As I said, this is usually end of the road. I was invited as a plus-1 to a party that has no plus-1's, requires a wristband, has a guest list, and employs an army of Hulk-sized men in dinnerwear.
But instead, trying not to miss a beat, I say...
"Well I'm a model and I repped the show, I just didn't get a wristband after."
Now, take a second to soak this in. Of course I didn't rep the Marc Jacobs show. I'm a DUDE. The show was-- to my knowledge, you'll have to check Jezebel or David Urbanke's Twitter in case they're hiding something-- females-only. But this makes perfect sense to Clipboard Girl, and she replies with "Oh, well talk to Dave (name changed) over there, he has override ability."
"Dave" as I affectionately call him is on the sidewalk near the limos, laughing and having a good ol' time. Though I can't entirely recall, I think he may be wearing a pinky ring. Either way, it's clear he's in charge. And so I go up to him and repeat what I said to Clipboard Girl-- that I'm a model, I repped the show, and need a wristband.
And he responds with exactly this: "Well I gave Susan a certain amount, she should've given them to you guys."
Now if he had said any other person's name-- any other name, fucking Barry Smith or Samantha Kimodo Dragon or Jonas Salk, fucking ANYTHING-- I'm dead in the water. Here I am saying that I'm a model from the show, and here is the guy in charge of the after-party saying yeah, cool, he already gave someone the wristbands to give to the models. There is basically no recourse from here. It's pretty much hey, good try, head over to the other party, probably get poked fun at a bit by your agency people, have a great night and enjoy still living and breathing as a human being.
But he didn't say any other person's name. He said "Susan" (whose name I've also changed out of respect). And I fucking know this Susan. Or know of I guess, I guess we don't exactly paint each other's toenails or anything, and besides what kind of boring story would this be if I was just like "Oh then I called my friend and she pulled some strings and I had a nice evening!" What the hell.
I know Susan, though, because she was the first person I ever went on a go-see for. Literally the first thing my agency ever texted me to do was to visit her office, and so it was basically my introduction into the modeling world. Not only that, but Susan cast me that day for a magazine shoot, which ended up being a fucking blast. And since I was and am such a naive piece of shit, I actually got her and her assistant's email off the call sheet and emailed them both, telling them something like "Thank you so much for an awesome day!" which she probably read and was like "cool blah blah DELETE, I have actual important shit to do."
But back to the sidewalk with Dave. He says he gave SUSAN wristbands to give the models. I tell him I just wasn't given one. And he says, kind of looking around for something better to do with his time, "Well do you have her phone number?"
Well no, I don't have her phone number. But, from my prior naïveté, I have her email address.
"Okay just email her and tell her Dave is out front and wants to know about your wristband."
Now, I said I have Susan's email address. But I'm not going to ACTUALLY email her, a legit major casting director, to get me into a party I'm not supposed to be in, for a show I wasn't actually in.
So I do this.
I step to the side of the ropes on the sidewalk and type up an email to her on my phone. It says--
Jesus that's a lot of fake names.
But rather than send this to the actual Susan, and have her go "wtf is this kid nuts?" I simply take out a few of the letters in her email address. This of course means that the email is being sent to no one, and I immediately get one of those creepy MAILER DAEMON messages. But it doesn't change the fact that, on my phone, it looks like I sent the message.
Then I text a friend of mine, and soon-to-be accomplice in this plot. I tell her that I'll send another text in a second, and ask that she just send the second text right back to me. The same exact thing, just copy and text it right back. And then I send her this:
"Hey [Awkward Model], I put your name on the list, did you not get one after the show? You should be good"
She texts it back. Then I delete the entire message history on my phone for that friend EXCEPT for that last text-- so it looks like it's the only one she's sent me. Then I change my friend's contact information to...you got it, "Susan."
I return to Dave. I say hey, I sent Susan this-- show him the email, conveniently not scrolling down to show the DELIVERY FAILED message-- and that Susan sent me this-- and I show him what I actually just typed up to my friend and had re-sent to me.
Dave reads all this thoroughly, then turns, addresses the Clipboard Girl behind him, and says...
"Get him a wristband."
Clipboard Girl says it's the last one she has, that they need to get more...and then she gives it to me.
I hold onto it for dear life and try to stay calm as I return to the thumping door and show the suit-guard there. In fact I actually have him put it on for me-- I'm not only terrible at doing that in general, but I didn't want to take the chance of dropping it or something ridiculous while trying to do it on the way. Awkward, remember.
And then I finally walk through the doors. It's dark, the music is blaring, there's a giant arch beyond which masses of people are partying. A few girls stand off to the side with clipboards before the arch though, and they stop me before I go through.
At this point my mind is racing. My name's not on the clipboard, I'm not supposed to be at this party, and the only reason I'm in is because of what happened out front with Dave. If they stop me now, I'll have to find a way to pull Dave away from his fun and over here to convince them, and he already seemed not all that interested in my problem from the start.
Before I can come up with a solution though, one of the girls speaks.
"Would you like your bag checked?"
I still have my fucking messenger bag. I kind of nod in awe and hand it over, but still stand there, like a little puppy who just got caught chewing up a shoe but instead of getting yelled at is now being given the other one to tear apart. I'm not sure how much time passes, but after handing off my bag one of the girls leans forward and says, in what has to be the sexiest, most excellent voice in all of human existence...
"Have fun."
And that was it.
I was in.
And fun was had. There was a lot of dancing, and at one point I found myself in the middle of a giant circle as I provided Blues-Cluesian entertainment. More girls made clear they might have no aversion to fucking me. A few guys assured them that, unfortunately for them, I was batting for the other team. At one point I was told one of them referred to me as a "faggotress," as in "Oh honey that boy you been dancin' with is a FAGGOTRESS!" I'm not entirely sure what a faggotress is (it's not even on Urban Dictionary!), but on this night, it was a badge of motherfuckin' honor.
Celebrities were apparently in abundance, some I knew, some I didn't ("If a person that you've never heard of is a famous person, does that mean they're still famous?" in the wise words of Kid President). The former notably included Mick Jagger, though he stayed underneath the main floor eating and I never got to see him. Dakota Fanning was notably there too, and I say "notably" because the attention surrounding her made it seem more like a birthday party for her than the after-party for Marc Jacobs.
Marc was there, of course, in all his Spongebob glory. And the president of Marc Jacobs, Robert Duffy. He made his rounds saying hi to his employees in attendance, who he apparently knows in ridiculous detail. When Spilled Drink Girl (heretofore known as Couldn't Get Me Into The Party Girl) shook his hand and said her name, he said "Yes I know, you work in women's." And when I shook his hand right after, saying it was nice to meet him, he just stared at me. Just stared. Didn't say anything back. Didn't move his mouth. Just stared and moved on.
Because this guy with the photographic memory probably approved the guest list and knew I wasn't supposed to be there. That I had, in fact, Ferris-Buellered my way into his after-party.
But if fashion is high school, that's who I wanna be.
