Bergdorf’s

Face is wrapped tight in a burka like fashion, only revealing my kohl eyes. A long leather fur collar turns up to protect against the icy air tonight, outa sight from tourists, invisible to the daily commuters, disguised to the holiday shoppers, unrecognizable to the surveilance cameras; no face, no case. I burst out the side exit of the Plaza, down the steps and jet across the street, skipping around two massive black horses, swiftly through the panhandlers and pigeon feeders in the Grand Army Plaza, past security guards and valet officials gossiping about their rich clients in the winter air over 99 cent coffee and bootleg cigarettes, weaving between a Rolse Royce and a UPS truck, towards the side entrance of 754 5th Avenue, Bergdorf Goodman. 

First things first, I’ve got some groundwork to do. Take three deep breathes, I pretend to look at my phone. Deep calm breaths Maria, one, it’s all over, two, you’re out of there, three, there’s nothing fear. Walk slow and regal; I stick my nose in the air like I’m trying to escape the scent of horse manure. Ok, you’re ready. I move with a motive toward the white castle, obscured by flashing red and blue Christmas lights that remind me more of NYPD sirens. Chill out Maria, you’re paranoid. Think happy thoughts, think about the future, think about your new car, the Ferrari F12 Berlinetta. Ahh yes, that’s much better. 

Walking into Bergdorf’s is like walking into a modern day city chateau equipped with butlers, chefs, and servants ready to please any demented desire. Need an ostrich feather cap, they’ve got that. Diamond encrusted shoes that you can’t walk down NYC streets in, what size? Such dreams don’t come cheap but in the city with the most billionaires in the world, name your price.

A handsome tall, blonde, wanna be model, part time gigolo, part time doorman opens the entrance. “Welcome to Bergdorf’s” Adonis greets with blue eyes so clear, hair so perfect and teeth so clean, he must be gay. I look right through him, walking in the world where oil baronesses and Upper East Side heiresses hang. 

My head spins from a thick air of gardenia, coffee beans, cotton candy and what is that? Is that petrol? I rub my temples to snap out of this spell. It’s no use, my head throbs from a sweet gasoline scent, mixed with subtle shades of jasmine, saffron and amber. Bergdorf’s can do that to you, the intense excitement of luxury stifles your very existence. How you ask? Because in 50 years you’ll be dead but that Chanel bag will live on as an antique, a vintage attribute of immortal indulgence. 

Breathe steady, slowly, like a certified yoga instructor. I approach a display case holding little jewel brooches, and place my hands on the glass for stability, I feel like I’m about to pass out. Peering into the lighted display I admire the pretty little crystal creatures; sparkling bumblebees, dragonflies, caterpillars and a mix of garden memories. These rare relics mean so very much when you live in a concrete jungle of cement streets, steel spires and solid minarets.

Who needs a garden when you can just buy a ruby ladybug and wear it on your lapel, right? She’ll never fly away from you or die on you like all those puppies, hamsters and kittens that you’ve smothered with love. I pity the poor bug, awaiting a porcelain coffin jewelry box with other precious fauna, never to see the light of day. I wish she’d just fly, fly away. 

Wait a minute, did you see that? The lady bug, she stretched her wings, just now. Look, look, she did it again. Hmm, must be the heat fucking with me. I rip my scarf off, I can’t breathe the air is so thick; makes me feel fat and heavy. So fat in fact that my heels sink into the dense carpet. Am I stuck? I look down to see that I’m standing on short blades of soft violet grass. Real grass inside the store? Wow they’ve really gone all out for the holidays this year huh? Still though, this was a little out of touch, a bit much. Supporting myself on the glass case I pull my feet out of the quicksand soil one by one, securing my stance on squished tiptoes. That’s better, still off balance but I’ll manage. I lift my eyes to check out the rest of the holiday decorations. There’s so much going on that it’s hard to describe it all.

