Part 2
As a younger woman I left Godchauxs on Canal Street, packed up my wristlet of straight pins and measuring tape and joined the employment of Madame. Madame Clotilde was one of the Crescent City's best kept secrets, she was literally a designer as talented as anyone in Paris, New York or Milan. A clothing designer with a limited and ultra rich clientele. Rock stars came for their skin tight leather pants, society ladies came for unusual dresses and suits and everyone in between. I learned early on to keep my eyes down, my countenance bland and my body language subservient when I was called into one of the private fitting rooms to start the long process of customizing a garment.
Sometimes interesting things happened within the confines of her atelier, once a bride to be fainted during a fitting and it turned out she hadn’t eaten in days, trying to diet down smaller. We ended up calling for an ambulance and the bride was confined to the Touro Infirmary until she’d gained five pounds back. She missed her wedding date.
Rock stars would show up at Madame’s high on a variety of substances with a bevy of strange people in tow. The entire energy of the hushed rooms would change by the physical presence of the musicians. We’ve seen accidental OD’s in the fitting rooms, spats between gay lovers, and once even a fist fight between the drunken members of a heavy metal band. The worst fight that occurred in the fitting rooms actually involved two New York society ladies, one a wife and the other a mistress of the same man. Bloody noses and silk.
Once I was kneeling between the feet of one of the rock world’s biggest most enduring idols when he propositioned me. Me, plain Alsace Arceneax, too dark to pass as white, too light to be really black and plain as a post, nothing in my features to make me stand out either way and this rock n roll legend is asking for a blow job. I remember staring at him in shock, stopping measuring his inseam, dropping my tape measure and bolting from the room listening to him cackle out an evil laugh from between those thick lips of his, calling out that he’d been teasing and to come back in and finish. Eventually I did, but I couldn’t look at him, preferring to stare at the carpet when I wasn’t applying pins to his pants.
“You should have complied to his request, Alsace..” Madame has told me as soon as the man left, “ a girl needs experiences in life, exciting experiences, things to remember when she’s old. and he‘s wanted by millions of woman.. why not enjoy yourself..” Typical Madame. She never understood that I was too shy to ever do such a thing as that. My life revolved around going to work and going home, my elderly mother would have dinner ready and afterwards we’d watch a little television. Sundays church. It was a quiet life. Many times Madame would tell me I should take myself to the Garment District in New York and hire on at one of the big fashion houses, that I was wasting my skills here in this glittering backwater. She didn't understand I wasn’t prepared to leave either my mother or my home town, not even for my passion, creating beautiful clothing. What chance did I have in the big city? Me, a barely educated black woman from the wrong part of New Orleans? I’ll tell you what chance, none. I didn’t understand until much later that education can be acquired in many ways and that once you leave your beginnings behind the world is your oyster. I preferred to save my wages and play it safe with Momma. So I stayed, she lectured me and things remained istatic for more than ten years.
Two things happened in quick succession that ended my quiet existence. My mother died without warning of a stroke. She was on the job, the same job she’d worked since she came into the big city from her family farm in Paincourtville. Momma had been working as a cook at Commanders Palace all those years, one minute she was stirring up a roux and the next she was dead on the floor. I felt like I’d been cut adrift and it was only the kindness of Madame that got me through it. I decided to keep my mother and father’s shotgun house in the 9th Ward and keep on working. But as time went on I realized I was lonely, lonelier than I’d ever been before, the night time hours stretched out forever. I started going out some, to the bars in New Orleans, making a few friends along Bourbon Street and in Fat City, a few lovers too.
But before I got too comfortable without Momma the second tragedy visited me, Madame died one night in her sleep. I hadn’t realized just how old she was before that point. She was in her eighties but possessed the energy and elegance of a much younger woman. With both Madame and Momma gone I felt like I’d lost the only family I had left for Madame had come to treat me like one of her daughters in those years. She’d treated all of us long time workers in her atelier as though we were hers. After Madame passed I decided not to go to work for anyone else, no returning to Godchauxs, encouraged by my new friends along Bourbon Street I made the decision to open a seamstress shop. And that is how I became involved with the pageant industry and the moms.
When I first went into business I hired a young girl that had started at Madame’s only a few years ago, Cynthia. She lived right around the corner from I and we got into the habit of taking the long bus right from our small enclave of the city into the wide streets and clean vistas of Kenner where the new shop was. At first our business was primarily altering men’s suits and ladies clothing, at least until the first Carnival season hit. We ended up creating and making the costumes for several different krewes and from there came the strippers and female impersonators. Making costumes for the denizens of the bars along Bourbon proved to be even more lucrative and I had to take on several helpers in the business.
