I’ll paint the picture…after an exhausting day I found myself in one of New York’s most uncivilized neighborhoods…Times Square. The crossroads of the world, where tourists collide with Jerseyites shopping at Forever 21, and locals getting from the West Side to the East are forced to merge with people compliantly standing in line outside of the Olive Garden and Bubba Gumps. It’s an unsavory part of town riddled with neon and digital screens selling something to pretending to be culture, if you can consider HBO, Coca-cola, Rock of Ages, Baby Phat and L. Ron Hubbard’s Dianetics culture. Addicts on cue congregate outside of Mama Mia to beg and creepy men pass out passes to Lace, a “Gentleman’s Club”. Trust me; no gentleman has been in this neighborhood since George M. Cohen was hoofing it at the Rialto.
You can imagine my horror to see what appeared to be a bono-fied man of fashion exiting Sbarro like a hellion. He ran faster than the taxi’s on 51st, which actually isn’t saying much, as the traffic rolls at a snails pace. The million-dollar question is…where does a man run? The curtain at Promises, Promises and Wicked rose over a half hour ago, so I ruled out the theatre. A dinner engagement seemed implausible, as he just had a slice. Too early for drinks with the guys, and nothing big was going on at the sports bars. I therefore reason that something nefarious was about to occur, oh, not a drug deal or illicit sex, but I presume he was meeting a colleague from a rival firm, secrets will be confided, confidential information will be exchanged, there will be an offer, and a toast will seal the deal. How do I know this? Simply by the astute forensics of his attire.
The jeans are dark wash, typically worn at an office where there is a “creative” environment, maybe advertising, event planning, perhaps a boutique real estate firm. The jeans were relaxed and cuffed just so, looking unintentionally turned over, but calculated and labored over to get them “just so”. There was no constraining belt. To be certain the jeans were snug, did not shift, and grabbed the behind just so. The jeans were from a better manufacturer, no tags or labels to readily identify them. The denim seemed artisanal, maybe from Gilded Age or Earnest Sewn, something one picks up at Bergdorf’s or Saks and absently mindedly placed on a Platinum MasterCard as these jeans cost over 250.00 If I use my chocolate syrup metaphor these were not of the Hershey or Godiva variety, these were imported Ghirardelli.
The footwear was black, not polished with a factory-scuffed toes and aged to appear like vintage boot wear. These were not picked up at Payless. In fact, they were statement pieces, like anchors. Something more appropriate for hiking that the mean streets of Herald Square. They were clunky, masculine, and hit the pavement with a thud, not a metrosexual clicky-clack.
His shirt was white, non-descript, and the cuffs were not buttoned, and therefore fell loosely beyond the sports coat. It was a shimmery white shirt unbuttoned, ala Tom Ford or a cast member from Entourage. If there as a watch, it was not visible, just a plain leather band hung from his left wrist.
The jacket was a dark blue windowpane. Tasteful, very GANT. A true classic. A light summer wool, with black plastic buttons and welted pockets. It was Ralph Lauren without all the pretense.
He carried a small leather bound portfolio. Black, sexy, shiny. He ran too fast for me to identify the maker, but if I were in Vegas, I’d place ten dollars on Burberry. He carried it tightly as if it had state secrets. I could see the imprint of the sweat of his hand smeared all over it. Cleary he wasn’t a spy, this fingerprints would be too easy to lift.
You ask if he was attractive. Criminy, he looked like a former child star, or someone who once tread the runway as he tried to figure out what to do with his life. If I was a stalker I’d set up shop. A man with a secret is always a wonderful thing. A man in a beautiful pair of jeans is a thing of wonder.
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