I’m imagining this must be a jungle book theme because the store is dripping in greenery and reeks of greenhouse gasses. Extraordinary extravagance exceeds any fairytale fantasy. I’m talking young birch trees, purple fireworks fountain grass, fig trees dripped in ripe pink fruit, gold bamboo rods and illuminated lemon trees blooming out of the walls. The neon fruit ornaments glow as bright as light bulbs. Furniture rustles with life, breathing by hidden nymphs and gnomes. The wild Eden holds many species of grapes and luxuriant ivy vines, sliding like snakes all over the ceiling and floors. As I try to pull off a chrysanthemum I realize they aren’t even real flowers or fruits. They’re beautifully crafted, crystal ornament, man-made mockeries. Phony peonies, crystal roses and mottled Myrtles decorate displays. Light flows through the rainbow glass, splashing a kaleidoscope of color all over the air. Yellow, pink and green rays stretch onto mirror cases dripped in diamonds and jewels. It was all very impressive, a bit much, but spectacular no doubt. I wonder when they installed everything cause it didn’t look like this a week ago. And what’s up with the rancid smells? If the plants aren’t real, why all this heat and humidity? 

There’s a phone vibrating behind me, I turn to realize the glass chest I’m leaning on is spilling in phosphorescent pests. Masses of buzzing mosquitoes, bees, flies, grasshoppers and ladybugs fly, climb and crawl crookedly. I want to break the case open and let the exquisite ladies free but I couldn't, too afraid of the deadly bee sting. I step back from the swelling case. 

Don’t trust your eyes, you’re seeing things. My gaze shifts to the windows where gilded gold holly leaves bigger than my head and thick white pine needles adorn the moldings. The drapery is a delicate design of intricate layered snowflakes. The sparkly see through, soft violet web print is as thick as a comforter, completely blocking out the street display. The silky web appears to move, as if growing longer and longer, over 20 feet long, softly piling up on the purple grass like spilled iridescent nail polish. A single bronze rod is molded into the shape of a thick crooked branch supporting the heavy drapes. On either end of the branch are two huge magenta tarantulas with yellow fuzz and ruby spots. If you look twice, you’ll see their long legs slowly moving, spinning the silky trap drapes. The transition from cold to heat must’ve messed up my mental, this is worse than that time I took shrooms at Art Basel last week. 

 Wipe the sweat from your brow and keep it moving. Did I drink some of Bill’s spiked champagne? Nah, no way. I’d never make a rookie move like that. I steady myself on the wall. Sweaty palms guide me back to an uneven surface sliced with Swiss cheese holes. Slowly I turn to find the walls piled high with whitewashed human skulls carefully plastered into the partitions. Their hollow dead eyes haunt, and my head hurts, this is a twisted Christmas theme. What’s next? Will Tarzan scoop me up? Is King Kong ready to fuck? How far will they go to shock and sell?

I look around for help; some water would be great. All I see is a mother daughter duo trying on a white, fox fur shawl and a blood-orange, rabbit fur waistcoat, respectfully. Now I know I’m tripping cause it seems like their coats are breathing, even moving.

First, unlike other furs, these have heads, paws and all other body parts fully intact. True, sometimes fox furs come like that but the poor things were panting with little pink tongues hanging out their mouths. Second, the bunny’s beady red eyes are rolling and blinking slowly in a sedated trance. Twenty or more furry orange friends hug tight, arm over shoulder like the Rockets kickoff dance. But they don’t can-can, just silently stack on their comrades in two rows, weaving together a short jacket for the girl.

I know I’m being rude staring but there’s something awfully peculiar about the pair. Mother and daughter look like cats, furless cats, kinda like those bald Sphynx breeds. Maybe envy is getting the best of me because they spend money like I waste time on instagram but damn, was I this fucked up? Did jealousy spread from my heart to my brain deluding my very eyes? What was this disease that made me see the unseen? I blink and beg the images to disappear but there was no hope, fantasy takes over reality. 

Now granted I’ve seen my fair share of Park Avenue plastic surgery victims, but this, this is different. The duo stands upright, with lean, long, muscular limbs, large menacing eyes and a feline body language that screams neuroticism.

