Poseur #4: All That Glitters Is Not Gucci (10 page)

“Janie,” Wendy corrected.

“So,” Ted continued, sinking into the brass-studded burgundy wing chair behind his humongous desk. Ted’s chair was so low
and his desk so high that once he sat down, the parents could see only his thick white hair, floating over the slab of mahogany
like a dollop of cream. “Your daughters have created a beautiful product,” he began, cranking his chair to a higher level.
“As I’m sure you all know by now, I came across the Trick-or-Treater bag through a fortuitous accident, and became enamored
on sight. We at Ted Pelligan have since begun production on one thousand copies of the enchanting parcel, with many more in
the pipeline after that. Once the Trick-or-Treater lands in stores, I have no doubt it will replace everything from the Kelly
bag to the Hefty bag.”

“That’s great, Ted—can I call you Ted?” bellowed Robert Greene from his spot by the antique maple highboy. “But I just want
to know how you plan to keep these kids from
squandering all that loot.”

“Could you repeat the question, my dear sir?” Teddy rejoined, fluttering his short silver lashes perplexedly.

“Well, take our daughter Petra for example,” Robert explained. “She says you are giving her—what is it?—fifteen grand to produce
this purse? And that concerns me, concerned parent that I am, because I know my daughter is not responsible enough to cart
around that kind of dough.”

“You don’t trust your own daughter?” Wendy inquired.

“Not particularly, no. And even if I did, I still think that us parents deserve a slice of the pie here, right? No, I’m kidding.
But seriously, between the private school and the ballet lessons, that kid
has
practically sucked us dry.”

“Robert,” Heather whispered, “Petra has not taken ballet since—”

“I just think,” Robert interrupted, “that it makes a hell of a lot more sense for us responsible adults to handle the money
stuff ourselves. Let the kids focus on the sewing.” (The self-proclaimed “responsible adult” did not go on to mention that
he had invested—and lost—half his family’s assets in a Ponzi scheme earlier that year.)

“No disrespect, Mr. Greene,” Seedy began, “but nobody in this room is touching a dime of my girl’s share. Melissa may be a
teenager, but she is also a savvy businesswoman, and I intend to treat her like one.”

“I think I agree with Mr. Moon,” nodded Wendy. “The
girls were responsible enough to create a product that is actually being produced and sold in stores. Surely they are responsible
enough to handle the profits that product brings in.”

“I think there’s been a misunderstanding here,” offered Heather. “Sometimes it’s hard to tell when Robert is kidding. The
man has quite the poker face. I assure you he’s just teasing when he talks about controlling Petra’s share.”

“The hell I am,” mumbled Robert.

Bud Beverwil’s iPhone belted out an emotive Puccini aria and he leaped up from his velvet chair. “Tell me something good,
Marty,” he barked, walking into the hallway and leaving the heavy polished door wide open.

“Listen,” Robert began, trying in some small way to repair his rapidly dwindling image in the eyes of the other parents. “I’m
sure your kids are different. Especially you,” he assured Seedy. (Hello, Robert was a jerk, but he wasn’t stupid. He’d heard
Seedy’s new song about throwing that lady in the L.A. River.) “But Petra just isn’t responsible enough to handle that kind
of cash flow. She’d just roll it up and smoke it.”

“Is that a metaphor?” Wendy pursed her lips.

“Well, no. I mean, yes, I guess technically it’s a metaphor because she won’t roll the money itself up and smoke it, right?
But no, ’cause it’s not a metaphor for something other than smoking—” Robert was confusing himself now.
“She’ll spend it on drugs,” he clarified. Then he shrugged. “Look, we’ve got a bad seed on our hands.”

“Bad seed. Sad seed. Glad seed. Fab seed,” Ted Pelligan mused, making a tiny tower with his chubby pink fingers and affecting
an air of pensiveness. He did this often during meetings when he wanted to change the subject, repeated somebody else’s statement
over and over until it lost all meaning and then went on to talk about whatever he wanted to talk about. Which, in this case,
was the girls’ image.

“These little lovelies are each so different. Each so original. Each so unique,” Ted began. “This is becoming an issue. I
invited you all here today so that you could sign off on the project, of course, but also because I wanted to get a look at
the people who spawned these delicious creatures, so I might better assess the best direction to take their collective image
in the months to come. And I am learning a lot.” Ted inspected the lady in the horrific Juicy suit, as glassy-eyed and sylphlike
as her daughter; Seedy Moon’s commanding presence was perfectly replicated in Melissa; and the chlorine-eyed model was as
fabulously unimpressible as her pocket-size daughter, Charlotte. As for that lady with the glasses, she exuded a wry, perceptive
quality that was the essence of her daughter.

