so I didn’t. But I did call to report her behavior back to my producer friend who had recommended her to me and he laughed and said that he wasn’t surprised. He joked that she would be dropped from his “roster” soon anyway.

Beside the antics of “big knees” I was very excited about my portfolio. I had included pictures of Dax in the pants I had made along with images of Chunky Fire and my friends in clothes I made and looks I styled. I was anxious to get back to LA with my new portfolio and show it off. I had got in touch with David Lilly and we arranged to get together at his house so we could catch up. I felt like this couldn’t have been a better time for me to have my portfolio ready. As I made my way to his house it was nearing sunset and the scenery heading to Calabasas on the 101 freeway was beautiful. I felt so fortunate that things were coming together the way that they were. David had said that he could help me get work in Los Angeles, and I had just come back from a great working trip in Atlanta. As I drove I thanked God because everything was moving along so smoothly. I was focused on work and it was paying off.

David’s house was modest but elegant. It reflected the style of a man who had traveled extensively but was distinctly masculine with touches that appealed to feminine sensibilities. He said on the phone that we would have dinner, and I automatically figured he meant go out for dinner as we had done in the past, but when I entered his house it was evident by the sweet and savory smell of garlic in the air that we were having dinner there. He gave me a tour of his house, during which I found out he had a young son, and even though his son didn’t live with him he had enough stories about his son’s frequent visits for me to conclude that they were close. Once we were near the kitchen David poured red wine into beautiful crystal wine glasses. He offered up a toast, we touched glasses, and there began the end of sobriety for that night.

The lamb with rosemary was delicious, along with the garlic mashed potatoes and green beans with dried cranberries. I was sure to let him know how tasty the food was and he was sure to let me know throughout the meal how he had prepared everything himself. It was impressive, and he also had lovely chocolate covered strawberries for dessert. I had finished the red wine with dinner and was floating. I gave myself props for maintaining my composure so well and I thought since he hadn’t refilled my glass that I would get a chance to let some of the massive buzz wear off, but with the strawberries came champagne and then it hit me. This was not a dinner meeting, it was a seduction. Damn! All I wanted from him was for him to help me get work, but there I was drunk in his house naively not having the foresight to know that I would be fighting off advances. I had to be quick on my feet. (As quick as I could be with the haze of red wine and champagne swirling in my head.)

He had invited me to join him on the huge over-stuffed sofa that sat in the middle of the living room. Behind the sofa was a buffet table where he conveniently placed the remaining chocolate covered treats and an ice bucket with the chilled bubbly beverage. When I walked over to join him I could feel him following me with his eyes so I detoured to the entertainment center that was against the wall facing the couch. On the shelves were framed pictures of David with various A-list celebrities. I decided that the best way to put the breaks on his plan was to talk about work.

“Where were you guys when you took this picture,” I asked as I stood next to the massive entertainment unit pointing to a picture of David and Robert DeNiro, both dressed impeccably in tuxedos.

“That was on the set of his last film,” he replied as he continued to stare at me. “I was working and they asked if I wanted to be an extra in that scene.” He paused to take a sip from his champagne flute before he continued. “I had a lot of fun that day. Bob and I had a good time teasing all of the extras because it was a ballroom dinner scene that was taking forever to shoot and we were the only table in the scene with real edible food.” He started laughing his high pitched laugh before he continued. “So as the hours went on and on we kept eating while the rest of the extras in the scene looked at us hungry.” He was into a deep belly laugh when he finished talking. My plan was working I thought to myself. Keep him talking about work. So I went to the next picture of him and another A-lister and asked about it. He gave me a short explanation of the circumstances behind it followed by, “Are you going to come sit your sexy self next to me or what?” He was staring at me again. I felt like he would pounce on me at any moment by the way he was looking at me. As I made my way slowly to the couch, I thought to myself, “Defense, girl. Defense.” When I sat down on the couch I was sure to leave a cushion empty between us.

“You can sit a little closer to me sexy. I won’t bite.” Then he chuckled and I could swear I heard him whisper under his breath, “Not yet.” I put the glass flute I was holding down on the coffee table in front of the couch and pretended to scoot in, but the empty cushion still sat between us. He smiled a half smile. All of a sudden I realized how silent it was. I could have sworn that before that moment I heard music playing in the background. I felt awkward and David was still staring. He lifted his leg up halfway onto the couch in my direction.

“Defense, girl. Defense,” I shouted to myself again.

“So, I’m sexy, huh,” I asked with a half grin. He was about to reply, but I interrupted him before he could get a word out. “Where’s your wife? How come you don’t wear a wedding ring?” I asked with the same half smile, trying not to come off to aggressively but to let him know I did intend for him to answer. I didn’t care if he had a wife or not, I was just trying to keep him talking.

“What makes you think I have a wife,” he asked. He seemed genuinely confused by my question.

“Well, there are some distinct feminine touches in this house, so I figured you must have a wife.”

“No, I don’t have a wife. I’ve been divorced for six years now,” he answered. As I was formulating my next question that would keep him talking, and keep me out of any kind of compromising position, he surprised me. He kept going on about his ex-wife. He talked about how beautiful she was. He said that she and I were built the same – short with thick thighs and hips. He talked about how happy he was when they had their son and how she was so supportive of his work. He said that even though being on movie shoots took him away for months at a time, she would come to visit and they were very happy. Then he talked about how devastated he was when he found out she was cheating on him, and then I felt bad. I didn’t mean to bring up such painful memories, I just wanted to leave his house unmolested.

