Van Cleef & Arpels

A snow-capped mountain up ahead may provide asylum from this silicone inferno. I climb the jagged, icy stairs, in my blood bottoms mind you, till I see nothing but stark white, cotton candy, fluff clouds.  I’m so far gone, I collapse on the pillow like floor. Last thing I know, an angel holds my fainting hands, “Miss are you ok?” 

My eyes open to an intergalactic world of platinum moons and diamond stars. Transparent mauve crystals cascade the walls; it was like waking up inside of a star. All of Saturn’s rings parade in platinum and pearls round the room. Rich jewels radiate in displays of infinite variety and profusion—ruby rings, sapphire ropes, dazzling diamonds. The most magnificent charms of the cosmos swim in spirals. Even the floor that I’m floating on appears to be made of moon rock. If this aint heaven, I’m close enough. 

“Do you need an ambulance?” 

I’m safe now, no need to panic Maria. If you tell them what you saw they’ll think you’re crazy. Be cool baby. 

“No, no. I’m just a little dizzy.”

“Are you sure? Can you walk?” she seems sincere. 

 “Yes, yes” I pull myself up, pushing away at her helping hand. “It’s terrorful down there.” 

“Yea, the holidays make people crazy. Let me get you some water.“ She seats me on a silver bubble chair, and disappears behind a metallic sheer curtain to fetch me a drink.

And just like that, in a flicker of an instant, all of my troubles disappear. All prior irrationalities are dispelled with the present euphoria.  My calls to God have been answered and I forget all about the obscene atrocities. Every fear-based angst sweats out of my body and precipitates into a black cloud to rain down on someone else. What the fuck was all that? Who cares, I’m out. Funny how life works like that, good to bad and worst to best in a split second. I forget the in betweens, the boring nothings of idle repetition. I live in polar extremes, but I’m not bi-polar, I don’t think.  

The floor is a sturdy marble glaze blanketed by thick white smoke; I can barely see my feet. Hovering a foot above the marshmallow floors are globes of shimmering crystal ornaments. The ceiling is encrusted with dripping icicles of milky crystal and blushed quartz. The air is charged with cold particles, I feel like I’m breathing in Vicks rub. Every breath in and out is like swallowing nano batteries, I’m charged up. 

The pretty girl returns with two mini sapphire blue bottles of Serafina. 

“Sparkling or still?” 

“Still, please”

I want to finish the whole bottle then and there, but I didn’t want to look like a thirst bucket. Small sips slip through my lips, damn that tastes good. I take my time and regain composer, checking the time, it’s only 7:40 pm. How can that be? It feels like I just passed through infinity.  

“Are you sure you don’t need an ambulance? Or we can call a doctor if you like” she talks fast and nervous as if she’s the one that tripped me. She fears me, I can smell it on her. That’s how poor people act around rich people, scared. What was she afraid of? Money. Poor people fear money, that’s why they stay poor. 

The associate is young and pretty, maybe a few years older than I am, with long, brown highlighted hair, veiled around a beautiful fresh face sporting very little makeup. Big brown eyes blink behind thick mink lashes. Ancestry is Latina, maybe even Arabic or something exotic, you can tell by her features. Natural thick lips, delicate bone structure, prominent cheekbones, curvy hips are camouflaged in a black employee uniform. She must be born here, she speaks with perfect verbiage, not even the slightest accent. Her nametag reads Angela, Watch Specialist. I knew it, she’s an angel and she’s pulled me out of Hades. I don’t return her kindness. 

“I don’t need a doctor. I need a new watch.” I exhale curtly.  

“Certainly.”

I purposefully remove my platinum, Cartier Tank Americane, watching her watch me. This baby costs $60K and she knows it. I stare at her blankly till she breaks free of shell shock and brings over a navy-blue velvet bed to rest my diamond bezel. 

