Ripped at the Seams (3 page)

But this wasn't Elk Lake, Sami reminded herself, in a desperate attempt to justify her actions. This was New York. And the only way she was ever going to get ahead was if she could point herself in the right direction. What was it Ella had said? Oh, yeah:
“You've got the guts. Unfortunately, you don't have the know-how.” Well, Sami had now found out everything she needed to know.

Suddenly she heard footsteps from the room down the hall. Ella was coming back. Quickly, Sami hurried toward the elevator. Silently she made a promise to herself that she would thank Ella someday.

Someday when she was famous.

There was little sense in Sami hitting the pavement in search of a job that day. As she left the Bridal Building with Ella's address list in hand, the strain of traveling for four days straight was starting to get to her. Best to get a good rest and start out fresh in the morning.

By the time Sami returned to the Beresford Arms, the neighborhood was teeming with tourists out for pretheater dinners a few blocks away on “Restaurant Row.” They seemed happy and excited to be in the Big Apple for their vacation—just the way Sami had felt when she'd gotten off of the bus a few hours earlier. Sami sighed.
Has it only been a few hours?
It felt
like years since she'd arrived at Port Authority.

She walked through the dingy lobby of the Beresford Arms and over toward the stairway. But the path to the stairs was blocked by a couple making out on the first-floor landing. As they kissed, the man was breathing heavily. The girl, on the other hand, had a decidedly bored look on her face.

“Hey, take it upstairs, Chelsea,” Bud shouted from the lobby. “Ya rented the room, now use it.”

Chelsea sighed, took the man by the hand, and started up the stairs. “C'mon, you heard Bud. We gotta go somewhere more private.”

Sami gave Chelsea and her “date” a head start before she climbed the staircase to the second floor. She didn't feel like running into them again. After she was certain they'd moved on, she hurried up to her room and closed the door behind her.

She undressed quickly and spent as little time as possible taking a shower. The water came out rusty, and the tub was old and stained. To make matters worse, Sami
couldn't help but think about what had gone on in that shower over the years.

Getting out of the shower, Sami slipped into her favorite nightshirt—her father's old button-down striped shirt. It was nice and roomy, and very comfortable. Sami had never been able to figure out why women would want to sleep in itchy lace when they could just grab a man's shirt to sleep in.

Her stomach growled slightly. It had been hours since she'd eaten anything. That's when she remembered that Celia had packed her a tin full of cookies and other sweet treats for the trip. They made a delicious, if not exactly nutritious, dinner. But Sami was far too tired to go out and get anything else. She sprawled out on the bed and was soon asleep.

Tara Davis Designs seemed as good a place as any to start her job search. Sami had always admired the company's simple, all-American look. In fact, she'd patterned some of her own sleeveless tees and soft wraparound skirts on their simple designs. There was plenty in her portfolio that would fit in with their stylish yet comfortable Rose Petal clothing line.

Unfortunately, Tara Davis Design's corporate offices were all the way uptown in the Seventies. It was a long walk from the Beresford Arms. She decided to take the subway just like any other New Yorker. Just the sound of being called a New
Yorker was magical to Sami. Besides, if she was going to make her life and her career in this city, there was no time like the present to start traveling underground.

The subway was everything Sami had heard … and less. The stench was almost unbearable in the heat—a mixture of urine and sweat. And the station was filthy. Someone had drawn a mustache and beard on a movie poster featuring Julia Roberts's smiling face. A photo of Shea Stadium had been defaced by another graffiti artist, who'd written the less-than-original slogan “The Mets Suck!” in big black letters. Sami clutched her portfolio tightly and stood close to the wall—taking care not to let her body actually touch the filthy white bricks. Despite the fact that it was already ten o'clock, way past rush hour, the train platform was still crowded. Sami made sure to stay away from the edge, for fear of falling onto the tracks.

When the train finally came, Sami hurried to find a seat. She squeezed in between a sweaty, heavy-set man in a pair of shorts and a white tank undershirt and a teenager in a black leather halter, jean shorts, and combat boots.

