The Black Prada

The Black Prada

The week had been a sad one. The condition of the family dog, Bobbie, had gone from bad to considerably worse and we knew she only had a few days left before her last kidney would give out. We were all holding teary-eyed vigils in our rooms, in the kitchen, or next to the dog’s crate, from which came a repugnant, laborious and melancholic pant.

Meanwhile, Saks 5th Avenue was in deep-sale mode. The prices of racks and racks of Gucci, Armani, Escada, Cavalli, Oscar De La Renta, Dolce and Gabbana, Louis Vuitton and Hermès were being slashed. 50% off articles that were already 30% off, 80% off everything with a red tag, 74% off everything with a green tag, orange stickers and blue stickers and yellow stickers, and 40% off the tag price. It was a veritable melting pot of uber consumer-friendly prices.

My father, never one to meet a sale with a closed wallet, dragged me there to meet my mother so we could get some discount Armani. Despite our pre-mourning mourning, we went. We arrived before my mother and had time to canvass the men’s stores and get something to drink before we attacked the four-floored women’s Saks. We entered the store frappucino’s in hand, sales in mind.

I’ve always admired Saks for being so polished and pristine. I adore watching tight-ended women with acrylic nails and black stilettos wrap one article of clothing in waves of superfluous coloured paper. I wordlessly marvel over how their blush matches their skin tone perfectly, how it buffs out all minor facial blemishes or imperfections. How the salespeople own the floor and make it their runway, not just a few hundred square feet of scuffed tile.

But this was the sales-Saks. It was as if the gods of fashion had whipped out their willies and pissed all over everything. There were racks of clothes that you could just tell had been touched, smoothed out, made a fuss over, tried on, taken off, been rejected, been stared at pensively, reevaluated, thrown on one more time and then been nixed and tossed back on the rack a thousand times that day. The salespeople looked tired and worn-out. Their buns and faux-hawks had sagged because the hair gel that was meant to keep them alive had been sweated onto already shiny foreheads. It was as if the updos were sighing, or frowning. But the limp-haired persons took no notice of their lifeless hair, seeing as they were too preoccupied trying to cover up the stains their mid-July doses of deodorant had made when they melted and drooled into their clothes. I was tempted to notify someone that this wasn’t S-E-A-R-S it was S-A-K-S (for Christ’s sakes) but deemed it inconsiderate and just screamed it repeatedly in my head.

Most of the time I went to Saks I looked like a complete slob. I hadn’t brush my teeth or showered in days. My facial hair was as long as the hair on the top of my head. My breath reached across the room and slapped the person at the other end. I wore stained shorts and a dirty rag of a t-shirt paired with Birkenstocks. Not only that, but I forgot to wear a belt and therefore the entire store could have a great look of my boxers. But this time it was different. I was tucked in and fragrant. I had showered, shaved, brushed, plucked, exfoliated, moisturized, skinned, gelled, sprayed, applied and dabbed. I wore a blue shirt that brought out my eyes and everything below the belt (which I was wearing) was long enough, snug enough and or hugged my bottom like a mother hugs her newborn.

I was clean, confident and charismatic.

I had to find something that measured up to Saks’ usual sterling quality, somewhere that hadn’t been ravaged by plebeians, somewhere to revitalize me before this nightmare materialized and tarnished my safe-haven, my fantasy world, my little utopia and turned it into a whore of a store. Since everything beyond it was a colossal mess, I decided to ferret the full-priced. My plan was to walk around the “skeleton” a few times, sightseeing. Inhaling the rich scent of the haute couture, familiarizing myself with the clothes. Then I would begin browsing, interjecting every few minutes with things like: “Oh, that’s cute!” or “Feathers? There? Please!” or “This would look fabulous with a clutch purse and heels.” (Of course, since I’m not too fashion savvy, most of the time I was just regurgitating fragments of fashion dialogues I’d heard elsewhere. It was all part of my never-ending plan to impress the salespeople at Saks 5th Avenue.) Then, after I was done perusing the sort-of-famous-but-not-all-that-known brands, I’d explore the sectioned off areas, starting with Chanel.

The Chanel room was nothing more than a shrine to its greatness. Mannequins striking sexy poses were lined up in the window display, clad in the best of that season. (Which I think the theme of which was “Classic Granny.” Nothing risqué was to be found in sight.) In the room I could see only perfect cuts, hems, patterns and stitching hanging from every wall. Awe-struck and salivating, I approached the room taking careful, consistent steps, not wanting to upset the perfection of it all. I stepped onto a large, rectangular patch of white tile that had the Chanel emblem painted in glossy black paint onto it. Even that dazzled me. It was as if I was in the presence of a superior being, who had taken the form of clothes. I was so wrapped up in my star-struck prudence that I failed to notice two sensors (one pitching the invisible laser, one catching it) that I stepped clear in between them, thus setting off an alarm. Startled and vexed, I rushed out of the room clutching my racing heart and wondering how the Chanel could’ve thought I was going to harm it. I tried again, twice, to infiltrate the cove (once actually stepping over the laser) thinking that perhaps the clothes had misread my intentions, alas each time the alarm screeched, each time adding time to my already eternal grudge against Chanel.

I advanced to the next room: Armani. The perfect word to describe the Armani room is “askew.” Piles of jeans tilted and leaned left and right. People who were in too much of a sales-frenzy to pick up the things they’d knocked off the shelves and hangers just left the clothes to lay on the floor like fashion road kill and the lights were so bright that I thought I’d teleported to a weird Filene’s Basement imitation. The place was so jam-packed with BCBG European expatriates looking for something to call home that I didn’t even bother taking a peek. It just wasn’t my scene.

Having been rejected by Chanel and in turn rejecting Armani, I was energized and eager to find a nook that made me feel safe and wanted. Prada seemed ideal. Ah, Prada. You clothe the devil and Henry the VIth. The name itself radiates sin and sex and everything scarlet. Fashionistas worldwide recognize Prada as perfect.

The Prada room was small, housing mostly black clothes. It appeared to be the theme of that season. The garments were hanged primly on neon green walls or dressed white, faceless and bald mannequins. Mostly, the room was generic and lacked flair. I scanned it for something to catch my attention, that’s when I saw it:

The Black Prada.

The food for the hungry, the money for the poor, the cure to cancer, the second kidney, all the justice, equality, brotherly love and peace in the world, it was ecstasy, it was nirvana, it was an orgasm of the soul, it was a core shaker, a life changer, a cum-in-your-pants-er.

I firmly believe that I am a better person after having seen that dress.

The next day Bobbie was put down. The teary-eyed vigils turned into sobs punctuated by dark silences and an occasional “She was a good dog.” Nothing could make it better. Not a cookie, not a cake, not even The Black Prada.