Angela wastes no time, presenting a wave of wrist wear. I’m flooded with a panoramic cataract of rubies, sapphire, opal and gold onyx floating like stars amidst platinum skies. Zodiac signs come to life, seraphim’s and cherubim’s dance in the midnight. Entire galaxies slowly spin in crystal pills. Diamond stars and platinum moons twinkle midair in ether. I know exactly what I’m after, but I don’t want to seem too eager. If she works for the sale, she’ll feel accomplished; if I give it to her, she’ll be suspect.  

Testing the waters (my budget) she shows me the Midnight Planetarium watch. It looks like a typical third grade science fair project, a modular solar system. Centered in the midnight blue sky is a pink gold sun, orbited by serpentine Mercury, chloromelanite Venus, turquoise Earth, red Jasper Mars, blue agate Jupiter and Sugilite Saturn. The dial is a lucky, shooting, pink gold star spinning round the Milky Way, tracking human time. Each planet rolls in perfect rotation, on its own disc; precisely depicting its compass around the Sun. Space meets Earth with a black alligator strap. This baby runs for around a quarter million dollars. I don’t even have to ask the price cause when you know you know. 

With a bored expression, I say “Yea the planetarium, not my style. Anything else?”

Confused by my indifference yet intrigued by my profound snobbery she powers through, searching in the bulletproof glass shaped like a rocket ship, carefully selecting mini moons for me.

I dismiss the watches one by one, trying her patience. The ruder I was, the more she kissed my ass. It was a little pathetic actually, but I reveled in it. She knew I had the bankroll to make all her problems disappear and she envied me for it. Countless nights Angela fantasized about stealing a dozen watches, selling them in Prague before running off to Bora Bora to start a bikini line and learn to surf. She’d never follow through. Couldn’t risk her rent-controlled $700 a month Chelsea apartment, her non-committing, three year live in, cheating boyfriend and their shared, piss stained Yorkie. Indignant at the cards she was dealt, she soils the air with fluff and fancy, which was more obvious than a man dressed in drag. Her sappy lines: “This was made for you” “This is a limited edition, perfect for a collector” and “This compliments your sleek style” all beg for a sale. 

She wraps lightning rods of precious metal round my wrists. I annoy her with questions like: “Is it waterproof? How many stones? Carats? Is it new? How many are in the collection?” I’ve got to admit, she knows her stuff; she’s professional, polite and most of all, patient. When she spoke about the watches, she told their life story; starting with the designer, down to the exact number of gems, as if she were a chef sharing the ingredients of her favorite dishes. She told me the legends of Lady Aquarius, Aquila’s and Gallus, Leo and Phoenix, tales of luck and love. She speaks of astronomy like poetry, without rhyme. 

“It’s as if they’ve scaled down heaven to carry on your arm.” She sings, lighting up my arms with blinged out angels sleeping in pearly clouds, longings of heaven. I pretend not to care, pretentious lil snob who’s seen it all before. Dismissing her like a boring date, I deliberately scroll through instagram in front of her face, ignoring her performance.  Honestly, I was enchanted with it all, the stones, the stories, the arranged marriage of time and space. There is no time in space and in my world, there is no space for time. Alas, I’m always chasing it, time that is. It eludes me more than anything in this life. Everything I’ve ever wanted is just a wish of the will away but time, no, time I have no control of. Always late, always in a rush, sweating in the desert sands of time. Fuck it, it’s my only flaw, plus I work better under pressure. Hey, I could be worse off, right? I could be working by the hour. Now aint that a waste of time?

I wait until she brings out the Pont des Amoureux to drop my phone; picky little princess likes what she sees. Her eyes spark, all I gotta do now is make her beg for the sale. Hesitating like a virgin at prom night, eager to see her suffer a little, I stall. Sometime the chase is more fun than the kill. 

“Yes, the Pont des Amoureux is a special one. The two lovers meet at the bridge every midnight and noon for a kiss.”

 “Really?” I admire the two silver shadows awaiting their secret rendezvous. 

“Oh yes. Everyday. In fact, this is a real bridge in Paris crossing over the Siene.“

“I know, I’ve lived in Paris” for like one month for a summer exchange program but she doesn’t have to know that. 