Just then, two men in matching black T-shirts entered the car. They stood near the door. “Welcome to the Underground Nightclub,” one of the men said loudly. “For our first number, we'd like to sing ‘When the Saints Come Marching In.'” The men then broke into a surprisingly good a cappella version of the song. As they sang, they walked through the train car, waving a jar of change under the noses of the passengers.

Sami sighed. This was definitely nothing like Elk Lake.

But then, that was the point, wasn't it?

Finally, the train reached the Sixty-eighth Street stop. As she walked up the stairs, she felt something warm and wet hit her head. She looked up at the gray sky. A sudden rain shower had begun. And not a clean, fresh rain like the kind back home. This was a hard, angry rain that was rapidly turning the dirty city streets into a muddy soup.

“Umbrella, umbrella!” a street vendor cried out.

Quickly, Sami rushed to his side. She pulled out three one-dollar bills. “I'll take one,” she said.

“That'll be five bucks, lady,” the vendor told her.

“But your sign says three dollars,” Sami argued, pointing to a weather-worn cardboard sign glued to the man's cart.

“That was before it started raining,” the vendor replied. “Its a matter of supply and demand. Now ya want one or what?”

Sami sighed and pulled two more dollars from her purse. The street vendor handed her a small black umbrella with a plastic handle. “Thanks, lady. Stay dry now,” he said.

Sami put up her umbrella and walked up to Seventy-sixth Street. When she reached the address for Tara Davis Designs, she took a deep breath and headed for the elevator.

There was no mistaking the Tara Davis offices. As the elevator doors opened, Sami was greeted by the company's red rose logo on the wall behind a reception desk. Sami walked up to the receptionist and smiled. “I'd like to talk to someone about becoming a designer here,” she said confidently.

“Do you have an appointment with one of our directors?”

Sami shook her head. “But I could make one. When will one of your directors be free?”

The receptionist sighed. “Just leave your résumé and some sketches.”

“I'd much rather meet with someone personally,” Sami insisted.

“Well, if they like your work, I'm sure you'll get a call.”

“Are you certain someone will look at my work if I leave it?” Sami asked nervously.

“I'll forward it to the right department,” the receptionist assured her in a tired, almost condescending tone.

Sami did as she was told, pulling out some copies of samples of designs she'd done that seemed in keeping with the soft yet fun Tara Davis designs. But somehow she had a feeling those sketches weren't going anywhere but on the bottom of a big pile.

As Sami walked back out onto Madison Avenue, she felt tired and overwhelmed. The rain had stopped, leaving behind thick, wet air that was hard to walk through. Sami could feel her long black hair going limp
under the weight of the humidity. Her feet hurt, and her stomach was grumbling. She decided to take a break and have a snack. There was a deli on the corner.

“What can I getcha?” a young man in a white apron asked her as she entered the deli and walked up to the counter.

“Tuna salad on white bread with lettuce, and a cola,” Sami replied.

“Soda's over there,” the man said, pointing to a refrigerator with two glass doors. “Get your soda and pick up your sandwich at the cash register.”

Sami went over and grabbed a can of cola and then walked up to the register. The cashier threw her sandwich and soda in a green plastic bag. “Eight sixty-nine,” she said.

Sami shook her head. “There must be some mistake. I ordered a tuna sandwich and a soda.”

“No mistake,” the cashier said. “Eight dollars and sixty-nine cents.”

“For a
sandwich?
” Sami asked incredulously.

“The tuna's seven bucks, the soda's a buck, and then there's the tax,” the cashier
replied, not bothering to hide the annoyance in her voice.

Sami sighed as she gave up the cash. She'd better find a job … and fast. She took the sandwich over to one of the small tables in the back of the deli and sat down. She unwrapped her seven-dollar tuna sandwich and began to eat hungrily. Then she gulped her soda and quickly headed toward the Ralph Lauren Polo offices just a few blocks away.

Unfortunately, the receptionist at Ralph Lauren Polo wasn't any more helpful than the woman at Tara Davis Designs. But Sami refused to give up. She simply climbed back onto the subway and headed to the corporate headquarters of Betsey Johnson. But while a woman from personnel had at least ventured out of her hot pink office to talk to her, she hadn't offered much hope, although she
had
taken a copy of Sami's designs and a résumé.