“Jesus, not again!” bellowed Bud Beverwil from the hall. “What the hell do you mean, she’s been hospitalized for dehydration?
You’re busting my balls, Jerry! You’re busting
my… Yeah? Well, you tell Gabrielle if she’s not on set in the next
hour
I am replacing her today. (Pause.) Nobody is irreplaceable! (Pause.) I don’t care if we’re over budget on reshoots. This
is art! This is not business, you pea brain, this is art!”

After one of Bud Beverwil’s infamous on-set tirades was caught on tape and released to TMZ a few weeks earlier, his publicist
had insisted he stay away from the set of reshoots for his new film
Dead on the Vine
until he completed anger management. But Bud had been away from the set for two days and he was already eating himself alive.
A guy drops the f-bomb once or twice, and now he’s sentenced to spending the remainder of his days in some creepy library
talking about his daughter’s sewing class? No thank you. Bud loved Charlotte and all, but this meeting was taking the whole
“father” thing a bit too far.

“I’m on my way,” barked Bud, “and you tell Gabrielle Good that if she is not on set by the time I get there, not to bother
coming back. (Pause.) Then get her some water! I’ll see you in ten.”

Teddy’s office had gone quiet. It was difficult to talk over all that yelling. After a few beats it was clear that Bud was
not coming back.

“Well, then, let’s continue?” Georgina Malta Beverwil offered finally, affecting breezy unawareness of her husband’s outburst.

“Certainly,” Ted agreed. “Giddy!”

Ted Pelligan’s deliriously somber right-hand man, Gideon Peck, appeared soundlessly in the doorway. “The contract, sir,” Gideon
announced, head bowed, his tone as weighty and apologetic as a doctor telling a patient he has two weeks left to live.

“Splendid, bring it here,” Ted intoned.

Gideon crossed the room in long slow strides, keeping his eyes trained on the Persian rug all the while. He presented a document
to his gourd-shaped superior and then produced a gold Montblanc from the pocket of his Dolce & Gabbana tuxedo jacket. Then,
with an even deeper bow of his already bowed head, Gideon made his exit.

“So,” Ted began, “the last step in our little powwow today is for you all to put your John Hancocks on this here slip of tree,
so we can get those Trick-or-Treaters into select stores as soon as possible. It’s a rare thing indeed for this sort of contract
to be signed by the
parents
, and not the designers themselves, but
quel
can I
do
? Your precious saplings are ahead of the curve. Just think,” he sighed, clasping his small hands. “To have all your dreams
fulfilled at such a young age! To be famous!”

The lady in the peculiar glasses met his exclamation with a strange and fretful expression. Mr. Pelligan laughed, extending
his Montblanc.

“Madam?”

The Getup: Current/Elliot Love Destroyed boyfriend jeans, white Splendid V-neck t-shirt, black lace La Perla push-up bra,
white gold Rolex, pink Uggs, Glow by JLO perfume

“What are you doing over there, baby?” Marco Duvall called from across Melissa Moon’s high-ceilinged birdcage-shaped bedroom.
It was halftime, and Marco had finally turned away from the Lakers versus Celtics game to find his girlfriend still hunched
over her gold-trimmed princess desk, poring over a stack of documents.

“Lissa!” Marco repeated, chucking a frilly, corn dog–shaped pillow at his annoyingly studious girlfriend.

It hit her square in the ponytailed head—he had great aim—and landed at her pink Ugg-clad feet, causing Emilio Poochie, the
toy Pomeranian who’d been slumbering there, to leap up, clearly annoyed. And E-Poo wasn’t the only one.

“Marco! Can you not see that I am
working
?”

“Okay, okay, chill,” mumbled Marco, from his nest on the overstuffed bed. “I just thought we were gonna watch the game together.”

“Well, the game is on, and we’re together.”

“Yeah, baby, whatever you say,” answered Marco, stretching so his Winston Falcons jersey lifted to reveal his flawless, b-ball-toned
abs. Melissa didn’t even look his way. Damn. He couldn’t stretch forever. He tried a different tack.