The more I listened to him talk the more I realized that David was lonely. He talked about how he loved having a family and how not having that anymore made him bury himself in work. He talked about how he missed having his son in his house everyday. He talked about how he didn’t think he would ever find another woman as beautiful as his ex, but he also said that he didn’t know if he could trust another woman again after what she had done. He continued to talk without any input from me, and before I knew it close to two hours had passed and he didn’t seem like he was running out of steam to continue talking about his ex-wife.

I was finally sobering up and I was ready to go, but he was content to keep talking. Another twenty minutes passed before I was able to interrupt to let him know that I needed to leave. I had an interview the next morning that my hairstylist had set up for me. I told him it was to do wardrobe on a cable television show. He was disappointed that I was ready to go. He offered for me to stay the night. He offered to make me breakfast in the morning. And if I stayed, he promised to take me shopping for shoes on Rodeo. I didn’t consider his offer, not even for a second. (Maybe I did think twice, or three times, about the shoe shopping on Rodeo part – but taking an offer like that wasn’t my style.)

I told him that I would give him a call after my interview and that we had plenty of time to get together again. He walked me to my car and offered once again for me to stay. I waved from my car window as I pulled away. I felt a little sorry for David as his reflection lingered in my rear view mirror, but I was only focused on work.

I just wanted to work.

Tony and I were growing closer and he was even recommending me for alterations work with some of his clients. Tony also did hair on several productions in addition to the work he did at the salon, and whenever he heard about an opening in wardrobe he would give me a heads up to call and apply. One day after I got my hair done Tony asked what my plans were for the week. I told him that I didn’t have much going on and he informed me that he could get me an interview to do wardrobe on one of the shows he was working on. He said they were looking for someone to take the place of the current wardrobe costumer who was leaving to start work on another production. Always ready to work, I told him to tell me when and where and I would be there.

What Tony didn’t tell me (and I hadn’t asked) was that the client he was setting me up to interview with was Pleasure, Inc. In particular, a show called “Pleasure Calls.” The full extent of my familiarity with Pleasure Inc. started with their logo of the bunny silhouette and ended with the cellophane wrapped magazines in the “men’s interests” section of the newsstand that I dare not read. I wasn’t aware that they produced television shows.

When I arrived at the studio Tony met me to take me in to see the producer. When we entered the soundstage and Tony pointed out the producer to me I went up to introduce myself to him, but he shooed me away as I approached. He was going off on someone on the phone and at that moment our business could wait. I went to wait at Tony’s station in the hair and make-up room, and was immediately transfixed by the jovial atmosphere. It was like a salon on steroids. Everyone’s hair was big, the make-up was bold, and the boobs on some of those girls were huge. Even one of the boys, who was in the midst of transgender, had big breasts.

The gossip in that room was amazingly graphic and salacious. One of the girls was dating a Los Angeles district attorney who liked for her to burn him with a cigarette lighter. Another girl was chronicling the drama of telling her boyfriend that she preferred girls to guys, and one very pretty statuesque cocoa brown girl talked about whipping the ass of another Black girl who she found out was sleeping with a guy she was seeing regularly who, by the way, happened to be a Harley riding, leather clad white supremacist.

After almost an hour the producer still wasn’t available to see me and it was lunch time at the studio. The girls and Tony invited me to go to the lunch tent with them that was taking up a small area in the parking lot outside. The spread the caterers had prepared was incredible.  The food was healthy and fresh and appealed to all the senses, but the same cannot be said about the lunch conversation that was being offered up by the “actress” who came and sat next to me. I didn’t have much of an appetite but not wanting to be rude I made myself a small plate of fruit and even though I hadn’t taken one bite I was full of information about the “actress” next to me.

She had a protective order against her former roommate. She sent child support to her mother for her son but was threatening to stop unless her mother sent the rest of her clothes from a storage unit she kept back home. She had overdrawn her bank account, and she was using her two fingers to get herself off when her “boyfriend” couldn’t. And that pissed me off because there she sat holding up her index and middle fingers inches from my face. Oblivious to my disgust she kept on talking. I decided I had enough and stood up to leave with my little plate of fruit when I felt a hand on my back. When I turned to see who it was it was the producer I was there to interview with.

“Sorry for keeping you waiting,” he said as he looked around as if he were talking to someone else. Then he looked down at my small plate of fruit as if the untouched food had disgusted him. “Why don’t you get rid of that and come with me to my office.” I went to discard the plate when I overheard the “actress” ask him, “She’s not here for Karen’s job is she,” and she covered her mouth as she laughed. He told her that I was there for wardrobe, and she let out a sigh of relief. I had returned and was standing next to the producer when he turned to lead me back into the studio. As we walked away the “actress” shouted out after him, “Hey, I thought you said you would call me.” He yelled back at her, “Whatever bitch!” Now it was my turn to hold my hand over my mouth and laugh. He looked back at me and saw me laughing and then he chuckled and said,” Watch out for that trash. She’s a garbage can.” As he lead me into his small office, I said to myself, “Welcome to the jungle.”