“Oh wow. Well this is as magical as the city itself. Certain elements hidden under the dial are secretly engraved by the lovers”

“C’est incroyable”

“One of my favorites. You see that little gold fleck in the sky? It’s a lucky star representing the Great Bear constellation.”  

“I’m pretty lucky actually” 

“Realy? Are you in love?” 

“You could say that” I’m in love with myself. 

“Well then you’re very lucky in fact, true love is hard to find. This piece is made especially for lovers.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Big Daddy would have a fit.” Yea that’s me, spending big poppa’s money, privileged, proper sugar baby. Who needs love when you’ve got money?

 “Is that your lover?”

“My benefactor”

She hits me with her magic line, “Imagine him seeing you with this on and nothing else.” She was desperate, I still wanna fuck with her a little bit.  

“Oh I don’t know.” Hesitate some more. “I was hoping to get some diamonds but everything else you showed me was just so…so…. old.” I emphasize with a lagging tongue. 

“Perhaps I can show you something else?” she reaches to remove the watch from my wrist, clever girl taking the nipple out the hungry baby’s mouth. 

“No, no. Wait. Let me hold onto this and show me something else, show me Midnight in Paris” I hide the lovers in between my breasts. 

“Certainly.” 

The Midnight in Paris is an actual depiction of the stars over Paris, haloed by a pink gold bezel and wrapped in an alligator strap. The splendor of the entire sky promises infinite possibilities, each star a wish fulfilled into the future This versus the promise of loves kiss, twice a day, every day, until the end of time. I choose me. 

“What do you think?”

Honestly,” I touch her hand for intimacy “I’m on a budget. BD said I can only spend under $100 for my birthday and he’ll have a fit if I go over. I think the Midnight in Paris is more suitable for my collection.” $100K is the limit before red flags are raised at Amex Black.  

“I agree completely. You already have the Cartier with the diamonds, so this adds a little more variety.” 

“I’d still like some ice though, what can you show me in jewelry?” 

“Maybe we can frost your finger to match your wrist, have you tried the Alhambra collection?”  Yes, yes, I like what I hear. Upsell me baby, do your thing.  

We settle on a white gold, diamond, mother of pearl Alhambra Necklace and a matching cute little Magic Alhambra for my middle finger. The pentagram of Venus looks like two little lily pads floating on the space pond of my knuckles. 

“Sold” I pass her Billy’s black Amex.   

I’m in the middle of Star Wars; celestial, magnanimous, a meteor shower of orgasmic force charges my heart, every atom in my body jumps out of my skin. The euphoria is better than drugs, yes even better than sex. Since I’m in heaven it seems appropriate to make a wish here. Star light, star bright, the first star I see tonight, please guide me safely home tonight, amen. I cross my heart discreetly with my thumb. 

We ride on Pegasus to the back room reserved for high rollers. The plush room is minimally decorated with a black lacquer table spilled on a creamy carpet. A long bended copper rod hangs a bright, un-shaded, round light bulb. A treasured, ancient, hand painted Ming Dynasty vase pocked with brilliant pastel blue dots, deep blue waterfalls and golden dragon handles overflows with pale pink peonies.

I’m seated on a teal velvet loveseat to the left of the bouquet. Angela pops open a bottle of imported bubbly and hands me a glittering glassful. I spill my champagne into the vase and pick at a box of six gold and silver flaked macrons brought out for my disposal, taking a bite out of each color just to taste but not consuming the calories, as Angela packages my presents to myself. She hands me a receipt totaling $88K on a gold clipboard, I sign BW carelessly on the slip. She thanks me over and over again. Of course, she’s grateful, she just made three months rent in commission.   

Dreading to leave the comforts of the safe room I ask, “What’s all the commotion going on next door?”

“How do you mean Mrs. Riley?” Ha-ha I love when they say that shit, she didn’t even bother to ask my name.

“It’s like a zoo down there, the people, the decorations.” I want to say more, to tell her what I saw but I stop myself. 

“The holidays can be hectic.”

“I honestly can’t bear to go down there again, but there’s this bag that I muuuust have.” 

