. . . Cost carding away when my office line rings.
“This is Charli,” I answer, cradling the phone between my head and shoulder.
“Charls. What… What. Are you doing this afternoon?” Cash asks distractedly. I look to my right, through the gaps in the heavy formica overhead bins that hover above all of our desks. I can see that he is at his desk in the next row.
“Um, working? On cost cards?”
“No, no, no, do you have any meetings?”
“No….”
“Great! Meet me in the lobby at 1:00. We have to spend the afternoon doing research.”
Well, the afternoon “research” took an unexpected turn!
I am just arriving back to the cozy parquet floor of my Meserole Ave bedroom, and I am feeling, as Ms. Sher would say, pret-ty jazzy.
It could have something to do with the clear joint Cash sent me home with !
Uh-huh! My boss knows the impresario behind clear rolling papers! And that is just one of the discoveries I made this afternoon…. Which began on 46th Street, between 5th and 6th Aves.
“Charli, close the door behind you,” Cash says to me as I follow him into a tiny vestibule of a space within a commercial building. I have to stand within an inch of him to let the door close.
“This is called a mantrap. You have to let the door behind you close before you can open the next door. It’s for security.”
“K,” I nod, as a loud buzzer clicks open the next door. We walk into a nondescript work space, filled with standard issue industrial carpet and two heavy metal office desks circa the mid-1960s. There is a large safe behind one of the desks in a far corner.
“What’s up Sunil?” Cash says, giving a handsome gentleman with slicked back black hair the low-five slap/shake/grip and release.
“Cash, my man, how are you, my friend?” Sunil replies, grinning.
“I’m good! Sunil, this is Charli, who works with me at Simons.”
I shake Sunil’s hand and smile.
“Wonderful to meet you, dear.”
“Thanks!” I eke out.
“So, you’ve got the goods?” Cash says, taking a seat. I follow his lead and take the seat next to him, unsure what we are doing.
“Yes, my friend,” Sunil replies. He sits back in his vinyl office chair and swivels toward the safe. He turns the dial slightly, then shifts a large metal handle and opens the six inch thick door, taking out a white folded paper rectangle, about two inches by four inches. He places the rectangle on a white paper desk pad and gently opens each fold. Inside is a pile of shiny, inky black faceted stones, seemingly zillions of them, all slightly larger than a pea.
“Charli, have you ever seen a black diamond?”
“No,” I respond eagerly.
“Well, this is a parcel of eight millimeter round black diamonds.”
“Oh! They look cool.” Cash slides the parcel toward me.
“Check them out. These were custom cut for me in India. It’s very difficult to find a perfectly matched parcel of black diamonds because they’re not very popular commercially. People love the sparkle of white diamonds. Black diamonds are opaque, but they are very shiny and still glimmer.”
“Wow, cool,” I say, running my fingers through the stones, looking at their perfectly flat tops and pointed bottoms. They look like polished pieces of charcoal. I slide them around a bit and watch the fluorescent overhead lighting reflect off of them.
“Ok, Sunil, they look perfect, thanks so much,” Cash says, gently re-folding the paper and sliding it back.
“Excellent, my friend,” he says, taking a paper pad from a desk drawer. It’s a memo pad, with two ply paper, alternating white and yellow pages. He flips a few pages in and finds a page written out to Cash. Cash signs it and places the folded rectangle in his sport coat inner pocket. They repeat the low-five slap/shake/grip and release. The door buzzes and we turn to exit.
We pause momentarily in the mantrap.
“Ok, next we’re going to Apex. It’s across the hall,”
Directly in front of me I a see a hand written sign that says Apex Corp. with Chinese characters underneath it. Cash rings the bell. The door buzzes open, and he leans in. There is a bulletproof glass window with a metal tray at the bottom, like a strange bank teller window.
An Asian woman wearing a face mask appears at the window.
“Stones. For the crown,” he says.
She stares back at him blankly.
“Cash. Kaufman. Crown,” he says, pointing at the envelope. He takes a pen and draws a quick crown picture on it, “Black diamond.”
She nods earnestly, smiling with her eyes.
“Ok?” he asks.
She nods again earnestly, again smiling with her eyes.
“Ok! Thank you! Tell Qing I say hi!”
He closes the door and we head to the elevator.
“All right, Charls, next we’re taking a walk,” he says, pushing an elevator button that also looks like it was installed in the 1960s.
“Ok…,” I say, still confused.
“Make a left when we head out of the building.”
We turn left, then left again and traverse an open space in the middle of the 46th Street block, which connects 45th and 46th Streets.
“You know this shortcut?” Cash asks.