I was used to formal interviews, but this interview was anything but. He sat in the chair next to mine that was placed in front of his desk. We chatted for a few minutes about my work experience then he asked to see my portfolio. I could barely hide my excitement at giving someone my portfolio for review for a job for the first time. I knew he was going to love it as much as I did. I knew he would be impressed. I handed my black leather book to him with both hands as if I were presenting him with the key to the city on a gold platter. I sat quietly watching him thumb through the pages of my newly created professional portfolio, anticipating his praise, preparing myself to humbly accept his joy at encountering someone as talented as me. I was waiting for his accolades to begin at any moment. I looked at each photo with him as he flipped through my book, giving myself kudos, waiting for his approval to begin, but he wasn’t saying anything. Then I took my eyes off of my portfolio and took notice of his expression. He seemed stoic. I wondered was he purposely down playing his excitement or was he, God forbid, not impressed with what he saw?

Without a word he closed my book and handed it back to me. His blank expression hadn’t changed and I was confused. He asked had I ever seen his show. I shook my head no. He jumped up, placed a DVD into the player that sat behind us and turned on the television. “Why don’t you take a look at the show and I’ll come back to check on you.” I said OK and let out a nervous laugh. I was confused. Did he like my portfolio or not? He left out of the office but he left the door halfway open, and just as I was about to begin another barrage of questions in my head the show started.

The opening was girls dancing on poles with cut off t-shirts that only covered half of their massive breasts. Then the hosts came on. They were very perky and flirty. They were dressed like fourteen year old girls who hung out at a very fashionable mall. They wore mini skirts with knee high socks and tennis shoes, tank tops and braided ponytails, and halter tops and micro mini shorts. But no matter what the activity, they would either end up topless or bottomless. I’d never seen or heard of topless tennis, and with the breast enhancements, it looked painful. There was also strip bowling and the most peculiar of all, topless skiing. I sat there thinking, “Who does this kind of stuff?” Then the show transitioned into a phone-in segment, where viewers called in and asked the hosts sex questions as well as request that they demonstrate various sexual acts with each other. That’s when I turned off the DVD and said to myself no wonder he wasn’t moved by my portfolio. Everyone in it was fully clothed.

I would have never labeled myself a prude, I considered myself more straight-laced, but after watching that DVD I felt like a candidate for seminary being tricked into going to see a dirty movie. The producer must have pegged me from the beginning as the buttoned up type and having me watch that DVD was his way of letting me know that this wasn’t the job for me. I hated to turn down work, but he was right. I went to look for him in the studio and when I found him he asked what did I think of the video. I half smiled. I couldn’t find the right words. He smiled too and we both laughed. He patted me on the back and said, “You’re a good kid, but you’d better get out of here.” I agreed and thanked him for meeting with me. He shook my hand and walked away.

I went to find Tony to tell him what happened. He laughed uncontrollably at me. We were wrapping up our conversation when one of the production assistants came in to get Tony to come to the set. He said there was a hair emergency. He said one of the hosts of the show had her face in a part of one of the other hosts and she grabbed her hair and . . .

Tony asked me to wait for him until he got back from doing the needed touch-ups, but I couldn’t. The producer was right. I was a good kid and I needed to get out of there.

The next time I went to the salon Tony had already told Eric what had happened at Pleasure, Inc. and they both took turns teasing me endlessly. I didn’t mind the teasing that much because some of their jokes were really funny. By the time I was finished getting my hair done they had labeled me “the virgin flying nun”, and when Eric went to play in my hair he made wind noises. We cracked up. I had no idea that would be the last time I would ever see Eric again.

About a week later a small group of friends had gathered at Holly’s for pizza and industry talk when one of the girls who worked for the agent who represented Eric got a call saying that he had passed in a plane crash along with R&B singer Aaliyah and several others who had worked on what turned out to be her last video.

We were devastated. 

Once inside the garments on the racks did not disappoint. The fabrics and colors were sumptuous. But completely uncharacteristic for a dress shop in Los Angeles there was a complete lack of pretense. The shop was inviting and easy, and with such striking garments I knew that this boutique was somewhere I wanted to be everyday. As I surveyed, inspected, and salivated over the clothes I noticed that beside myself the shop was empty with the exception of a willowy man standing behind a small desk talking on the phone. He nodded in my direction, and I smiled in return. I felt comfortable moving through the shop and was thankful that there weren’t any want-to-be super model snobbish saleswomen following behind me sizing me up as I had come to expect at boutiques in LA. I had a dress practically turned inside out trying to figure out how I could duplicate it at home when I was approached by the man who was on the phone. He spoke softly when he asked if he could help me. He was unexpectedly humble. I told him that I had passed by the shop several times and loved everything I had seen in the window, and since I had some free time I decided to come in and take a look. Then he informed me that everything in the shop was made on the premises. “Really,” I replied surprised. He said that if I didn’t see my size or if I wanted one of the garments that was already made in a different color that it could be done there in the shop. Then he lead me over to the small desk where he had been standing and gave me a business card. It had the phone number and address of the shop along with the name Galeno Francisco. I asked him if he was the designer and he said yes. As I stood at the desk I noticed to my right, behind tall curtained dressing booths, were two long work tables like the ones at design school and next to them were racks full of hand made patterns. Then I told myself again that this was a place I wanted to be everyday.

“Are you hiring,” I asked.