The younger kitty is in her early 20’s, you could tell by her expensively trendy athleisure ensemble. She’s dipped in black and white tie-dye Adidas leggings, rocking the latest cream cheese Yeezy’s, a baby pink cashmere hoodie and the aforementioned orange bunny cage. Platinum blond hair peeks out of a forest green, suede baseball cap. The cap conceals her eyes and ears from examination but I can still get a good look at her feline face. It’s plump and dewy with sharp cheekbones protruding perpendicular to a peach button nose. Her mouth looks like wasps stung them, definitely injected but still very feline with lips larger and rounder up top, stuck in a state of perpetual pouting like those freaky face filters, specked with what looks like little pock marks from where she plucks her whiskers out. 

Momma cat is dressed in a bitchin’ powder blue angora sweater and navy, stretch leather pants with tan stiletto blood bottom booties. The poor white fox helplessly hugs her wrinkled neck. Mom looks identical to her daughter, minus the glow of youth, plus 30 some years and a grey mask of smoke pollution folds heavy on her face. Her large lemon drop eyes glitter around the store, greedy slivers of almond pupils you wouldn’t dare stare into. Huge mink ears perch atop her dome, moving like satellites round her botoxed bald-head, cherried off by an awkwardly placed, long, blonde, ponytail hair extension. Her ear tips are pierced in brilliant two-carat diamond studs. She moves towards the full-length mirror to contemplate her new purchase and that’s where my suspicions of the cat women are confirmed. Sticking out of a hole in between the back pockets of her leather pants is a yardstick long, whip thin tail, tipped with a white ball of fur. Intrigued, I brazenly walk around the younger kitty, casually brushing past her to find the same tapering tail; only difference is that her fur is died lime green like a tennis ball.

Moved by marvel, which dismissed any prior emotions of confusion or claustrophobia, I make my rounds through paradiso perduto. 

Like a dream with no beginning or no end, I don’t know where is what. Countless times I’ve moved blindly through these halls texting or talking on the phone, arms full of purchases, stealthy slipping between citizens of fashion, but now I don’t know what anything is. Stay on the main level; do not go up or down the floors or you’ll be surely lost forever. My coat catches onto a gold, thorny branch, an ominous premonition, I’m tripping. Breaking free I move towards what’s supposed to be the elevators but it’s just a volcanic hole fuming with smoke. At this point I don’t even want to imagine what’s inside the smolder, maybe a rocket ship into oblivion. Ok, from here I more or less know my groundings. I’m in the middle of the building so theoretically I should just turn right to get to the jewelry section.

To my left, a glaring of Arabian cats are making a fuss over God knows what. I know they’re Arab because their contact lensed blue eyes are veiled in heavy black charcoal, with perfectly stenciled arched eyebrows, and an overly made up face sealed in a head of silk. Fat feline arms drip in gaudy gold chains and bracelets, accessorized with Hermes belts and Versace sunglasses, Louis Vuitton this and Gucci that. Even their sharp claws are painted in glossy 24K liquid gold with fashion logos imprinted at the tips.  

They’re crowded around the shortest, stoutest cat who’s carrying a sea blue alligator over her forearm like a Birkin. The beast is colossal, at least 350 pounds, the gator not the cat, with a wide-open spectacle of sharp, diamond encrusted gold dentures. How does she manage? I mean, I know that Arabs hold the magic of the East, charming snakes and other dessert critters among their many talents, but carrying such a monster so effortlessly is physically impossible. It’s only real if I believe it is, right? 

One of her entourage then did the maddest thing and reached her hand into the gators gaping maw, petting his rigid, blackberry tongue like she would a puppy. The beast does nothing. One chomp and she’s a goner. Passively he let’s out a yawn, stretching out his shiny molars for their excitement.

Assisting the cat women is a huge NYC subway rat. Standing a little over three feet tall, the slick grey rat is covered in grimy black grudge similar to those poor animals that survive BP oil spills. His grey spotted belly hangs so low that it drags off the floor, held up only by huge spiny feet and six-inch, cracked, shit colored toenails. It’s the most repulsive thing I’ve ever seen, well, the most repulsive thing I’ve seen inside Bergdorf’s of course. The worst part is that the slime ball is acting as snobby as the cats he’s attending to. Wiry whiskers point up high above a rabid foaming mouth as a stretched out neck sniffs for fresh blood. His arms are short and tucked in like a T-Rex, dressed only in little white Mickey Mouse gloves and a violet Bergdorf’s bow tie. 