“Yeah, for sure, I eat lunch here sometimes with my friend Shea,” I say, as we pass hordes of midtown business people, women in skirt suits with pantyhose and the classic commuting business woman touch: white socks and white sneakers over the pantyhose. Men in khakis with dress shirts, never straying from a “safe” color palette of tan, beige, navy, and sage green. As we are within the 1:00 p.m. hour, this inviting outdoor lunch space, with tables, chairs and benches surrounding attractive red marble planters and fountains, is teeming with people. Every chair is taken, and people hover in loose groups of two to four, each party member searching with their eyes for a group that may be wrapping up their lunch to return to work.
“It’s good to know the cut throughs between 48th to 45th. It cuts down on time between visits. Do you mind walking down to Macy’s?”
“Nope, I walk all the time.”
“Good! Let’s hit it.”
We snake through the open space and walk over to Sixth Avenue, turning left and heading downtown, performing the New York City walking duo dance: we walk side by side when there is room. If there is not room, I drop behind Cash and he leads. In a few blocks we pass Bryant Park to our left, and I look longingly at hundreds of people spread out on the gleaming green grass in the bright sun, taking their lunch break.
“We’re gonna hit up Macy’s, and then we’ll get lunch, sound good?”
“Sure,” I reply.
In only a few moments we are crossing the entrance to Macy’s Herald Square, one of the country’s largest and most storied retailers. I still don’t know quite exactly why we are here, but it’s a beautiful day, and I have escaped my desk. I don’t mind Cash, most of the time. When we first started working together, he tried to bond with me over us both being from Michigan. But… the first project I had to help him with was creating a championship ring for the professional sports team his father owns, so I have always known that we don’t come from exactly the same world.
“Ok, Charli, we are going to cruise the jewelry department and then check out the men’s jewelry department,” Cash says leading me toward a stairway to a mezzanine. Passing case after case, interior lights gleaming, I look at rows and rows of twirls of white gold on chains, holding tiny diamonds and sapphires.
“What do you think, Charli?” Cash asks me.
“Um, of the jewelry?”
“Yeah. What do you think?”
“Umm…. it’s pretty uninteresting… I don’t want any of it,” I say, daring to give my honest opinion.
“Haha. I love that genuine attitude, Charli. Never change that. Now, I agree, but what you have to understand is that this stuff sells. Macy’s is a good account.”
“Um, why?”
“Because it’s the only fine jewelry out there. And once we visit men’s I’m fairly confident that we will see that there is absolutely nothing like Simons out in the market.”
“Well, I’d agree with that,” I concur. We mount a rickety wooden escalator and go up to Floor 3. Turning around we ascend another escalator and exit on Floor 4, passing through an evening gown department.
“Do you need a gown, Charli? Any balls coming up?” Cash asks playfully, opening his hands with a flourish of presentation at the neckline of a red rhinestone-encrusted floor length evening gown. I giggle.
“When you pass this elevator bank, you’re crossing into a separate building that Macy’s had joined together. Did you know that, Charls?”
Buried among rows and rows of men’s clothing is a lonely jewelry counter, approximately one two hundredth the size of the women’s jewelry department. A few bland crosses on rubber cords mix with some stainless steel wedding bands.
“Exactly what I thought,” Cash beams. “There is nothing like what we are doing on the market. In fact, there’s basically nothing at all! Time for lunch, Charli! You like French food?”
“Ouiiii,” I demur.
“Enchantéeeeeee, Charli! Let’s go grab a cab.”
In only a few moments, we have taxied our way to 44th Street and Ninth Avenues. Cash leads me into Marseille Restaurant, and we greet the maitre d’.
“Can we have a space at the banquette? And we may have one more joining us, sir?”
“Bien sur, monsieur, right this way.”
We nestle into a corner booth. Cash orders sparkling water for the table. “Charli, get whatever you want. This is on me,” he says distractedly. “Dali will be here in a few minutes. After lunch, you can come by my apartment, where I have to give you something.”
“Pretty good day, huh, Charli?” Cash grins at me, and leans his glass of San Pellegrino toward me. I clink him back with slight uncertainty.
“I feel like we didn’t do anything,” I say.
“Charli, Charli, Charli, ha ha ha. Weeeee sourced raw materials, we completed multiple steps of production on a one-of-a-kind piece, we made manufacturer introductions, and we did competitive research! You went to school for fashion! You should be recognizing this stuff and using it to your advantage. I just showed you the ropes today. That’s how this business is! Not bad, right?”
“I guess not…?” I say.
In a flutter of shopping bags, skinny high waisted denim, woven cotton, and silk scarves, Dali arrives, removing a voluminous white straw hat and fanning herself with it.
“Ugh, Cash, I’m sweating,” she says, “Did you order us the burger?”
“Sure did,” he says, as Dali slides in next to him and they give a lip air kiss. “You look great, my love. And of course, you remember Charli?”
