a laptop computer, and perhaps a few pencils.
For a moment I feel a twinge of nostalgia for my beautiful suburban Chicago one-bedroom, which has probably been condemned by now due to the material buildup from my recent venture into nesting.
But why go there? No use in complaining. When you ask for New York, New York is what you get. Six months from now, when
The Pulse
has earned Gordon-Taylor millions of dollars and an impressive list of new clients, perhaps we’ll step up the living conditions a bit.
I’ve got a big day ahead of me, and can’t wait to hit the streets. The trends are waiting for my embrace. After a quick shower and a pop-in to the Iranian bagel guy down on the corner, I head up to Midtown for some prime shopping territory. Fifth Avenue, baby, and forget the three-story Banana Republic. Within minutes I’m combing the counters at Roberto Cavalli, surfing the shoe racks at Prada, and acting like I know what the hell I’m talking about in the Valentino couture section of Barney’s. The clothes give me an intoxicating buzz, and the price tags a downright hangover. But I’m not here to indulge—I’m here to work.
I look around the store to size up the customers. They look like normal people, yet they have a subtle air about them that makes me believe they really do spend $875 on a scarf. Surely they can speak to trends. And surely they want to speak to me.
“Um, excuse me,” I say to a hip-looking young woman who seems to be deciding between black leather pants and brown.
“Yes?”
“I’m actually here in New York on vacation, and I’m wondering if you could help me out.”
She looks me up and down. “With what?”
“Well, okay.” I pull the pencil out from behind my ear and flip open my notepad. “When you look around the store, what specifically would you say is… trendy?”
“Trendy?”
“Yeah, you know. Certain styles that you’d consider trendy.”
She laughs. “Where are you from, anyway?”
“Chicago.”
“They don’t have trendy stuff in Chicago?”
“Well, I was just wondering,” I mumble.
I sound like a horse’s ass, I know. But I’ve taken it this far, so I might as well keep going.
“Look, honey. You don’t go into Dolce and Gabbana looking for ‘trendy.’ Trendy is what teenyboppers wear to the mall out in Hackensack.”
“Right.”
“Try up the street. I think they have a Rampage on the corner of Fifth and Thirty-eighth. Or maybe it’s Thirty-ninth. Somewhere around there.”
Brilliant. I’m a thirty-one-year-old professional trend-tracker, and I’ve just been taken for someone who comes to Manhattan looking for fucking
Rampage.
“Thank you.” Now if you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment with a slow, painful death otherwise known as the rest of the day.
But head held high, I proceed onward toward the DKNY store. DKNY is for young, smart, successful women on the town, not East End snobs with their heads stuck up their leather-panted asses. But just in case, I figure I should probably alter my approach.
“Uh, excuse me.” My next victim is a girl in her twenties, gnawing through the sale rack for what appear to be outfits to wear to the office.
“Yeah?”
“I’m a reporter doing an article about trends in fashion. Would you mind if I asked you a couple of questions?”
She looks at me skeptically. “I guess. Like what?”
“Well, for example, how would you describe trendy fashion right now? What sort of look would you say is ‘in’?”
She thinks for a moment. “I don’t know. I’m just trying to find some cheap skirts for work.”
She’s not getting off that easy. “Now come on. You look like a trendy woman, someone who knows what’s on the fast track.”
“The fast track?”
“So how would you characterize what’s hot right now? Or what you think will be hot next season.”
“How am I supposed to know?”
I’m getting nowhere with this.
“Okay,” I press on. “Take a look at that rack over there.
For a moment I feel a twinge of nostalgia for my beautiful suburban Chicago one-bedroom, which has probably been condemned by now due to the material buildup from my recent venture into nesting.
But why go there? No use in complaining. When you ask for New York, New York is what you get. Six months from now, when
The Pulse
has earned Gordon-Taylor millions of dollars and an impressive list of new clients, perhaps we’ll step up the living conditions a bit.
I’ve got a big day ahead of me, and can’t wait to hit the streets. The trends are waiting for my embrace. After a quick shower and a pop-in to the Iranian bagel guy down on the corner, I head up to Midtown for some prime shopping territory. Fifth Avenue, baby, and forget the three-story Banana Republic. Within minutes I’m combing the counters at Roberto Cavalli, surfing the shoe racks at Prada, and acting like I know what the hell I’m talking about in the Valentino couture section of Barney’s. The clothes give me an intoxicating buzz, and the price tags a downright hangover. But I’m not here to indulge—I’m here to work.
I look around the store to size up the customers. They look like normal people, yet they have a subtle air about them that makes me believe they really do spend $875 on a scarf. Surely they can speak to trends. And surely they want to speak to me.
“Um, excuse me,” I say to a hip-looking young woman who seems to be deciding between black leather pants and brown.
“Yes?”
“I’m actually here in New York on vacation, and I’m wondering if you could help me out.”
She looks me up and down. “With what?”
“Well, okay.” I pull the pencil out from behind my ear and flip open my notepad. “When you look around the store, what specifically would you say is… trendy?”
“Trendy?”
“Yeah, you know. Certain styles that you’d consider trendy.”
She laughs. “Where are you from, anyway?”
“Chicago.”
“They don’t have trendy stuff in Chicago?”
“Well, I was just wondering,” I mumble.
I sound like a horse’s ass, I know. But I’ve taken it this far, so I might as well keep going.
“Look, honey. You don’t go into Dolce and Gabbana looking for ‘trendy.’ Trendy is what teenyboppers wear to the mall out in Hackensack.”
“Right.”
“Try up the street. I think they have a Rampage on the corner of Fifth and Thirty-eighth. Or maybe it’s Thirty-ninth. Somewhere around there.”
Brilliant. I’m a thirty-one-year-old professional trend-tracker, and I’ve just been taken for someone who comes to Manhattan looking for fucking
Rampage.
“Thank you.” Now if you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment with a slow, painful death otherwise known as the rest of the day.
But head held high, I proceed onward toward the DKNY store. DKNY is for young, smart, successful women on the town, not East End snobs with their heads stuck up their leather-panted asses. But just in case, I figure I should probably alter my approach.
“Uh, excuse me.” My next victim is a girl in her twenties, gnawing through the sale rack for what appear to be outfits to wear to the office.
“Yeah?”
“I’m a reporter doing an article about trends in fashion. Would you mind if I asked you a couple of questions?”
She looks at me skeptically. “I guess. Like what?”
“Well, for example, how would you describe trendy fashion right now? What sort of look would you say is ‘in’?”
She thinks for a moment. “I don’t know. I’m just trying to find some cheap skirts for work.”
She’s not getting off that easy. “Now come on. You look like a trendy woman, someone who knows what’s on the fast track.”
“The fast track?”
“So how would you characterize what’s hot right now? Or what you think will be hot next season.”
“How am I supposed to know?”
I’m getting nowhere with this.
“Okay,” I press on. “Take a look at that rack over there.
Similar Books