One typical Louisiana winter morning, while Cynthia and I were just having that first steaming cup of Community brand coffee a lady entered the store. I noticed her right away because she behaved like she had all the time in the world, opening the door slowly, allowing the damp winter air to breeze so we all shivered while she walked in regally, head held high. She wore a designer dress with pearls and a fur coat and big Jackee O sunglasses, projecting the aura of someone who either was important or thought she was important. Cynthia and I exchanged looks over our cups of coffee as the new arrival cleared her throat and slammed down a thick sheaf of magazines on the counter top.
That morning was as eye opener. The lady introduced herself as Diana Setzer, owner of Pageant World on Veterans Boulevard. The magazines she’d brought contained photographs of pageant attire. What she wanted was for our shop to make dresses for her, for her shop. Cynthia and I had thumbed through the glossy pages, wincing sometimes at the uglier designs as we listened to what Ms. Setzer was proposing. Off the top of my head I quoted a figure to churn out one of these fabric bedecked travesties only to have Diana Setzer agree readily. Later I discovered I’d undercut her other supplier by a few hundred dollars even as I thought I was quoting her a disgracefully high amount. I hadn’t really wanted to take the contract but how could I say no when I was being offered a virtual fortune. After Diana left Cynthia had poured both of us a fresh cup of coffee as she said, “Those dresses, looks like a pinata had diarrhea..” forever dubbing the pageant clothes we turned out as “Pinata Diarrhea” That’s what we called them in the work rooms.
The short version of what happened next is that I whipped out my colored pencils and sketch pad and designed a pageant line while we hired two more ladies from our neighborhood to sew this new line. Eventually I had to open a complete division of pageant wear and I started making ever larger sums once Diana Setzer’s shop filed for bankruptcy. I suddenly became the only game in town, really in the whole southern part of the state to buy pinata diarrhea. Unfortunately I discovered to keep top dollar flowing it behooved me to actually appear at the pageants as a fashion consultant. And that is when all the real fun started.
I hear a cry of Alsace, Alsace Arceneax, and hearing my own name I turn around thinking that someone has torn their dress because there’s a note of panic in this woman’s voice. A torn ruffle minutes before ‘beauty’ could mean enough points taken off that a girl wouldn’t win even the smallest of consolation titles. It’s a tragedy. To the moms at least.
Sometimes interesting things happened within the confines of her atelier, once a bride to be fainted during a fitting and it turned out she hadn’t eaten in days, trying to diet down smaller. We ended up calling for an ambulance and the bride was confined to the Touro Infirmary until she’d gained five pounds back. She missed her wedding date.
Rock stars would show up at Madame’s high on a variety of substances with a bevy of strange people in tow. The entire energy of the hushed rooms would change by the physical presence of the musicians. We’ve seen accidental OD’s in the fitting rooms, spats between gay lovers, and once even a fist fight between the drunken members of a heavy metal band. The worst fight that occurred in the fitting rooms actually involved two New York society ladies, one a wife and the other a mistress of the same man. Bloody noses and silk.
Once I was kneeling between the feet of one of the rock world’s biggest most enduring idols when he propositioned me. Me, plain Alsace Arceneax, too dark to pass as white, too light to be really black and plain as a post, nothing in my features to make me stand out either way and this rock n roll legend is asking for a blow job. I remember staring at him in shock, stopping measuring his inseam, dropping my tape measure and bolting from the room listening to him cackle out an evil laugh from between those thick lips of his, calling out that he’d been teasing and to come back in and finish. Eventually I did, but I couldn’t look at him, preferring to stare at the carpet when I wasn’t applying pins to his pants.
“You should have complied to his request, Alsace..” Madame has told me as soon as the man left, “ a girl needs experiences in life, exciting experiences, things to remember when she’s old. and he‘s wanted by millions of woman.. why not enjoy yourself..” Typical Madame. She never understood that I was too shy to ever do such a thing as that. My life revolved around going to work and going home, my elderly mother would have dinner ready and afterwards we’d watch a little television. Sundays church. It was a quiet life. Many times Madame would tell me I should take myself to the Garment District in New York and hire on at one of the big fashion houses, that I was wasting my skills here in this glittering backwater. She didn't understand I wasn’t prepared to leave either my mother or my home town, not even for my passion, creating beautiful clothing. What chance did I have in the big city? Me, a barely educated black woman from the wrong part of New Orleans? I’ll tell you what chance, none. I didn’t understand until much later that education can be acquired in many ways and that once you leave your beginnings behind the world is your oyster. I preferred to save my wages and play it safe with Momma. So I stayed, she lectured me and things remained istatic for more than ten years.
