Back in the day in New York,

I worked as a plant girl, hung out with models, and held the keys to the City.

A few top accounts included:

·       New York Public Library,

·       Lincoln Center,

·       Radio City Music Hall,

·       The Winter Garden at the World Financial Center

·       World Trade Center One

·       Calvin Klein Cosmetics

·       QE2 (whenever she was ported)

Even though I’d lied to get the job, I was really good at it, probably because I could vibe with

the plants, and sense what they needed.

I spent my days roaming Manhattan with a giant green bag flung over my shoulder; full of watering cans, gnat traps, and feather dusters, popping in and out of skyscrapers and historic landmarks, sharing dirty jokes with doormen, flirting with bored office workers, and caring for Dracaena Marginatas and Kentia Palms all over the City. 

I was quickly promoted to manager in charge of indoor plant accounts below 42nd Street, and ran a flavorful team of “horticultural technicians,” that included:

·      Marva from Haiti: (made delicious homemade gumbo / liked to shop at the Unilever store)

·      Peter from Nigeria: (super white smile / responded with one word: “Really?!” to every question or statement)

·      Ivan from Pakistan: (incredibly lucky at lotto / very large family)

·      Jo-Jo from Jamaica: (slow-moving big girl / wore large flowery headbands)

·      Angelina from Queens: (Puerto Rican with two little kids/ always talking shit)

Each day’s routine instilled more familiarity with the City, and each magic time it happened, it was a huge badge of honor to be mistaken for a real New Yorker. 

For instance when:

1. A tourist would ask for directions, and approach me with something like,

“You’re from here, right?”

And I could happily argue the best route they should take with all the other locals on the train.

2. The Greek guys at the deli would yell out my order the minute I walked through the door, smiling wide over the counter as they hollered:                  

“Tall, sweet, and light!”

Before making my coffee extra tall, with extra cream, and extra sugar.  

3. Or when the Kind guys held the best nugs for us, and made sure we got in free anytime their band played at'Wetlands'.  

"Go ahead - you're on the list."

As we breezed past a line of people waiting to get in.

(Shout out to: Darren, Dick James, & the other guy in Super Tuesday)

My roommate was a model, who’d I met through another model back in Boulder, and we lived in a tiny fourth floor walk-up near Bleecker & Grove, directly next to The Pink Teacup, which claimed to be:

“serving the best soul food in the Village” 

On warm days the smell of blueberry pancakes would waft all the way to Sheridan Square Station, making it a hard choice between:

·      Pink Teacup pancakes,

·      a hot bagel sandwich from Bagel Boy,

·      fried cheese sticks from Kravos Deli,

·      a hunk of pecorino from Murray’s Cheese Shop

·      (to go with) a loaf of semolina bread from Vito’s Staff of Life Bakery    

Kapri and I only had a small clock radio (no television) so we listened to a lot of 'Funk Master Flex' while playing countless games of hybrid UNO. Weekends were for exploring, and we’d ride up to Harlem on the 1/9 to walk across the George Washington Bridge to New Jersey, (just because) or take scavenger hunts for Godiva Chocolatiers, to claim their free truffle of the day.  Normally we’d each collect five or six of the fancy chocolates per outing, unless sidetracked by the call of a cream horn, which always required special attention.

It was a rule Kapri and I had made- whenever one of us stopped dead in our tracks and pronounced a loud,

“Doot-do-do-do!”

we both had to immediately turn in the direction of the Lafayette French Pastry Shop, march a few steps in place, and at the same time declare with fists raised,

“CREAM HORN!!!!”

Then we’d dramatically stomp uptown or downtown to Lafayette Street, and head straight to the world’s best cream horn. (A crispy flaked shell shaped like a small goat horn, dusted with oversized square granules of sugar, filled with deliciously fresh cocoa chocolate cream.)  

<That’s probably what I love most about New York City: the fact that you can be as weird as you want to be, and nobody blinks an eye.>

Kapri’s Italian boyfriend, Fabio, showed up every so often, usually on a layover back from an international scouting trip to Australia or California, and would dump piles of prospective models’ cards out on our floor before deciding in one nanosecond if they had potential or not. 

He’d grab a random card from the mix and immediately declare:

“Teeth too small”

“Neck too wide”

“Weird ears”

“Lopsided forehead”

“Ugly knees”

Before tossing it in the trash pile and moving onto the next.

