“Oh dear, this won’t do at all,” my uncle said as I approached him. “We will have to get you a New York outfit.”
Apparently, he was unimpressed with my midwestern hippie motif. Undoubtedly, I felt a little hurt; I chose my favorite t-shirt for the trip to visit my Manhattan uncle. A natural green color, the shirt depicted the jovial, travelling version of Buddha meditating in front of a fig tree. The fat and happy Buddha smiles at you with wide grin. He’s happy in the moment and unconcerned with the next moment, undaunted with the chaos of the world around him.
I knew I was visiting my infamous uncle, so I accessorized with a beaded hemp necklace and a pair of tie-dye hemp flip-flops. My hair was rebellious and curly, fashioning itself more along the lines of a Hobbit rather than New York hipster. My jeans were naturally frayed from wear and abuse, thus they naturally stood out from the pre-beaten and pre-blasted jeans that scattered the crowded avenue. I looked like I belonged elsewhere, a music festival perhaps. None of this was appropriate; none of this was acceptable. I stood out in the chic, trendy SoHo neighborhood of New York.
A veteran of the urban jungle, my uncle stood a menacing five foot six with all the physical features of his tropical homeland, the Philippines. He had rich cinnamon skin punctuated with dark, coffee brown hair. He donned slim dark wash jeans with an almost glossy finish. Sleek, black leather boots rose just above the ankle. His confident, charismatic character proved to be charming and natural. There was swagger there, an attitude of appealing elitism and style. It was a kind of classy that could only emanate from a man who chose to forsake Brown University for the Fashion Institute of Technology. What sophistication, what panache. He was a first class New Yorker.
But my uncle – a former employee of Barney’s New York, the crème de la crème retailer of New York fashion – had plans. Tonight he and I would venture into the underground world of New York nightclubs.
I trembled with fear.
It was an intimidating task; I knew nothing of the laws of fashion. Mixing and matching, patterns and texture, the concepts of style eluded me. What’s more, the notion that I would accompany him to a gay club was as foreign as it was terrifying. Even though I hailed from New York’s little brother, Chicago, I thought myself ill prepared to handle such revelry tonight. There had to be something in the laws of nature to prevent this from happening, some court before which I could argue. Maybe there was someone I could convince, some authority vested with the power to keep midwestern, sartorially inept teenagers from entering gay clubs. Something. As it turns out, the traditional authorities (the NYPD) were of no concern to my uncle. Not even the laws of men could save me now.
He was determined. Standing in front of abnormally large mirror in his apartment, he began to reveal his master plan for me. He snubbed his the remains of his cigarette and promptly lit another before giving his analysis, which, was amazingly methodical and scientific.
“The first two things any girl sees on a man is his shoes and his hair,” he advised. For a man who had no interest in women, he sure knew a lot about what they wanted. “No matter anything else, if the hair and the shoes are not good, then everything else is worthless. Since you have to spend about $300 dollars for a good pair of shoes, instead of buying new ones, I’ll lend you a pair of mine. I’m envisioning something monochrome. As for that hair, hmmm.”
He squinted at me with one arm folded under his opposite elbow, pensively staring at my scalp like a painter stares at an empty canvas. No, more like a sculptor gazing at a stubborn block of marble.
“I’m thinking Matthew McConaughey. We’ll slick it back.”
I was mortified.
“Step two: Jeans,” he said. “Then we move onto shirts and accessories.”
As we sped out of his apartment, we picked up two shots of espresso (each) at the Cuban café down the street. Everything happened at an unnatural speed in New York. Like a shark cutting through the water, he weaved through a naturally crowded fifth avenue stopping sporadically between cigarettes to examine storefront after storefront. We jetted in and out of clothing stores in search of the perfect pair of jeans for the evening. It seemed silly to me this notion that we were questing for clothes to wear for a single night out. But there was no time for questioning, no time for deliberation, but just enough time for me to conjure up an adequate amount of dwindling willingness to participate matched with a fragile trust in his judgment.
Finally we came across a pair he liked - a dark grey denim with a slim fit and glossy sheen, both of which my uncle approved. They were uncomfortable and tight and $160 and he was paying for them. I had no complaints, or I wasn’t allowed to have any; to this day I’m not sure which. After finding the jeans, the crux of the ensemble, the rest of the outfit fell into place.
The motif called for a monochromatic selection of clothes and accessories. I borrowed his $360 Italian leather motorcycle boots, which were decorated with the roar of a Harley Davidson engine. He gave me his knit jacket, black with black epaulets; the strange thing about this jacket was that it zipped from the bottom center up to the top right shoulder. Not straight, curved. We completed the whole set with a large, chrome, lion’s head belt buckle. Subtlety was never my uncle’s prerogative.
But I chose the shirt. Black and gray, it depicted the skinnier, more orthodox Siddhartha Buddha. He sat in front of black space dotted with a chaotic swirl of red dots orbiting his smile. The smile was different though; it was smug. This Siddhartha Buddha held one hand in his lap and raised the other, poised to take a drag of a cigarette.
We sped back to his apartment where I let my uncle slick my hair back into a tangled mess of Matthew McConaughey mimicry. In full costume, I stood back and looked at what we had managed to put together. From Italian leather to slick, greasy hair, I was supposed to be in awe of my uncle’s genius – and make no mistake, this was genius.
But in the mirror I saw someone else behind me; he was uncle, yet different. In this eternal moment, a brief lapse where time forgot to move, he had a captivating depth. I could see slowly and in detail. In a vacuum of cigarette smoke and fluorescent light, his look reminded me of something. My uncle sat with one hand in his lap and raised his other, poised to take a drag from his cigarette. He gave me smile. This smile was different though; it was smug. I smiled at him with a wide grin. I felt happy in the moment and unconcerned with the next moment, undaunted by the chaos of the world around me. I was at peace and feared no more.
Excellent piece of writing. Nice use of descriptive language to paint the scene as it unfolded. The pace of the writing conveyed the pace of the story. Good balance between the external action and internal emotion. Interesting conclusion with the tie between Buddha and your uncle. Your uncle sounds like a fascinating guy!
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