Two things happened in quick succession that ended my quiet existence. My mother died without warning of a stroke. She was on the job, the same job she’d worked since she came into the big city from her family farm in Paincourtville. Momma had been working as a cook at Commanders Palace all those years, one minute she was stirring up a roux and the next she was dead on the floor. I felt like I’d been cut adrift and it was only the kindness of Madame that got me through it. I decided to keep my mother and father’s shotgun house in the 9th Ward and keep on working. But as time went on I realized I was lonely, lonelier than I’d ever been before, the night time hours stretched out forever. I started going out some, to the bars in New Orleans, making a few friends along Bourbon Street and in Fat City, a few lovers too.
But before I got too comfortable without Momma the second tragedy visited me, Madame died one night in her sleep. I hadn’t realized just how old she was before that point. She was in her eighties but possessed the energy and elegance of a much younger woman. With both Madame and Momma gone I felt like I’d lost the only family I had left for Madame had come to treat me like one of her daughters in those years. She’d treated all of us long time workers in her atelier as though we were hers. After Madame passed I decided not to go to work for anyone else, no returning to Godchauxs, encouraged by my new friends along Bourbon Street I made the decision to open a seamstress shop. And that is how I became involved with the pageant industry and the moms.
When I first went into business I hired a young girl that had started at Madame’s only a few years ago, Cynthia. She lived right around the corner from I and we got into the habit of taking the long bus right from our small enclave of the city into the wide streets and clean vistas of Kenner where the new shop was. At first our business was primarily altering men’s suits and ladies clothing, at least until the first Carnival season hit. We ended up creating and making the costumes for several different krewes and from there came the strippers and female impersonators. Making costumes for the denizens of the bars along Bourbon proved to be even more lucrative and I had to take on several helpers in the business.
One typical Louisiana winter morning, while Cynthia and I were just having that first steaming cup of Community brand coffee a lady entered the store. I noticed her right away because she behaved like she had all the time in the world, opening the door slowly, allowing the damp winter air to breeze so we all shivered while she walked in regally, head held high. She wore a designer dress with pearls and a fur coat and big Jackee O sunglasses, projecting the aura of someone who either was important or thought she was important. Cynthia and I exchanged looks over our cups of coffee as the new arrival cleared her throat and slammed down a thick sheaf of magazines on the counter top.
That morning was as eye opener. The lady introduced herself as Diana Setzer, owner of Pageant World on Veterans Boulevard. The magazines she’d brought contained photographs of pageant attire. What she wanted was for our shop to make dresses for her, for her shop. Cynthia and I had thumbed through the glossy pages, wincing sometimes at the uglier designs as we listened to what Ms. Setzer was proposing. Off the top of my head I quoted a figure to churn out one of these fabric bedecked travesties only to have Diana Setzer agree readily. Later I discovered I’d undercut her other supplier by a few hundred dollars even as I thought I was quoting her a disgracefully high amount. I hadn’t really wanted to take the contract but how could I say no when I was being offered a virtual fortune. After Diana left Cynthia had poured both of us a fresh cup of coffee as she said, “Those dresses, looks like a pinata had diarrhea..” forever dubbing the pageant clothes we turned out as “Pinata Diarrhea” That’s what we called them in the work rooms.
The short version of what happened next is that I whipped out my colored pencils and sketch pad and designed a pageant line while we hired two more ladies from our neighborhood to sew this new line. Eventually I had to open a complete division of pageant wear and I started making ever larger sums once Diana Setzer’s shop filed for bankruptcy. I suddenly became the only game in town, really in the whole southern part of the state to buy pinata diarrhea. Unfortunately I discovered to keep top dollar flowing it behooved me to actually appear at the pageants as a fashion consultant. And that is when all the real fun started.
I hear a cry of Alsace, Alsace Arceneax, and hearing my own name I turn around thinking that someone has torn their dress because there’s a note of panic in this woman’s voice. A torn ruffle minutes before ‘beauty’ could mean enough points taken off that a girl wouldn’t win even the smallest of consolation titles. It’s a tragedy. To the moms at least.
posted by Blues In The Night | 6:57 AM
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