A Walk in the Park
Somewhere in the assembly process, God forgot my neck. Crew necks fit like turtle necks, and turtle necks come up to my chin. God failed to give me a button nose, too. It’s more like a proboscis. A perfect word, prrrrrrrrobosssssssscis. Long, unwieldy, and uncouth.
Kind of like the boyfriend who once told me, “You’re not fat. You’re just… dense.” Like my nose, apparently.
Sensing my lack of beauty and poise, my stepmother enrolled me in the Park Seven modeling school when I was thirteen. “What a wonderful opportunity!” she said. But I already knew what was wrong with me. Why pay someone to point it out?
Half modeling agency, half charm school, Park Seven stood in a nondescript cinderblock building wedged between a Chevron and a Taco Bell. A foul mix of refried beans and gas fumes greeted every Christie Brinkley wannabe who entered. It greeted me, too.
Park Seven required its “ladies” to come in heels, so I stuffed mine in a grocery bag and onto my feet at the last minute. But even four-inch heels didn’t help me much. Picture all four foot ten of me among towering blondes named Brittany, Tiffany, and Harper. I didn’t stand a chance.
Every dreaded Monday, at the start of each class, Miss Estelle Clapp—middle-aged and overly made-up—would ask, “Now, ladies, tell me your Park Seven dream?”
“To be on the cover of Vogue,” said one of the Brittanies.
“To be a runway model,” said one of the Tiffanies.
“To be the next Cindy Crawford,” said a Harper.
Then inevitably, Miss Clapp would point to me: “To be the best jazz saxophonist in the country,” I declared each and every time.
I loved jazz, its soaring, unbound tangents and outside-the-lines melodies. While the other girls cooed over Duran Duran, I fantasized about trading fours with Charlie Parker. But apparently, I didn’t look the part. The day I brought my horn to school, the comments began:
“Girls don’t play the saxophone.”
“What boy will like you now?”
“Why don’t you play the flute, Lila? It’s so much more ladylike.”
Miss Clapp didn’t get me any more than they did. “Jazz saxophone?!” she sneered as a nervous hush fell over the room. Mortified, I wanted to dig my Lee Press-on Nails into my length-deficient neck. But if I broke a nail, I’d have to demonstrate the proper way to exfoliate next class.
With her opinion made clear, Miss Clapp launched into a lesson on hair-teasing, offering the best ways to make it mountain high. Big hair was one advantage of the 80s for a short girl. A little AquaNet and I was five foot three.
Our participation culminated in the P7 Promenade, a fashion show sponsored by Sears. There we’d flash our Park Seven smiles and parade our Park Seven best in front of hundreds, well… dozens, well… some of the parents. “Ladies, I have wonderful news,” said Miss Clapp, her face powder billowing like smoke with every word. “You’re going to strut the runway on the Orange Julius Stage!” My stomach sank as she announced it. I had no desire to make a fool of myself before the world—or, at least, anyone at Metro Mall that Thursday.
To get ready for the show, we began the process of wardrobe styling—little more than paging through old copies of Madamoiselle and cutting out photos for inspiration. On every cover, a chiseled, Nordic girl with a tiny nose and long neck peered at me as if to say, “What the fuck is wrong with you?” The closest inspiration I could find was a Calgon ad. Take me the fuck away.
Shopping with the Park Seven girls was no less traumatic. The Brittanies, Tiffanies, and occasional Harper gleefully giggled as they poured over the neon fashion in the Juniors Department. One by one, each emerged from the dressing room looking runway ready. Meanwhile, the fitting room mirror became a funhouse mirror when I stood before it. Sensing my frustration, an over-coiffed saleswoman pulled me to the side and whispered, “Honey, we have a section for people like you,” and pointed directly to the Kids Konnection sign.
I kicked off my platform heels in humiliation and walked over to Tower Records, captivated by overflowing racks of vibrant album covers that smelled like a cross between a library and a candy store. I nearly lept ten feet when a gorgeous clerk named Rob interrupted my enthrall. “Got something against shoes?” he asked, glancing at my naked feet. I recognized him from the jazz trio that performed outside Joe’s Pub across from Park Seven. Rob played piano like a tall, blue-eyed Herbie Hancock—mysterious, complex, and cool.
Thoroughly embarrassed, I managed to utter, “Uh, where is the jazz section?” to which he quizzically looked up at the “Jazz/Big Band” sign. Right. Above. My. Head. Mortified, I put on the demo headphones, called up some Dave Brubeck, and transported myself far away. That record store was my Juniors Department. Everything fit me perfectly.