“No,” he answered as if he regretted saying no. I said OK and took one more look around the shop before I left out. I went about my day, but I couldn’t get Galeno Francisco off my mind. I couldn’t let go of the fact that the clothes were being made on the premises and that the designer himself seemed so humble especially considering the beauty of his work.

“He said he wasn’t hiring,” I kept reminding myself. But suddenly an idea hit me. I knew there was a way I could get him to let me work for him. However, as soon as the idea hit me I dismissed it. I had been down that road before, and as I came up with excuse after excuse why I shouldn’t call and ask if he was looking for an intern, the more the idea appealed to me. I knew that as soon as he got a look at my resume I’d be in. And after I called and set-up a meeting with him that’s exactly what happened.

It was the pants that I had made for Dax that did it. He said he wasn’t a big fan of hip hop but he liked Dax’s originality, and the fact that I had a hand in putting together Dax’s look impressed him. Our meeting was on a Wednesday afternoon and he said I could start on the upcoming Saturday at 10am when the shop opened. When I pulled up into the parking lot to enter at the employee entrance back door I took a deep breath and said to myself, “Here we go again.”

I entered the gated door and was immediately exhilarated by the familiar hum of industrial sewing machines waiting to be pushed into staccato motion. There were three ladies fast at work turning the fabric draped across their machines into works of wearable art. I smiled and so did they, but they never broke their concentration on what they were doing. The small room they were working in wasn’t visible from the front. It sat behind the fabric room which housed jaw dropping beautiful textiles that called out to me to touch them each time I walked pass the open door. The fabric room sat behind the space that held the large work tables and racks of hand made patterns that I saw on my initial visit. At one of the tables sat Galeno and a woman speaking Spanish very rapidly. I usually could pick up a word or two of a Spanish conversation if those speaking it weren’t speaking to fast, but when I overheard Galeno and the woman talking I was lost. When Galeno looked up at me he smiled and introduced me to the woman at the table. Her name was Maria and she was the in-house patternmaker. She said hello and asked me how I was doing all in Spanish. I answered, “Bien,” and smiled. Then she asked me in Spanish if I spoke Spanish. I answered, “Muy poquito.” She and Galeno laughed. I got nervous because I didn’t want to offend them. I wanted to make a good first impression. I was sure that was an appropriate answer, but when they laughed I felt unsure. Maria picked up on the uncertainty on my face and she said, “Muy poquito. OK, honey,” in her thick accent and patted my arm playfully. I felt much better then and Galeno stood up from the table and began to show me around. Basically we retraced the route I had just taken, only in reverse. He showed me the fabric room, and I had to stop myself from hugging several of the beautiful bolts. It was an impulse, but I knew if I followed through with it I would surely be considered a weirdo. But I did manage to allow an “ooooh, very nice” escape my lips as I ran my hand down a roll of silver silk charmeuse. Next we made our way back to the sewing room where I first entered. Galeno interrupted the ladies and introduced me to them. He introduced them each as Maria. I wasn’t sure if he was serious until he said that the Maria sitting closest to us was Maria Guadalupe and that I could call her Lupe. He told them my name and they pronounced it “mah-Chah”. I thought it was cute, but I told them that if it was easier they could call me Maria too. They all laughed. That confirmed for me that I was right about this place being a good fit for me.

As Galeno and I made our way back to the front of the shop he let me know that he would need me to help him with fittings that he had scheduled throughout the day. And as soon as the words came out of his mouth the first client of the day walked into the door. After greeting the woman Galeno went into the back and retrieved a dress that he had started for her. She tried on the sample and he lead her over to a small circular podium that sat in front of a very large wall mirror. Then he began to perfect the design by draping fabric on the woman’s body. It was amazing to watch. He moved so fluidly around her frame tucking and pinning fabric and within minutes the garment had began to reflect the same chic style that I had admired in the window all of those times when I had driven by.

My role was to hand Galeno pins and scissors when he worked with a client as he needed them, kind of like a surgical assistant. I was also responsible for writing down any notes he called out during the draping process, and once the fitting was complete I had to schedule the client for their next fitting, or if there was minimal work to be done on the garment I would arrange a time and date for them to pick up their finished garment. As the day went on I was amazed at how easy I fell in step with Galeno during the fittings. He wasn’t frantic when he worked. He was very professional but laid back with his clients. When they entered the shop he’d put them at ease with lighthearted conversation, and once they had on their prototype garment he’d then ask them open ended questions that would keep them talking as he worked to perfect the design specifically for their frame. Sometimes clients would talk endlessly about themselves and he wouldn’t say a word, he’d drape the fabric and hold out his hand toward me for pins to keep his work in place. In a very short time we became very good at reading each others eyes. I’d know when he was tired and needed me to buy him time in between clients, or when a clients chattering or line of questioning was getting on his nerve and he couldn’t wait for the fitting to be over just by the looks he‘d give me. But no one left Galeno Francisco’s shop unhappy. He was just that good of a designer, and I felt privileged to be getting a first hand fashion design tutorial from someone so gifted.

That first day was like a dream come true until I discovered that while Galeno’s design skills were stellar, his administrative system was an epic failure. As clients came and went and I tried to cipher through the paper jungle that was Galeno’s filing system I knew that this mess would soon be mine to organize so I took initiative that day and began creating a system we could follow immediately. As I went through the jumbled mountain of paper and began putting it in order I concluded that if I could successfully make sense of the mess that I would be indispensable, and the more I thought about it the more I liked the idea. I had a goal and made up my mind that I was going to make it so that he couldn’t run his business without me.