“Yep, hi,” she says, effortlessly re-positioning the silk Hermés scarf that had been lining her hat, tying it around her hair line, and drawing her flaxen locks into a perfect high ponytail.
“Charli and I had a busy afternoon on the street, and now we’re here… She’s going to come by afterward. I have to give her something,” he says with a wink.
“Excellent,” she says.
I have mentioned on this blog before that Dali is a Kate Moss type. In New York, this type of comparison is a reality. Models actually live here and roam the streets, restaurants and shops. People who are as attractive and fit as models, but maybe not tall enough to be booked for the runway, also congregate in New York. Dali falls into the second category, as beautiful and thin as an actively working model, but petite. Her presence is actually even more envy inspiring than being in the presence of a model.
Cash’s burger and fries and my Salade Niçoise arrive.
“Quelquechose pour la mademoiselle?”
“Pellegrino with lime, please?” she asks politely, “And another set of utensils. We’re going to share the burger.”
This chick eats burgers and fries? Really? Really? That will be a sight to see. So these petite wisps of model-lites walk around looking effortlessly Indiana Jones-esque fabulous and they chow down on burgers and fries? I must have been born to the wrong gene pool.
“Dali, darling, how about we go for one beer at Rudy’s, then we’ll go back to our place with Charli, hang a little, then we’ll hit the gym?”
“Sure, Cash. Fine,” she says taking one french fry and slowly nibbling it.
“Good for you, Charli?”
“Who’s Rudy?”
They erupt into giggles.
“You haven’t spent much time in Hell’s Kitchen, have you?”
“Ohhhh, Charli, we’re going to show you a time. Has today been a great day, or what? So what!”
“So what!” Dali shrugs, cutting herself a sliver of the burger, approximately one eighth of the delivered portion.
“So what!” I shrug back cheerfully, catching on to the game.
Our server glides to the table, at the ready.
“Monsieur, we’ll take the check. So what?” Cash shrugs nonchalantly and does a casual toss of his green Amex card. The server catches it expertly.
“You ready, Charli?” Luckily, I had just about finished my salad, as Cash began to whisk us off to the next destination. “You two make sure we have everything, and I’ll sign the check.”
I collect Cash’s blazer and my bag, and Dali collects all of her shopping bags.
“Can you hold this?” she asks, handing me a white shopping bag with a gradient neon rainbow triangle on it.
“Sure,” I say, taking the bag, peeking inside, seeing an exciting mix of neon printed spandex stuffed inside. “Are these new samples?”
“Yeah…. I’m working on a bunch of prints for Tara right now….,” she says, gently placing her white straw hat into an Opening Ceremony shopping bag.
“That’s awesome, I wish I got to do stuff like that at work…” I say, as we head out.
“Ha ha, yeah, well, I’m always working… Tara never stops.”
“Well, I think I saw that there was a little blurb about Triangle in WWD?”
“Yes, it came out today. Triangle by Tara Kaufman Takes Tahiti. Cash didn’t get to go with me because he was in The Hamptons with the Ranches. We got a write up on shooting Gisele for our swim lookbook. We’ve been inundated with calls from buyers….” she rattles off as we step outside onto Ninth Avenue, while Cash holds the door for us.
“We’re going across the street, Charli,” Cash says, nodding westward. I look and see a red neon sign that says Rudy’s Bar and Grill, with a grinning pink pig next to the door.
“So vhat!” I reply, channeling Ms. Sher, and we all grin.
Rudy’s turned out to be a classic dive bar, in the vein of a proper midwest dive. Red vinyl bar stools and booths are held repaired with red duct tape. It’s dark and dim, the lighting coming from faux Tiffany-style hanging lamps.
Filing in, Cash takes charge, and orders a pitcher of Rudy’s Blonde.
“This place is known for their free hot dogs,” he says. “Like it, Charli?”
“Yeah, it’s awesome. I feel like I’m in the Midwest.”
“Oh yeah, where are you from, Charli?” Dali asks.
“Ann Arbor,”
“Ohhhhh right.”
“Dali’s from Buffalo. She and my cousin grew up there. They were always too cool for school when we were teenagers; they thought I was a dirty hippie.”
“Ugh, he was a dirty hippie. His dreads smelled like patchouli.”
“Cash had dreads?”
“I did! So what! This place has free popcorn too. I’m gonna go get some. Anybody want a hot dog?”
“How can you eat so much?” Dali wondered in response.
“I go to the gym!” at this point, Cash unbuttons his white dress shirt and rolls up his sleeves.
“Soon he’s gonna start flexing for you,” Dali predicts, rolling her eyes. “He’s so vain. You should see us at the gym together. I sweat my ass off on the treadmill, and he just lifts for hours, staring at himself in mirror…”
“Haha, really?”
