Fun is the one thing that I can definitely say is missing in my life. All work and no play would make anyone unhappy. Add in the stress of maintaining a public image, especially one as high profile as mine, and its no wonder I’m feeling out of sorts. I need to go back to the way things used to be, when I was just starting out and no one knew my name. My friends were there because they liked me and not because I could get them entree into exclusive parties or get them followers on Instagram. I was happy then.
Suddenly, the idea that seemed so ridiculous when Philippe said it is all I can think about. Going out into the world and having a little fun outside of the exclusive bubble I live in.
That’s a dare I’m willing to take.
2
* * *
The next few weeks are brutal and I don’t have to time to do anything other than make sure the empire I’ve built doesn’t fall. But off and on, Philippe’s idea plants itself in my mind and spreads it’s roots through my imagination.
The idea is too tantalizing to ignore. And I’ve always been a sucker for a dare. I send a message to my assistant to have a few things waiting for me at my hotel and then promptly forget about it.
Until there’s a knock on the door on a random Friday afternoon.
My mind runs blank for a moment as I try to remember which luxury hotel I’m staying in this week. It’s not fashion week so that narrows things down a bit. I open the door to Reginald, the concierge at this hotel. My memory is still fuzzy until my eyes fall to the discreet Fitz-Harrington logo on the plastic bag in Reginald’s hand.
Ah, that clears it up. I’m in the States again. I only stay at the Fitz when I’m in Washington D.C.
“Your requests, sir. I hope you’ll find them satisfactory.”
“You were able to find everything?”
He looks stricken. “Of course, Mr. Lavin. Well, I didn’t go personally but one of the maids lives in Virginia and was willing to visit …” he lowers his voice, “Wal-mart to pick these up for you on the way in to work this morning.”
Reginald presents me with the bag reluctantly, as if the items I’ve asked for are so unsavory that he can’t bear to sully his hands.
The thought makes me smile. You’d think I asked him to procure hookers or drugs by the look on his face. Instead the bag should contain a pair of jeans, a plain cotton T-shirt and a pair of Nike athletic shoes in size eleven.
“Thank you, Reginald.”
As I take the bag, I discreetly slip him some money. He doesn’t blink so that must mean I got it right and gave him dollars this time instead of euros. Traveling so much, it’s easy to get confused occasionally about which cash to use when or what language to speak where. Although I have to give Reginald credit. When I spoke to him in Italian upon arrival, he responded as if he understood so he must have a working knowledge of several languages.
I do appreciate excellent service.
Trying not to appear too eager, I close the door gently and carry the bag to the bed. The first thing I pull out is the T-shirt. It’s actually a bundle containing three separate colors, white, red and black. I decide on the white one. My brow furrows at the thought of wearing this rough material next to my skin but I quickly forget about that when my hands land on the denim. It’s stiff and much thinner than I expected. But hell, it’s not like I’ll be wearing them for that long.
It only takes me a few minutes to change clothes. The shoes fit perfectly and are very comfortable. The finishing touch is a baseball cap given to me by the head of my advertising agency. As the creator and namesake of my own fashion line, people give me clothing all the time. Designers who want to work for me, rivals who want to crush me, you name it. But it’s not that often I get a gift just because. At the time, I found it amusing since sports have never been my thing but I’m glad I held on to it.
It completes the perfect disguise.
The presidential suites have their own elevator so I make it downstairs quickly. This will be the real test. Whether I can walk out without anyone calling my bluff. My heart pounds as I cross the marble lobby, the new sneakers sticking slightly. But no one says anything and no one stops me. A few seconds later I’m standing outside, blinking into the sunshine. Part of me wants to cheer but my feet keep moving, traversing the concrete walk that takes me away from the hotel and into the stream of people outside walking to their destinations.
I laugh aloud. Now that I’ve “escaped” I realize that I don’t know where to go. My plan didn’t extend much further than my disguise. The bright yellow of a taxicab catches my eye and I raise my hand to hail it. I can always go get some coffee and then figure out where to go next from there. I haven’t found a coffee shop yet that can produce a decent espresso but there’s a small cafe near my advertising agency that does a fine cappuccino.
It’s an experience riding through the streets of DC and my senses are attuned to take it all in. Over the past few years, all I’ve done is work with singleminded focus on expanding my fashion brand and achieving my dreams. Now I have everything I ever wanted but none of it seems to mean a damn.
Ennui, is what the French call it. Boredom. A dissatisfaction with life in general. Something that makes no sense when you’ve finally gotten everything you want.
The taxi pulls over in front of the coffee shop and I hand over several bills. Once I hop out, someone is climbing into the cab before I even clear the door. The young woman doesn’t say excuse me or even look at me. A smile tugs at the edges of my lips. It’s not often I feel invisible.
Normal, I remind myself. This is what it’s like to be normal.
Lately, there’s been something angry inside of me, a dissatisfaction that has only spread. It’s like I’m looking for something but I don’t know what it is or how to find it. But I’ve had a growing feeling lately that what I’ve been looking for is connection. I’m surrounded by people constantly who want something from me or want to be me. But rarely anyone who sees beneath the surface.
As I stand there on the curb, watching people flow around me, it hits me that I could just walk away from it all. Right now. I tilt my face up and enjoy the sensation of the sun on my face. It’s strange to just stand here, enjoying the moment, having nowhere to be, no appointments to keep, no investors to impress. When was the last time I did something just for the fun of it or for the delight of trying something new? How long has it been since I was free to be just Andre, instead of Andre Lavin, fashion mogul and internet sensation?
How long since I really lived?