It took long hours of extra work but I had managed to whip his filing system into good shape. Also, I put my years of stylist and administrative experience to use in creating a more organized system for when stylists, publications, and productions wanted to use Galeno’s clothing in TV, press or photo shoots. He had complained that the previous way it was being done was costing him a countless amount of time and money, and he instructed me to be sure to teach the new system to his two other interns.

 One of them, Jose, was a very sweet young man in his sophomore year of a fashion design program at a school in downtown Los Angeles. He was soft spoken and kind of unsure of himself, which didn’t coincide with his six foot line backer frame. He only did what he was instructed to do, nothing more, but most times less. His timidity and lack of initiative often frustrated Galeno but he kept him around anyway. I wasn’t sure why.

Galeno’s other intern was a girl named Shannon, but she preferred to be called Shana. She was from Palmdale, CA and had moved to Los Angeles to, in her words “become a star and model only if acting didn’t work out“. She had the body, she was 5’10 size 4, but she didn’t have much else. Her style was quirky, but not in a fashion forward kind of way. She wore getups that looked more like vaudeville meets Woodstock. But because of her statuesque frame, and the fact that Galeno would sometime use her as a fit model for samples for his collections, she would breeze through her days at the shop, which were few and far between, not doing any work except for on my nerves. She treated her days at the shop like it was a scheduled stop on her social calendar, and even though I worked there three times the amount of days that she did when she came in Galeno would give her free run of the place.

Galeno always kept me very close except when Shana was around. When Shana was around Galeno would always whisper to me, “Doesn’t she have a great body? Don’t you wish you looked like her?” I never answered. I’d only roll my eyes and walk away. I felt secure with myself enough that if Shana was beautiful I could admit it with no problem. As a true lover and student of fashion and beauty complimenting another woman on her looks or her wardrobe had never been a problem for me. My philosophy was that good fashion must be openly appreciated, so if Shana was a stunner I could admit it. However, if Shana were to stand next to the Barbie’s that worked at Fred Segal or any of the shops on Robertson, or even some of the restaurant hostesses who came to Galeno for ensembles to wear to their minimal paying high profile jobs, she would have been mistaken for a cardboard cutout.

The more Shana floated the more disenchanted Galeno became with me. When it was just Galeno and I there was nothing but praise from him about my work, and we laughed easily and often. When Shana was around Galeno hated my clothes, hair, and clean face, there was nothing I could do good enough or fast enough. So whenever Shana would come in I’d voluntarily take a back seat, but when I would yield my position to her Galeno couldn’t get anything done to his satisfaction. She was so busy chatting up the clients about her modeling/acting agenda that she would miss his signals for pins and scissors, and she never wrote notes. He would question her after a client had left about notes he called out about a design and she would laugh and redirect the conversation back to herself and her career ambitions. While Shana “helped” I would busy myself in the back with the Maria’s (the three seamstresses who were all named Maria who worked in the back of the shop), picking up new words in Spanish or new sewing techniques.

One day in particular there was a wedding party that came in to be measured and try on sample bridesmaid dresses for the wedding. There were four bridesmaids, one of which was an actress who had transitioned her career as a child actress to become a very successful film producer and big screen actress. Upon discovering that she was coming in to be fitted Shana decided that the best way to make the actress feel comfortable and welcome was to play the soundtrack to the latest film the actress had stared in. If that wasn’t enough she also decided that it would be fun if she recited lines from the movie. The movie and the soundtrack were very popular, but I thought it would be to contrived to be playing songs from the film when the actress came in. When it was the actresses turn to step onto the podium to be fitted Shana wasted no time trying to engage her in reciting lines or mimicking martial arts movements from the movie in which she had starred as a special agent. The actress let out an uneasy laugh then looked at Galeno as if to say make her stop. Even from the back of the shop I could see that the actress was uncomfortable and that Galeno was embarrassed. I saw Galeno put down his pins, excuse himself, and head toward where I stood talking with the Maria’s.

“What are you doing,” he whined. I looked at him and pretended as if I didn’t know what he was talking about.

“I figured since Shana isn’t here that often that she would really enjoy helping you with the fittings today,” I answered. I was being sarcastic and I wanted to laugh, but I knew Galeno wouldn’t think anything about the situation was funny. Making clients uncomfortable, particularly celebrity clients, would kill his business.

“I need you with me for every fitting,” he said with a hint of assertiveness in his voice. The first thought that came to my mind after he said that I decided to keep to myself, instead I shook my head, said OK and followed him over to the waiting bridal party. I wanted to say, “You mean to tell me that Shana’s beautiful ass isn’t doing a good job?” But I kept that to myself.

When Galeno and I reached the podium to continue the fitting Shana continued to annoyingly hover around the actress offering compliments and small talk. Galeno shot me a look of frustration.

“Hey Shana,” I called out, “Galeno has a lot of fittings coming up tomorrow and he needs to order supplies. I started an inventory sheet but I’m pretty sure I may have miscounted. Will you go to the supply closet and double check my numbers please?” I knew she would take the bait because I knew she would love to be able to say that she was right and I was wrong. I knew that was her personality type, and when she walked away Galeno shot me a quick smile. I felt gratified. Next I went over to the sound system and switched from the movie soundtrack CD to a Latin jazz CD that Galeno was very fond of and that I had come to really enjoy listening to as well. When I returned the actress whispered, “Thank you,” and winked at me. I smiled and said to myself, “Brains – 1. Beauty – 0.”