During our final class, Miss Clapp handed out flyers for the P7 Promenade made on a Ditto machine older than she was. As she dropped them on the table, the smell of duplicating fluid for once overpowered the aldehyde and bergamot that saturated the classroom.
Perfume was all the rage at Park Seven. Before class, I’d often walk into the bathroom to find several girls dancing as they imitated the incessant Enjoli commercials that flooded our three-channel airwaves:
“I can bring home the bacon, fry it up in a pan. And never let you forget you’re a man.”
Amid the din of giggles and gossip, I did my best to blend in, which went just fine until the Enjoli came out. As the girls sprayed themselves from top to bottom, wielding those bottles like tear gas, I sneezed. And sneezed. And sneezed. “Bless you, Lila,” the Briffanies said in unison on their way out, leaving me alone to fix my mascara, inevitably smeared by my sneezing fit.
While the other Park Seven girls ooh’d and ahh’d over Miss Clapp’s flyers, I felt sick at the sight of them. “Ladies, share these with your family and friends,” she exclaimed. “And as always, make the stage your own!” As soon as I left, I tossed my stack into the bin at the Taco Bell, crumpled atop a half-eaten Enchirito.
The days before the P7 Promenade filled me with dread. Every morning, my pounding heart awakened me before my alarm could. Would I stick out like an overweight, under-tall thumb? Would I trip in those heels, leaving my dignity on the Orange Julius stage?
I vowed to put together my runway outfit once and for all. With little time left, I threw open my closet door and grabbed the first thing I saw, a Gloria Vanderbilt denim skirt, the price tag still hanging. Holding my breath, I wriggled it on. The waist fit perfectly, but the length looked more suited for Amish Country. It fell far below my knees. Desperately, I grabbed some scissors and chopped off the bottom. Take that, Juniors Department!
Energized by my sartorial butchery, I rifled through my dresser and pulled out an old Miles Davis t-shirt. I tried on the skirt and top, then threw on my scarlet Nine West heels. “Not bad,” I thought, looking in the mirror. But something was missing. Furiously, I scoured my room for the right accessory. A scarf? Too frilly. My treble clef pendant? Too small. As I slammed the drawer closed, the perfect solution beckoned atop the dresser: my Selmer Mark VI soprano sax. I slapped on the neck strap and wore it like a glimmering jazz talisman.
I slept perfectly that night.
The next day, I arrived at Metro Mall in full regalia and headed to the stage. Much to my relief, I found only a sea of moms—Carols, Barbaras, and the occasional Nancy—sitting in the audience. But as I rounded the corner to join the other girls, my stomach dropped. All the confidence I’d possessed the night before drained out of me. Did I look ok? Would they laugh at my clothes? Would I be mistaken for a runaway pre-teen from Kids Konnection?
Timidly, I approached the swarm of Briffanies from behind, trying not to attract their attention. They looked exquisite, adorned in beautiful dresses with sequins and satin and silk. “Maybe it’s not too late to run,” I thought. But before I could turn around, a gargantuan cloud of Enjoli engulfed me. “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahchooooooooooooooooooo!” I sneezed fitfully, the sound echoing thunderously off the polished concrete floor.
Startled, Brittany, Tiffany, Brittany, Harper, and Tiffany swiveled around and stared. No one said a word. No one, that is, until Tiffany #2 burst forth. “I’ve never met anyone like you, Lila.”
“Line up, ladies,” Miss Clapp interrupted. “It’s showtime!” she effused, then signaled to none other than Rob from Tower Records, sitting by the stage with a Panasonic boombox. As he caught my eye, my cheeks matched my ruby-red heels. The boombox shuddered with Aaaaah, Freak Out! and the show began.
When I stepped onto the stage, the spotlight blinded my eyes, a blessing in disguise, really; I couldn’t see the audience at all. Nearing the edge of the runway, saxophone hanging from my neck, I felt overcome by the pulsating rhythm of the music and the excitement of the crowd. “Make the stage your own!” I thought, bathed in an overwhelming sense of nothing to lose.
And so, with the disco sounds of Le Chic in the background, I grabbed my horn with both hands, mouthpiece to mouth, and let loose with a soulful cadenza in time to the music. I played and played as the crowd roared and my heart sang right along. I felt beautiful— Tiffany-like but in a Lila sort of way.
When the show ended, Miss Clapp gathered us behind the stage. “Ladies, I am so proud,” she exclaimed. “You were stunning, each and every one.” And I swore she looked right at me.
As I left the show, heels in hand once again, Tower Records Rob caught my eye. “Hey, shoes!” he said. “You sounded a bit like Coltrane there! Wanna join us next Monday at Joe’s?”
Now that was a Monday worth looking forward to. Music to my ears, no heels required.
