A rush of a morning, had a 7am call time in Brooklyn Heights for a photo shoot with a young, British It Girl/Actress.  I’m one of two assistants to the stylist. This is one of my several gigs. This, the diner and the occasional odd job. The best part of this gig is being on set, and meeting new people.  The worst part is running my ass all over town picking clothes up, then scrambling to return them all in one day. The other part I’m not so crazy about is how often I write the word Critical or Urgent in email subjects, and always signing with ASAP,  i.e., “Lina really loves looks 37, 48 and the hat in look 12. It is Critical we get these by X date, we need your reply ASAP.”

On set, it’s different.  There isn’t much more to do than flirt with the photo assistants and make sure the stylist has what they need: pins, lint roller, double-sided tape, the occasional shoelace. “I went to college for this!” I recently thought to myself, as I tied the sneakers of a grown, male model.

I arrive at the location, a large townhouse in Brooklyn Heights with an ample lawn (by Brooklyn standards).  A vintage, navy blue – freshly painted – Cinquecento is parked in front. The photo crew is already there, as is It Girl and her co-star – a young, budding talent of a spider monkey.  This hairy ingenue has a handler and is – no joke – eating a banana from the handler’s shoulder when I arrive. I say a quick hello as I make my way to the trailer. No need for introductions – on the totem pole of who anyone should care to meet today, I am decidedly on the bottom; even the monkey outranks. I share that space with my fellow assistant for the day and the days of prep leading up to this one, an acerbic, know-it-all named Carl.  However, Carl is trying his best to surpass me at every opportunity. We share a mutual friend.

“Carl belongs to my bitchy ’gaisian’ crew,” the mutual friend warned.

He quickly takes to bossing me around on set, which I am too tired and indifferent to protest.  

“Katy wants the striped Louboutins; Katy wants the black cashmere pull.”

Crap like that.

I knew what he was doing, but I didn’t care to go to battle.  Not for this day rate.

“Oh, my. Oh, my gawd, he just . . . is it? Is it what I think?”

I pop my head around the corner of the bathroom door to see what the commotion is. I discover our actress in a tub with that monkey on her back. Her face is contorted in a look of disgust and amusement. The monkey has just piddled (her word, not mine) down her back.

A long and anxious silence waves across the crew. Then our girl laughs, so everyone sighs, relief and laughter pass over us.  She’s a good sport. I guess that’s why she gets paid the big bucks.

Finally, with the last shot underway, I head to the trailer to pack up.  On my way, I stop at the catering table and toss a quick cheese cube and cherry tomato in my mouth.  At this precise moment, Carl walks up.

“Sophi! Stop eating, we have to hurry.”

I freeze and feel my face warm.

“I can’t believe you are eating right now, there’s so much to pack up.”

I’m mortified. I try to answer but am stunned silent. Jeezus, I was just fueling up before the packing.

My embarrassment turns to anger, and I start to wonder if his mother policed his eating as a kid. We pack up together in relative silence.

Needless to say, Carl is going to tell Katy that I was slacking off and eating cheese cubes on the job, a particularly egregious sin in fashion, even if you aren’t the talent. Katy is never going to book me again.  

I just don’t know if I’m cut out for this: fashion game, city life, adulthood. But, I’m trying to be a good sport.   

Home now. Tired and feeling lame, dejected.  My dad called, and I told him so.

“That is exactly how you should feel. That is where the inspiration comes from.”  

I knew he’d say that though, he always has an answer.  Our calls are more frequent than ever lately, a comfort for us both right now.

Early shift at the diner tomorrow. Night.

I just want to talk for a minute about the burrow’s most confused cafe, Satchmo’s, a frequent stop on my way to the train.  The establishment is primarily a destination for the internet-deprived and roommate exhausted.  On iMac desktops in a spectrum of colors, patrons click and scroll while sipping their individually designed coffees served in their personal vessels, brandished with images ranging from corporate logo’d swag to Snoopy holding a Christmas wreath. The best thing about Satchmo’s, the muffins: blueberry and cranberry, homemade daily and served fresh from the tin.  The worst thing about Satchmo’s, the paper flyers advertising the live model drawing sessions held at 7pm each Tuesday and Thursday. Er, rather, it is the actual drawing sessions that are worse, or so I imagine. What lies beyond the cotton bed sheets that drape over the fogged-up windows on such nights, is anyone’s guess.  I prefer to remain a day-time patron. Satchmo seems like a well-meaning guy. At least, I think the smiling gentleman with dreads and a receding hairline who serves the muffins, is the cafe’s namesake. Could be the terrier drawn on the sign outside. But, come to think of it, I’ve never seen a dog at Satchmo’s, which makes me feel, just, sorry. Poor Mr. Satchmo. 

Far too much Sherry. I never even drank the stuff before last night. Tastes like an old box of raisins, but boozy. I like it. I think.

