The downside of living alone is when you need something that requires the help of another. What’s a thin girl to do when an art director at 8 in the morning wants a photo of her in a cocktail dress for an up and coming job?
There you are still in your robe rifling through your closet for that Versace you realized went into the Good Will bag. I’m never wearing chartreuse sequins again…who am I kidding?
Never say never, said the god of recycled fashion.
I finally find a three quarter length jacket with a festive Japanese print I throw over tights and a very short LBD (little black dress), adorning my neck with a Hermes scarf sadly sporting spaghetti sauce stains.
Now of course I have to recharge my camera and find someone to take this picture looking like I just got home from an all night orgy…but one with an Italian buffet.
WHO, PRAY TELL IS AROUND FOR THIS TASK?
The doorman at 11 East 80th, that’s who.
Now please remember it’s 23 degrees as I go galloping downstairs, heels in hand, to dash around the corner to make my request not knowing who I’ll find.
Will it be Paco the mean one, or Eddie who already thinks I’m crazy.
I run into the building and say breathlessly to the doorman of my dreams, “This is an emergency…I need you to PLEASE take my picture for a job I need desperately. Will you do that for me?”
This is when you fall in love with a little guy in gray with a black synthetic braid woven across his cap. He smiles as he takes the camera while you slip into your stilettos that have now made you rival The Chrysler Building.
He examines your little instamatic like a pro working at Best Buy, setting it to the light of the foyer.
“It’s too dark,” he says, causing my heart to pound. I need this job…I need this photo….NOW, since some anal woman named Patricia, but oh call me Pat, is waiting at her desk consuming lox on a bagel along with her 7th nonfat/skim cappuccino.
He motions to go outside.
Like a short Richard Avedon with a swarthy complexion, he puts me up against a white wall in the first shards of morning sun while a lady, waiting for a parking spot, looks on.
‘Ya look bea-u-tiful,” she says from the warmth of her Mazda.
“Anything for a job,” I say, wishing she’d let me crawl in the back.
Meanwhile my photographer is on his knee making sure he gets all of me while I turn and twist like we’re bonding in Barbados.
I notice two strollers waiting by the front door to be helped in. He jumps up…does his job, then returns on bended knee.
I say, “More body, less face,” after seeing the 3 he shot since with the exception of a smear of red lipstick, my face looks like a killing field.
“Back, back,” I said…and sure enough after 11 tries I get a shot I can live with, running upstairs to download hired by Patricia, but call me Pat, before you could say…
what would I do without the doormen in my life.
I owe you one…or two or three.