“What brand?”

“Chanel.”

“Not to worry, I’ll call a rep over to bring us their latest collection. You just relax right here.” 

In minutes, a tiny Asian man slides into the room with a dozen bags strapped over each arm. He was maybe 5’5 in his platform, black patent leather, penny loafers. His arms are spread wide, feathering wildly like a peacock. The bags stretched in ostrich skins, alligator leather, stingray silver and colorful caviar quilts. I couldn’t be more pleased. He looks so pretty himself, face perfectly powdered and contoured, clear shiny lip balm slicks nude lips, long false lashes disco with every wink and shiny black hair is slicked back into a tiny ballerina bun. His fudge is squeezed in a tight black three-piece polyester suit, tied up like a gift with a thick silk blue bow tie under cascading strands of white coco pearls over his puffy chest.

“Helloooo beautiful! I’m Yuki” he says in a Japanese American accent. “Wow you are absolutely gorgeous.” His speech and manners are overly exaggerated, so that he sounds like he’s lying all the time.  

Again, I know exactly what I want, I always do. I act like I’m torn between the silver snake python metal flap bag, the pink galuchat small boy bag or the grainy black calfskin backpack with gold hardware. I swim in the mirror admiring all three. Somewhere a clock chimes, it’s 8:30 pm. I’ve got to run but I can’t dine and dash, so I facetime my mom for special effects.

 “Habibti mama, where are you? What are you doing?” she’s moving around her kitchen making tea or cleaning something, she barely looks into the screen, answering the Facetime like she would a phone call, yelling into the speaker. 

“I’m here in Chanel, I don’t know what to get.” I twist and turn in front for the mirror showing off each masterpiece one by one.

“Is he paying for it?” She doesn’t even look at the screen. 

“Of course.” 

“Get all of them baby. You deserve it.”

 I glance in the mirror at little Yuki’s face. He is ecstatic, twinkling on his toes like he just pissed himself.

“Oh, momma I love you so much.”

“I love you too baby. Fuck him, his balls are saggy.” Everyone in the room laughs. Mom seals the deal. 

“Ok momma I’m gonna see you tomorrow ok? Bousa bousa” I hang up. 

 They pour more champagne for me and for them, we celebrate conspicuous consumption. I buy all three of the limited editions for my limited addiction. Chanel is more than a status symbol, Chanel is an investment, and a commodity to trade you’ll soon see. 

Angel and Yuki walk me out the door towards the street, kissing me on both cheeks like their European clients would, “We love you.” “Let’s be friends” “Do you have instagram?”  “When will you see us again?” 

“Maybe never” I smile through my teeth and rush out onto the cold concrete, heading north on 5th Ave carrying three, large, violet BG bags. I glide like a gold medal figure skater across the foamy snow, warmed by the stares of passerby’s, relishing in their envy. “Look at her” “Who is she?” I can read their minds they’re thinking so loud. They all want to be me, young, rich and beautiful. Nah you don’t wanna be me, you couldn’t face the things I see.  

My jacket is open, but I barely feel the icy air, my skin is rushing with excitement, ego rising higher than the skyscrapers on billionaires’ row. Lights flash somewhere, probably taking a picture of me for a fashion blog, not the famous Bergdorf’s display but me, caught in the breeze, Manhattans poster girl of leisure and luxury.  She’s an underground celebrity, a foreign dignitary, a fallen princess, a billionaire’s mistress. I am what I am.  

 At least one of those are true, I am a fallen princess. My maternal great great great grandfather was the first monarch of Morocco. Legend has it, he gave up his throne for some pussy. Well, at least he’s left a legacy.  

The crowded streets don’t bother me, they part like the Red Sea at each step of my blood bottoms. Which limo will I enter? Which penthouse do I live in? What actor am I fucking? I can hear their voices ringing with the street traffic and the Christmas jingles. Don’t blow your cover Maria, I zip up my coat, wrap my head in a scarf and walk west towards my drop off point like I walked out of a murder scene. Now I’ve just gotta get rid of the body.