Who gets ripped on Easter? I guess I do.
I hope excusing myself from work in the afternoon isn’t going to cause problems for me this week. I needed to pray next to my own porcelain.

I’ve guzzled six types of liquids, took a mighty nap and three aspirin and am now feeling something a little nearer to normal. Now here I find myself, bleary-eyed, bent over my computer in my bedroom behind the window of the old candy shop, giving this blogging a try.

This place, quietly disguised as an empty storefront, is a place I’ve called home now for two months. A little corner of New York, nestled underneath the BQE. A former art gallery turned candy shop, according to our Italian-American landlord.
“Used to call this area Brooklyn Bays,” the doorman at Daddy’s, the bar up the street, told me.
Not much of a bay. But, I do pretend the whipping car sounds are waves crashing gently onto Zuma Beach; if I close my eyes and put my face to the sun, I can nearly taste the salt spray.

It was a long and arduous search finding an apartment, in winter, in NYC. So, I was relieved when back in February I read a post on Craigslist: “Two nice girls looking for a 3rd, without too much stuff, to share our place in Williamsburg. We have 2 cats and 1 dog”.
“Me! I’m that girl,” I thought, before jotting down the phone number.

After two rings I got an answer.
“Hiya,” answered a perky voice.
“I’m calling about the room you posted on Craigslist?”
“Oh, yeah! Come on over and check it out if you want. We are just hanging out playing music and eating breakfast sandwiches.”
I heard a few guitar strings pluck in the background.
“Ok cool, I can come by this afternoon.”

It was a Sunday in February, following a big snowstorm and the streets were piled high with fresh snow. I pulled on my Sorel boots for their maiden voyage, purchased two weeks previously, just in time. Thanks to this fortuitous purchase, I confidently plunged my foot into and eventually over the 3-foot snow drifts until I found the painted-on numbers and let myself in, as instructed.

I made my way through the red, wooden door that creaked, and still creaks, like an old rocking chair. Through a long, wide hall, flanked by a church organ and some bicycle parts, I found myself in what looked like the living room. The room was full of paintings and wall hangings. A big orange couch yielded to a pile of blankets and a little gray cat. A record was playing some noodling guitar music at low volume. The colorful chaos of the space must have reminded me of home because I felt at ease right away.

A voice greeted me from behind a bedroom door before emerging. I quickly recognized the relaxed, friendly tone as the same from the phone.
“I’m Krissie, you must be Sophi.”

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“You moved here from San Francisco? We just got back from there. We loved it. It is just sooooo . . . ” said Krissie.
“Dreamy,” answered a voice.
A tall and slender woman with jet black hair emerged from the open back door.
“I’m Mercedes.”
I quickly noted her incredible posture and intentional gestures.
“Sorry I am late, I was on a phone call with Neal.”
Krissie squealed.
“Neal is a bro in SF who is just . . . “
Mercedes’s voice trailed off wistfully.
“Just the sexiest, cutie EVER,” Krissie answered.
“Yeah. He is, isn’t he . . .” sighed Mercedes.
“We were out there visiting these buddies of ours, they are in this band Warriours. You’ll meet them eventually I’m sure.” Krissie explained.
It was as if we were three old friends who’d picked up a conversation that had begun years ago.

Krissie is from the South. Mercedes has spent nearly a decade in New York, attending boarding school here from age fifteen, where much of her studies were concentrated in ballet and theatre, hence the posture.

Both fire signs. I’m earth. That is good, I think. Krissie is like a puppy dog, bounding toward you; Mercedes is more cat-like, circling around you. Me, I’d say I’m more dog-like. So that makes for an even household – 3 dogs and 3 cats.

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Anyway, back to my present state. Yesterday we had a little party in the backyard for Easter Sunday, our first gathering as roommates. I met a bunch of Krissie and Mercedes’s friends. Mariah & Wade came by, but they didn’t stay long. It’s been hard transitioning to life here from San Francisco, particularly on them; I feel our paths diverging. It’s good we are branching out and making new friends, but I hope we don’t lose each other in the process.

We made all the foods that reminded of us of our respective homes on Easter: deviled eggs, potato salad, sliced ham, etc. Shea, Krissie’s sometimes boyfriend, grilled some beef he’d marinated for two days that was ”A-Maaaazing”. I don’t eat meat, but that is what everyone said. By midnight, wine and beer bottles were strewn about the little jungle that is our backyard, and everyone was at full tilt. Just about then, someone – you never know who in those tipsy hours – suggested that we move our party down to the bar. That’s when the Sherry came out. That handsome bartender Cody, a real Fitzgerald type fella (swooped hair and always sipping on something caramel colored), suggested it. Bad idea. I think I ended the night talking to Krissie’s friend Charli about how the neighborhood used to be called “Brooklyn Bays”. A topic for which we both had A LOT to say; a conversation that I must admit I recall very little. Maybe it will come back to me later . . . in any case, I’m happy to be discovering this new city by the bay.