“Can I help you,” I asked as I extended an arm to the assistant in an attempt to lighten her load.

“I want to try these on,” the condescending blond snapped in a British accent. She never broke stride, neither did she make eye contact as she spoke. I took half of the clothes that the assistant was holding and lead her to one of the tall curtained dressing booths and began hanging up all that the woman had selected to try on. The assistant smiled shyly, as if she didn’t want to get caught doing so. I smiled back. A minute later the tall blond entered the dressing room with the speed of a whirlwind which simultaneously pushed us out. I could tell this woman took herself seriously. Her speed and curtness said to me that in her world she was very important, but I had no idea who she was.

There weren’t mirrors in the dressing booths so anyone trying on clothes had to stand on or in front of the small podium that was in front of the large wall mirror. Of course she stood on the podium to view herself in each garment she tried on and she struck a pose in each garment as if the mirror were two-way and there was a camera on the other side documenting her every move. As she stood on the podium positioning her body seductively for the imaginary photographers Galeno approached and complimented her on her choice to try on one of his favorite dresses. She thanked him dryly. He looked over to me and I shrugged my shoulders. She returned to the dressing room and was quickly back on the podium admiring herself in one of Galeno’s signature A-line pant suits with a tailored form fitting jacket. Attempting to warm up to her again Galeno commented, “If you would like I can hem those pants for you. You could have them to take with you as soon as tomorrow if you would like.”

“Tomorrow you say,” she asked without taking her eyes off of her image in the mirror. In a final attempt to get her full attention Galeno added, “I can also take them in for you. Because your frame is so small they could fit a little more snug.” She looked directly at him then.

“You’re right. They are a little big on me,” she said in a softer tone of her British accent. “You say you can have them ready by tomorrow,” she asked. But before Galeno could answer she started talking. “Tomorrow would be great. I have so many events coming up that I must attend, and in between keeping them all straight and figuring out what to wear my life has been a nightmare. So if you could have these things ready for me by tomorrow that would work perfectly.” And as she continued to admire herself in the mirror Galeno motioned for me to get pins for him so he could began marking her pants for alterations.

Once he was finished pinning her pants she tried on another dress and two more pants suits. She informed Galeno that she wanted to purchase everything she tried on and he asked me to start her paperwork. Galeno joined me at the small desk as I prepared her receipt and went over with him which items needed to be altered. We spoke quietly because we were also eavesdropping on the conversation the woman was having with her assistant.

When the assistant commented about the number of purchases the woman had made that day she snapped back, “It’s my money and I don’t care what he has to say about it.” Then the woman came over to the desk and I asked for her name and phone number so I could call her the next day to let her know what time she could pick up her clothes. She huffed and then said her name, Piper Hart, as if I should have already known who she was. Once she was out of the door Galeno looked to me and asked, “Who is she?” I told him that I had no idea, but as soon as I got home and turned on the television I found out who Piper Hart was.

All of the entertainment news shows were reporting that Bobby Shears, a member of one the most celebrated British quartets in music history was marrying Piper Hart, a former model from London. There was nonstop coverage of their engagement and pending nuptials, including speculation about who would be in attendance at the wedding, who might serenade the couple at the ceremony, and what type of lingerie Piper might choose to wear on her wedding night. I hadn’t noticed Piper’s face plastered all over the tabloids before meeting her but when I became aware of who she was I started noticing her image everywhere.

The next day when I got to work as soon as I walked in Galeno asked, “Did you see Piper Hart on television last night?” I said yes and at the same time we both threw up our hands and said, “Who knew?” Galeno told me that he had come in early to finish her alterations and that I should call her and tell her that her clothes would be ready at one o’clock.

At about 1:30 Piper breezed through the door with her assistant not far behind. Galeno and I both smiled and greeted her and she seemed to be in a more chatty mood than she was the day before. Galeno let her know that her clothes were ready and that he had picked out some new pieces that he thought she might like. She liked what he picked out for her and she went immediately into the dressing room to try the new items on.

First was a long lace dress with a train that fit her statuesque frame perfectly. Second was a micro mini satin dress with a very low cut back. When Piper came out of the dressing room she had on the dress but she was still wearing her jeans underneath. She took to the podium to see her reflection, and as she twirled in the mirror she commented, “I love the back of this blouse.”

Galeno smiled and said, “You’re smaller than I thought because that’s a dress and no one’s ever been able to fit it, let alone put a pair of pants on under it.”

“Well I’d have to wear it as a blouse,” she said as she continued looking at herself in the mirror. “You know, because of my leg.” She tore her eyes away from her mirrored image to see the confused look on our faces. 

“My leg is prosthetic, ” she explained. Galeno and I heard her but we both stood silent, still confused. She pulled up her pant leg and showed us where her leg had been amputated and she invited us to take a closer look at her prosthesis.

It was amazingly real. The day before she had been wearing heels and had breezed in and out and we were none the wiser. This day she was wearing heels again with the toes out, and as we examined her feet next to each other they were completely identical in every way. The shape of her toes and each red polished nail were completely identical.

