The weirdest part was, I got dressed in ten minutes. I don’t know how, but everything clicked in my head – the tights, the dress, the random hoodie, the pink coat. Everything made sense, and – more of a miracle – everything was clean. I floated down Mercer, feeling like the correct answer to a crossword. I wore Prada’s pink lipstick. Outside, I was smug.
Inside I was drunk. A swirl of friends and lemon vodka, and art on the walls that moved – first because of its design, and later, because of the drinks. When The Kaiser Chief showed up, Leigh dared me to run up to him, and I actually did.
“Hi, I’m-” but he stopped me and said, “Hello, I know you, I know!” and he kissed me, and slapped me a little, like a joke, and I was delighted and weirded and pink. Just before it rained, Greg high-fived me. I giggled demurely when a Paper photog told me “more boobs!” I did the pose that Richie showed me. It worked.
Walking home half-drenched and starving. So sweet in the dress that I kept it on, until it caught fire as I made tea. “Who did the Kaiser Chief think I was?” I asked my Chanel shoes, but they didn’t answer.
In bed I watched The Cosby Show and ate animal crackers and then I had a dream. I was in a ballet, on a big stage, and the corps was all girls, and all friends. They knew the steps, and did this great dance, and I had no clue. I faked the whole thing, and finally just did a different routine that I thought matched. And in the dream, I was totally happy, and I think my dance was pretty good.
I didn’t panic until I woke up, and called my mom. “It’s all wrong!” I sobbed, still in black tights. “I don’t know any of the steps, and nobody will show me, and everyone can see I’m faking, and I look like a freak!” I couldn’t stop crying, and my mom said, “but honey, that was a dream.”
And it was, but come on.
It wasn’t.
[JT LEROY - AM I THE IMAGINARY SOCIALITE?]