“I’m starving. You want to take a break and make me some of Melissa’s famous mac ’n’ cheese?”

“No, Marco, I do not,” Melissa snipped. “I have a lot of homework and I really don’t have time to take a break.”

“A’ight,” shrugged Marco. “It’s cool. I’ll just starve.” He eyed Melissa for a response—anything—but her espresso brown eyes
remained trained to the pages in front of her and showed no signs of budging.

“You can’t take one day off?” Marco whined.

“Nope,” Melissa snapped back. “Not unless it’s Christmas, New Year’s, or Usher’s birthday.”

Marco gave up and headed downstairs to fashion some sort of crude snack himself. He was perpetually starving; Marco ate every
hour, and he could kill a quart of milk in a single sitting, but he never gained a pound.

Melissa pushed her pound cake–colored Chanel reading glasses up the bridge of her smooth straight nose and reread the page
in front of her for the gazillionth time. Nikki Pellegrini had done her research. She had found out every possible detail
about the founder of Schizo Montana. From his name (Ariel Berkowitz), to his shoe size (7), to his Bar
Mitzvah venue (the FOX lot), Nikki had left nothing out.

So why wasn’t she satisfied?

She opened her MacAir and clicked on
SchizoMontana.com
, which she’d added to her favorites yesterday for easy viewing. More like
least favorites
. There he was on the home page, that Ariel Berkowitz punk, grinning this dopey smug smile from beneath his lame ironic mullet.
His multicolored fluorescent clothing was garish against his pale, scrawny body, and black-rimmed geek glasses framed his
eyes.

Melissa clicked on the “About Schizo Montana” link, even though she’d read it so many times she could recite it by heart:

Schizo Montana is a clothing line that celebrates a true Santa Monica original. If you’ve spent any time on Montana Avenue,
you have experienced the unique charms of Ms. Schizo Montana, a homeless woman who traverses the Avenue, alternately cawing
like a bird and cursing George Bush. (Yeah, we tried to tell her there’s a whole new White House regime, but yo: she won’t
listen.) Our line is a celebration of this L.A. mainstay, with each limited edition tee featuring one of Schizo Montana’s
many personalities. And no, this isn’t exploitation, so don’t bother asking! We are totally tight with Ms. Montana. We love
her and she loves us too.

Melissa clicked on the “Shop Now” tab and zoomed in on a wife beater silk-screened with a photo of a homeless
woman wearing a petticoat over her pants. She was seated alone at a table outside the Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf, talking to herself.
The words “The more, the merrier!” were printed across the bottom. Melissa felt physically ill. Poseur had not just lost the
Nylon
cover to a t-shirt brand. Poseur had lost the
Nylon
cover to the single stupidest t-shirt brand in the history of fashion.

Melissa couldn’t contain her hatred any longer. She clicked on the “Contact Info” tab, cut and pasted Ariel’s e-mail handle,
and then clicked over to her own e-mail account—
[email protected]
—and immediately started typing.

Dear Mr. Berkowitz,

Congratulations! You have created the single most offensive clothing line in the history of clothing lines. And no, I don’t
mean offensive in some cool, Eminem/Howard Stern kind of way. I mean offensive as in offensive to my eyes because it is so
empirically ugly. So, good job! Thanks for making L.A. an uglier place to live in with your lame-ass merchandise.

Toods,

Divalish16

Melissa hit send. She was pulsing with anger; high on
it almost. She clicked back to the home page and stared at Ariel’s smug smile again. Puke. She couldn’t see his eyes well
enough though, so she dragged the photo to her desktop and blew it up using Photoshop. Magnified a hundred times, Ariel’s
eyes were warm and alluring.
Just like Satan’s
, Melissa thought.

She clicked over to her Gmail account to reread her clever e-mail, and found, to her surprise, a response from the fluorescent
Satan himself.

Divalish, Wow:

You really are pathetic. Seriously, do you have a life at all? Or do you just troll around the Internet looking for things
to comment on all day? I bet you’re a forty-year-old woman with nineteen cats and no boyfriend, and you just finished your
box of Franzia wine and John Mayer is playing in the background at your tiny apartment right now and you’re desperately lonely
and sad because John isn’t singing about you so you go online and send hate letters to people like me. People who have real
lives and do cool stuff and actually leave their houses and go out into the world once in a while. Okay, go make out with
your John-Mayer-shaped pillow!

Peace out, biatch,