‘Girl, what are you wearing?’ He looks down doubtfully at the clumpy Teva sandals on my feet. ‘Boy…have you not been hearing all about my bum and painful knee? I’m wearing a brace. I can’t handle heels today’. I look at his face. ‘Even for you, my love. Even for your commencement. Teva clunk it is’.
He sighs. ‘You look…you look…’ his voice trails off. I jump in. ‘The word you are looking for is ‘granola’. ‘Granola’…hangers on and leftovers from the 60’s…1968 Chicago convention…through hikers…communes or wanna be revolutionaries…granola…pseudo rejection of bourgeoisie thoughts…’
He stares at me and then out of the window. ‘Yes…none of which fits you…granola. You know where granola goes?’ I nod. ‘Yes, in the sink…or stale in the box…or in the garbage bin’.
He sighs. ‘Help me clunk out to the car, Halston’ I laugh and extend my arm. ‘Well then…’ he concedes and taking my outstretched hand, leads me gingerly onto the front porch. He looks down at my feet. ‘You redeemed the whole thing with a fresh pedicure, I see’.
I turn to him and smile in the bright sunshine streaming onto the heating stoop. ‘Because boy, in my soul…in my soul…I’m Chanel’.
Together we walk out into the glorious May morning…
690 Saint Paul 