I couldn’t stop staring at her feet. I had never seen a prosthetic leg that allowed a woman to wear high heeled shoes, or one that looked so real, and I told her so. She said most people wouldn’t know if she didn’t point it out to them. Galeno and I both stood in amazement.

“I will take this blouse,” she joked. “I’ll wear it dancing.” She then started to give us a sample of her dance moves while standing on the podium in front of the large mirror. “I love to dance, but I always know when it’s time for me to leave the dance floor,” she said.

“How do you know,” Galeno asked.

“When I dance my leg gets overheated and it pops off. People who don’t know me usually freak out and then I know it’s time to leave the dance floor.” She and her assistant were cracking up, and then they recounted several stories when Piper’s leg went flying across a room and unsuspecting party goers began screaming at the site of her leg laying idol on a dance floor. The mental picture they painted was hilarious.

Piper tried on one more pant outfit and decided to purchase everything that Galeno showed her. Her assistant chimed in, “We should go soon. We spent all day shopping yesterday and he doesn’t like that.” This time Galeno and I knew that the “he” they were referring to was Bobby Shears.

Piper snapped, “It’s my money. I’ll do what I want.” After a reflective moment she added, “I have my own money, so I don’t have to answer to him. I’m getting married but I’ll do what I want.” We were all silent as she talked. She was entering the dressing room to change when she lowered her voice and said, “There’s always divorce.” I remember thinking to myself after she made that last statement that her marriage, if she actually went through with it, was never going to last.

The next day Piper Hart came back in to pick up the rest of her altered purchases and the first thing I did was look at her feet. I noticed that she had changed from the red pedicure she had the day before to a hot pink one. Her assistant wasn’t with her and she looked sad. I smiled and asked if she was feeling OK and she said yes. She said she was headed overseas.

A few days later I saw her and Bobby Shears announce their wedding date to the media in England. She looked happy that day carrying a small bouquet of flowers as she walked arm in arm with Bobby Shears through green grass toward the waiting media. Their wedding was the leading story on all of the entertainment news programs and magazines, and they looked happy. In the back of my mind as I watched the massive amount of coverage I remembered what she had said in the shop about divorce. So it didn’t surprise me at all a few years later when their acrimonious split made even bigger headlines.

Fully aware of the vanity obsessed industry that I had chosen to work in I still held out hope that my ability to consistently do excellent work would weigh heavier than appearance in propelling me forward in the world of fashion design. Sadly it did not. I was admonished about my appearance daily, multiple times a day, by Galeno and occasionally by his most obnoxious clients.

I remember going to the shop feeling pretty good about myself and I hadn’t been there more than an hour before Galeno started to critique me about my appearance – my hair wasn‘t long enough, my shoes weren‘t designer enough, my eyebrows weren‘t arched right, my clothes were just plain wrong, and my lack of make-up was unacceptable. He asked sarcastically if I was feeling sick. I told him yes. I told him my tooth was hurting and I had an emergency dentist appointment and I needed to leave within the hour, and I left. Twenty minutes hadn’t passed before Galeno was calling my cell asking how soon would it be before I got back to the shop. I told him that I wasn’t sure, and I wouldn’t know until after I saw the dentist. But I would never know what the dentist had to say unless there was a dentist’s chair at the beach, because that’s where I was headed.

I was fed up with being criticized and I decided to go out to the beach to clear my head. I needed to decided if my internship with Galeno was worth the beating he was attempting to put on my self-esteem. I thought being at the beach listening to the ocean and walking through the warm sand would help lead me to the answers I needed so I picked a spot on the sand to sit and think, but the entire time my cell phone rang nonstop, and it was Galeno each time.

Beside when would I be returning, he wanted to know where the extra supplies for fittings were. Where had I filed all of his take-out menus? If I would pick up sketch books for him to draw out his new collection on my way back, and so on and so on and more of the same. I was over Galeno and his constant calls. I needed a break from him and as I sat at the beach angry I lowered my head in an attempt to pray, but my phone rang again. It was Galeno. I didn’t answer and the phone stopped ringing. But as soon as it stopped ringing it rang again, and it was Galeno, again. I didn’t answer. I sat the phone next to me and it continued to ring. A woman on a beach blanket not far from me looked to me and said, “Wow. You’re in high demand.“ In frustration I shook my head. It would have taken to much effort to explain to her why my phone was ringing nonstop, so I just shook my head. As the phone continued to ring she commented again, “You must be really important to someone.”

“Lady, you have no idea,” I huffed. That was all I could manage to get out. Then I picked up the phone and began to listen to the first of ump-teen messages Galeno had left on my voicemail.

“The store is full of people and I need you here,” he whined. I erased the message and listened to the next. It was Jose, Galeno’s other intern.

“Hi, um, this is, um Jose. Galeno asked me to call you and find out, um . . ..” He stopped talking in the phone and I could here him asking Galeno what it was he wanted him to ask me. Then Galeno picked up and finished the message.

“Jose’s not helping,” he snapped. “He can’t find anything. I need you to call and let me know exactly when you’ll be back.” I listened to the next message and it was more of the same. Whining and pleading for me to come back to the shop immediately. I decided not to listen to anymore of the messages. I set my phone to vibrate instead of ring and sat it next to me in the sand. I could hear the phone continuously vibrating in the sand and I considered burying it and leaving it there, along with my internship. But I decided that quitting was not the answer so I sat watching people play in the ocean water. They seemed carefree and happy, and I told myself that was all I wanted for myself. I wanted to be happy. I thought my internship with Galeno would help me reach my goal to be a fashion designer, which I knew for sure would make me happy.