“Yes, it’s part of our Thursday routine. So what happened with you and Lester? You two went to Philadelphia together?”
“Cash told you about that? And no, we didn’t go to Philadelphia together. I happened to be there at the same time as him, and some people I know throw this long running dance party… So he met me and some girlfriends there. We had a blast!”
“But you can’t go out with him. He’s squatting in a basement.”
“Oh, I don’t consider him a prospect… We’re just pals. I love his cute tennis style, though.”
“If you say so… So are you seeing anyone?”
“Eh… not really… I’m kind of talking to one writer guy….”
“What kind of guys do you like?”
“Admittedly? Usually musicians…. But this writer is kind of a new type for me.”
“Girl, no. Never date a musician. Not in New York. They will suck you dry. And not in the way you want. Well, in the way you want. But also your bank account.”
“Big talk for someone who doesn’t pay rent,” Cash admonishes, sliding in at the bar.
“I pay all the utilities and the gym memberships! And I buy the groceries!”
Cash points at me. “So what,” I say with a wink.
“Ok, ok, is everybody done? I’m dying to get out of these jeans. Finish my beer, Cash.” One fry, a sliver of a burger, and less than a half pint of beer. Very filling.
Cash lays a ten and a five on the bar and offers our remaining one third pitcher of beer to the people next to us, and off we go, up Ninth Avenue to 46th Street. We enter an unassuming apartment door next to a bodega and proceed to walk up four flights of stairs. Cash unlocks four deadbolts and we walk into a small Manhattan one bedroom apartment at the rear of the building. We are immediately immersed in a small living room with a black leather couch against the white wall next to the door. A glass coffee table takes up significant real estate between a large stereo system on an entertainment shelving unit and the couch. Large wooden speakers with black mesh interiors rest on top. Near the floor is a shelf containing a four foot length of LPs. Past the entertainment center to the left, through a set of French doors, I see a tiny bedroom, with a mattress taking up most of the floor. Two rolling racks of clothing take up the length of a wall, and shelves of clothing rise all the way up to the ceiling. Beyond the entertainment center to the right is a tiny kitchen.
“Not too shabby, huh?” Cash says, picking up a cigar box from the coffee table.
“It’s so normal!” I respond.
“Haha, where did you think I lived, Charli?”
“I dunno, you’re so fancy and always jet setting around. I pictured you in a fancier apartment.”
“Well, I’d love a nicer place someday, but I’ve been here since I moved to New York in ‘98. This place is a steal.”
“Oh yeah, how much do you pay?” I dare to ask.
“Sixteen-fifty! Can you believe it?”
“Well…. We pay sixteen hundred for our two bedroom,” I respond, smugly. I can’t believe Cash pays more than double what I pay.
“You see Cash?? We have to move to Brooklyn!” Dali yells from the bedroom. “Tara’s already there! Her place is huge!”
“Isn’t your two bedroom a railroad?,” Cash asks, sinking into the couch. “Now Charli, I brought you here today because my good friend Noah Silverberg has started a clear rolling paper business based out of Florida. I am part of his street team, giving samples of the goods to the New York market! Sit down, Charli, I’m going to roll you a clear joint to take home. Since you are in Greenpoint, you qualify as part of the early adopter test market. Tell all your hipster friends about the clear papers!”
“Um, ok….” I respond, and at this point, I no longer know how this seemingly normal day turned into a tour of Hell’s Kitchen.
“What do you think of the set up?” Cash asks me, gesturing toward the stereo.
“I didn’t know you collect records! I do too! And those speakers look awesome!”
“I know you collect records, Charls. Those are Klipsch speakers. Dali’s dad is an audiophile. He gave them to us.”
“Awesome… I need a new receiver… “
“I can help you find one. Ebay! We’ll look tomorrow at work.”
“Charli! Do you want some clothes?” Dali yells, her voice muffled by all of the fabric in the bedroom.
“Sure!” She beckons me from the bedroom.
“These are all vintage blouses. They all look like you. Sexy librarian chic. Take them. I have no room. Find a way to get that writer to your house and seduce him.”
Cash approaches the French doors in a blue tank top with Gold’s Gym emblazoned on it in yellow. I have never seen him not wearing a button down shirt before. His arms are massive and muscular.
“Dali, where are my sweat shorts? Are you ready? Charli, here’s your clear joint! Now hit the road, we’re going to the gym.”
Dali packs the blouses for me in a tote bag, and Cash gently wraps the clear joint around and around in two sandwich bags. I collect my things and walk out to Ninth Avenue, pausing for a moment to think of which train to take back to Greenpoint. I look down at my phone. 7:30 p.m. When I get home, it will be the perfect time to transcribe this rabbit hole of a day and offer to cut Le Bloggeur’s hair chez moi….
deux mille six 