Kapri and Fabio were a strangely opposite pair, and met while he was scouting models in Florida when she was just a teen.  Kapri was of course long and lean and gorgeous, where Fabio was literally a cross between Rodney Dangerfield and Austin Powers: fucked up teeth, greasy hair, extremely goofy, and utterly hilarious. 

I drove Fabio crazy, because he could never understand when I talked too fast and used too much American slang. He would bark at Kapri and demand to know,

“WHOT, WHOT, WHOT, WHOT IS SHE SAYING KAPRI?”

And I would mimic him, and say:

“BOK, BOK, BOK, I SAY, I SAY, SON – YOU MUST KNOW FOGHORN LEGHORN!”

Which of course drove him even crazier. 

Our favorite time of year was Halloween, and the parade winding through the West Village full of outrageously risqué drag queens, and people dressed in incredibly clever pun costumes.  Kapri and I liked to go as “freaks on rollerblades,” and would wear: body suits, crazy tights, wigs, face paint, and of course rollerblades, which we used to zoom back and forth as much as we wanted, rolling alongside the entire parade. 

One year Fabio wore a long-haired blonde wig, and hung a tub of “I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter” on a chain around his neck, walking around saying,

“WOT, I’M FABIO”   

I don’t think very many people got his obscure reference to Fabio, the romance novel guy, who at the time was in commercials selling fake butter, but to us it was very funny. 

The best was when Kapri’s Italian businessmen friends would come to town, since they always wanted a group of hot models along as their entourage, and I could usually squeeze my way in. 

She’d hang up the phone and excitedly say,  

“Hurry, get dressed! Gianmario’s in town!”

An hour later, a limo would be waiting to take us to:

• the theater,

• then dinner at a currently happening restaurant,

• followed by a second theater for another Broadway show,

• then somewhere for late-night cocktails & dessert,

• a stop at a cigar bar along the way,

• and finally, the Four Seasons Hotel to party until the wee hours 

Supposedly, Gianmario’s family had owned the renowned La Scala opera house for generations, and he came to New York to decide which Broadway shows would be offered a summer tour in Milan. Producers pulled out all the stops hoping to be chosen, including providing an entire center row for him to entertain his guests.

As Kapri’s tagalong friend, I was able to see some of the best shows on Broadway, and eat deliciously crispy spinach at China Grill. 

Since most of the models sat silent or would be gone on countless trips to the bathroom, I’d find myself arguing sports and politics with a bunch of uber-rich Italians and their German counterparts, and even though I wasn’t gorgeous and statuesque, I was funny and smart, and earned my place at the table by comfortably talking shit with the men.   

I begged Kapri see live music with me as much as possible, and a favorite night was at Tramps, holding onto the brass railing at the front of the stage while the Soul Rebels and Funky Meters played all night; dancing so hard and so long we could barely move our necks. It was full broad daylight when we finally left the building, somehow stumbling right past the sign at the entrance to the subway that said:

“This Station Closed Sundays”

We goofed around on the empty underground platform, dancing and singing:

"'Cuz if you can't be with the one you love honey, love the one you're with"

at the top of our lungs, wondering why no one else was there, and nearly an hour went by before we realized no train was coming.

Sometimes Kapri and I would bribe our way into the Empire State Building using Krispy Kreme donuts; first stopping on East 23rd Street for a fresh dozen glazed, getting to the building just before closing. We'd offer up a few donuts to the doorman and the elevator operator, and often be the only people left on the observation deck, gazing over a million lights, chowing down donuts, wind whipping our hair, laughing like idiots with icing stuck all over our faces. (This was of course long before the building became the tourist attraction it is now, with mandatory stops through multiple gift shop lines.)

A plant girl packed into elevators and subways up and down Manhattan, I tried to identify the countless different languages being spoken around me, and was able to witness the City’s incredible lust for life first-hand.

No matter the high heat or bitter cold, early morning or late night, through crisis, chaos, and celebration, New Yorkers just get it done - no complaints.

The absolute center of finance, fashion, publishing, and fine art, I would often find myself tucked in the back of a room removing dead leaves from a ficus, while global leaders discussed international monetary policy, or researchers described a latest examination of rare artifacts.  

EVERYTHING happens in NYC, and with unfettered access to corner offices, loading docks, and janitor closets, I'd interact with Park Avenue lawyers, transit authorities, and executive assistants everyday, one little chink in the chain, caring for nature inside the world’s most beautiful well-oiled machine - a plant girl in New York City - truly the best job ever.