I was learning invaluable lessons from Galeno about design and how to construct a garment, and in return I had put all of my skills to use to help him run the shop like a well oiled machine. I was determined to stick with him and develop as a designer, and I had set out to be so great an assistant that he couldn’t run the shop without me, making it necessary for him to keep me around. Then it hit me. I had exactly what I wanted. In the midst of my frustration with his repeated calls I got my answer – he couldn’t run the place without me. With every call his voice got more desperate for me to return. With every call he pleaded more than the one before. I had my answer and it put a smile on my face. I didn’t need to stay at the beach any longer. (Being there didn’t offer the therapeutic serenity I had hoped it would anyway. It was hot and crowded.) I had accomplished my goal, and in a shorter period of time than I had expected. I told myself I could go back with a smile on my face. I could go back and get right to work. I could go back, but I didn’t. That day I stayed at the beach sipping margarita’s slowly at one of the seaside restaurants, chomping on fresh chips and salsa enjoying my victory.

The next day when I showed up for work at the shop Galeno was being more persnickety than usual. I knew it was because he was upset that I hadn’t returned the day before from my “emergency dental appointment”. But thanks to my day of reflection at the “dentist’s office” whatever he had to dish out, I could take it.

Our work load had picked up considerably because it was awards show season in LA. On average we would have 8 to 10 fittings per day, but with all of the awards shows coming up we were doing between 12 to 16 fittings per day. Galeno entrusted me with the responsibility to do some of the less involved fittings by myself in order for us to be able to fit more than one client at a time. I was happy that he trusted me and it didn’t take long before we were working together again like cookies and milk.

In addition to fittings for clients purchasing garments to wear to the awards shows Galeno was loaning out a lot of clothes to stylists for their clients to wear on the red carpet. Galeno, busy with a full schedule of fittings and press interviews, left dealing with the stylists up to me, but he made it very clear that he only wanted clothes lent to recognizable names that I was sure would be covered by press. So when a obviously hung over stylist with the stench of marijuana covering him came in flashing Danny “Da Show” Shaw’s credit card looking to borrow clothes for Da Show’s girlfriend to wear to an awards show after party, he was politely declined. Even though it was a good possibility that she would be covered by press on the red carpet I said no mainly because of fear of the condition that the garments would be returned in.

Galeno loved getting press coverage of his designs but he didn’t look forward to loaning his garments out for fear of them being returned in poor condition. And as the award shows and parties began to wind down all of the garments were returned in good condition, that is until an assistant of an Oscar nominated actress returned the gown the actress had borrowed from Galeno to wear to the ceremony.

Not only did it look like she had wore the gown to the ceremony, but it also looked like she had slept in it and got up and wore it the next day. From the pattern of the stains on the dress it looked like she had done car repairs in it before she decided to go horseback riding in the dress. When I opened the garment bag that the assistant returned the gown in a foul stench reminiscent of rodeo animals came rushing out. Galeno was so upset about the condition of the gown he started to cry. The assistant looked embarrassed and began to apologize to him. I shook my head and without hesitation wrote out an invoice for the dress and told the assistant that the actress had seven days to pay for the gown.

That same day more returns were coming in and among them was a gorgeous butter cream wool crepe three piece pant suit that was loaned to a television actress to attend an awards show after party. Galeno was still reeling over the destroyed gown so I decided to inspect the pants suit alone. The jacket was in excellent condition and so was the corseted blouse that went underneath. Next I inspected the pants, first outside then inside. Once I opened them up, there it was. Code brown. I was disgusted and speechless. I knew that if I showed Galeno it might send him into convulsions. I quickly gathered the pants suit and hid it underneath a pile of returned clothes that were going to the cleaners.

The dry cleaner that Galeno used was just a few doors down from the shop so I told him that I’d walk the clothes over and come right back. Once inside the cleaner I showed the owner the code brown situation to see if he would be able to get the stains out. He was just as disgusted as I was. He said he didn‘t want to have anything to do with the suit. I pleaded with him to please try and clean it but he refused. I couldn’t blame him for not wanting to have anything to do with the suit.

When I got back to the shop, and unbeknownst to Galeno, I called the actress who had borrowed the pants suit and told her about the code brown. She insisted on speaking with Galeno but I told her that he was so upset that he had decided to leave early for the day. She began to apologize. I told her to have her assistant come and pick up the suit along with an invoice for the cost of the suit. I told her that they had seven days to pay.

When the assistant came in the next day, even with enormous black shades covering most of her face, it was clear she had an attitude. She pursed her lips and asked about the suit. I calmly handed her a large shopping bag that contained the folded suit. She aggressively took the suit out of the bag and began to inspect it herself. First she inspected the jacket and blouse then she skeptically inspected the pants. She looked to me before she peered inside them, and when she got a glimpse of the code brown she began apologizing profusely. She quickly dropped the soiled pants back into the bag, offered up a credit card, and paid for the suit.

When I felt he could handle it I let Galeno know what had happened with the suit. He became upset at first but after some discussion he said, “Thank you for handling it. I don’t know what I would do without you.”