Back to the subway. This time she took the R train to Prince Street in SoHo. Climbing out of the subway, Sami felt as though she were in a completely different
city. Gone were the tall skyscrapers and people with briefcases hurrying through crowded streets. SoHo was decidedly more relaxed than Midtown. The streets were narrower and were dotted with small café-style restaurants and art galleries. Less famous artists who were unable to get space in the galleries simply displayed their paintings and sculptures on the street, beside the rows of jewelry and sunglass vendors.

The residents of SoHo seemed less uptight than the people Sami had seen uptown. Their style of dress was far more funky—although black was still the color of choice. Instead of suits and dresses, the SoHo crowd seemed to like jeans and half shirts—with the obligatory pierced belly button proudly displayed.

This was the perfect atmosphere for the ultrahip Mollie Mack Fashions's headquarters. Sami felt hopelessly unchic and small town as she entered the huge loft space where the Mollie Mack designers toiled away each day. Next to the photos of Mollie's wild electric yellow, green, pink, and black lacy outfits that decorated the
walls, Sami's simple pale pink terry cloth drawstring skirt and cream-colored cap-sleeved top seemed awfully out of place. And the funky electronic music that was piped into the waiting room was like nothing Sami had ever heard before. Back home she was more likely to run into music by the Dixie Chicks or Faith Hill than Beck.

Still, Sami was sure she could learn to fit in with the mod fashions that Mollie and her designers created. All she needed was a chance. And if anyone could understand that, it would be Mollie Mack.

It was unbelievably exciting for Sami to be in the Mollie Mack headquarters. Mollie was legendary in the fashion world. Sami knew her life story by heart. She'd started out as a kid from a poor neighborhood just outside of Boca Raton, Florida, back in the 1950s. She always said that her love of bright colors came from being raised near the beach. Mollie hadn't stayed in Boca Raton very long. As soon as she was old enough to get a passport, she flew off to London and became part of the mod scene on Carnaby Street during the swinging sixties.
She'd designed outfits for everyone from Twiggy and Edie Sedgwick to Mick Jagger and David Bowie. But while many of Mollie's sixties and seventies contemporaries had long since worn out their welcome in the fashion industry, Mollie, like her friend and rival Betsey Johnson, had stayed current. Today her fashions were as hot as ever. She had boutiques in New York, Los Angeles, London, Tokyo, Paris, and Milan, and high-end department stores like Saks Fifth Avenue and Lord & Taylor also sold her fashions.

Mollie's small-town background had always made her a hero to Sami. She knew that if she and Mollie could meet somehow, there would be an instant connection. All she had to do was get her foot in the door.

“I'd like to speak to someone about a design job,” Sami said as she walked up to the reception desk.

“What school are you with?” asked the receptionist, a tall, thin blonde in a neon green miniskirt and a black lace blouse.

“I'm not with any school. I'm a designer,” Sami replied.

The receptionist eyed her carefully. “You look like you're in school.”

Sami shook her head. “No, I'm a designer.”

“Any experience?”

Sami nodded. “I've done some theater work, costuming,” she replied ambiguously. There was no point in adding that the theater was in the Elk Lake Regional High School, and that her design work had been limited to the costumes for her senior class production of
Bye Bye Birdie
. “And I've designed custom gowns for weddings.”
One wedding, actually, but that fact was also best kept secret.

The receptionist smiled at her. “Well, we usually give internships to kids from FIT or RISD, but …”

“FIT? RISD?” Sami said.

“Fashion Institute of Technology and Rhode Island School of Design. Sometimes we get kids from Cooper Union, or NYU, but mostly … ,” the receptionist began. She handed Sami an application and shrugged. “Fill out the information. Maybe you'll get lucky. The interns get really wonderful experience.”

“Interns?” Sami said. “You mean like doctors?”

The receptionist giggled. “Not exactly. The interns work here for a semester to get experience. It looks great on your résumé to say you worked at Mollie Mack. Mollie makes it a point to let the kids get real designing experience, not just photocopying and answering phones.”