You’re too far down the rabbit hole to turn back now. Keep it moving, you’re on a mission Maria, no time to dance with delusions. I’m trying, I really am but this palace of enchantment has no end to its windings—to its incomprehensible subdivisions. Halls break off into rooms which twist into hallways, into showrooms and dressing rooms and good God knows what else.  

Flying high, gliding through the sky and perched in every corner, on every tree, are the most beautiful birds feathered in riotous colors. Scarlet roosters stalk, violet penguins pad around with trays of champagne, grapefruit pink robins sway softly, hundreds of zebra finches chirp incessantly, and raindrop blue NYC pigeons dominate the floor, idly walking about, cooing at the cats. There are ice blue parrots with grey chests and frosted white beaks flying slowly like a blimp, wings wet like silver. They fly with beaks ajar, not speaking or repeating like the rest, instead, violin concertos emerge, loud as a megaphone, each bird carrying a different tune, a unique heartbeat, that symphonies into a trance like opera. Paired with the performance is a background noise of waterfalls or some sort of running water, maybe a river? Or is it the cities sewer system rushing beneath the building?

Everything is so loud, the noise, the colors, the crazies. Each zone is adorned in masses of thick green shrubbery and seas of vibrant foliage. Enchanting aromas of coral honeysuckle, ginger buttercup, violet, tuberose, pink poppy, hyacinths and rainbow orchids bloom by the thousands.

Like I noted earlier, the verdure isn’t real, although you could get high off the rich pollen, the air is pumped with perfume like Disneyworld. Mechanical animals and synthetic replicas of a breathing forest are swaying and growing in crystals, gemstones and silk. A 30’ft snow white Christmas tree touches the ceiling, decked with chirping white turtledoves, French hens, laying geese, swaying swans, dancing maids and well, I’m sure you know the song. Cyborg horses and gazelle eat off glittering green sugarcane, ripe mangos and sweet pears. Hanging upside down on birch branches are snow-white owls with money green eyes, pupils scanning left and right, tick toking like a clock.

Nuances of the impoverished and unkempt starve in corners; pests, rodents, roaches, skunks, and sickly greyhounds survive on pigeon feed. You see, the cats are the kings of this jungle, glamorized, no less, in gems and precious parts.

 A dragon lady thing covered in jaundiced white scales and matching piss stained nails blows her hot breath; ‘Can I help you?’ 

 ‘No, no’ I wave her away, no one can help me now. I’m too far-gone.

Paranoia paints my face in a psychotic smile as I push on through the forest, passing a tall, thin, pink penguin, carrying a silver tray with a bottle of pink Ace of Spades and two crystal flutes towards a pair of over dressed, fat grey cats. The smaller of the two is trying on a crystal and sapphire choker that wraps around her neck and falls down her inflated chest like a waterfall. Her friend jealously admires the expensive accessory, downing an entire glass of champagne in one sip. 

I wonder if I look like a cat too? Nah Maria, don’t do it, don’t look in the mirror, you’ll probably turn to salt. I avoid my curiosity; instead pursuing a crew of cats huddled around something. The floor leading up is littered with bananas and peels. Moving closer, yet not wanting to touch the beasts (I’m severely allergic and convinced cats are from hell) I slide onto the skull stacked wall, tiptoeing over their serpent tails. The cats zero in on three pyramids of mini banana trees crushed by a long, crescent shaped, frosted, thick, yellow glass.

Running the tables are three albino capuchin monkeys with greedy red eyes. One dealer runs c-lo or some kinda dice game, another does a card trick where he makes the queen of hearts cry, yes literal tears spill out of animated paper cards, and the monkey in the middle madly spins a roulette wheel with half a dozen or more silver balls. Six cats are seated upright at each table, legs wide open on golden globe ottomans, as a dozen or more push through to get in on the action, placing bets and side bets. There aren’t any chips on the table; instead they’re putting up car keys and safe deposit box keys. Beemer, Benz and Bentley remotes carelessly lay in piles.  Amusingly, whether or not the house won, the primates would screech and jump riotously in celebration. They hollered and hooted, banged and sang, mocking the luck lost gamblers.