Never Too Late

The year 2004 was a great year for Marshall Jeffries–you could say he was on top of the world, or the fashion world, at least. A show–as he would forever call it afterwards, The Show–hosted by a famous supermodel had, despite all odds, crowned him the first-ever winner. With no formal training in fashion, and always an underdog, it made for great television.

Congratulations, they said. You are the future of fashion, the next wunderkind.

And sure, it was great for a while. He shuffled through old photos he had developed at Duane Reade of himself with all the great designers and fashionistas of the world: Klein. Spade. De La Renta. Klum. Campbell. The pictures looked like they were from another century–in a way, they were.

Then the calls slowed. From a few a day to maybe a few a week. Then he could count on one hand the number of calls (and emails) he received every month. He spent more time waiting for the phone to ring than actually talking on it. Somehow 15 years had passed him by.

He had made such a thing out of moving away from his small West Virginia town after finally “making it” in New York that he could never go back, tail between his legs. But the bills kept piling up higher and higher in the small walkup studio he rented in the East Village, which somehow simultaneously contained a living space and a design workshop for the few orders he still had left:

PAST DUE—PAY WITHIN 30 DAYS TO AVOID POWER SHUTOFF

30-DAY NOTICE: PAY BACK RENT BEFORE EVICTION PROCESS BEGINS

What was ironic (or maybe darkly funny) about his circumstances was that his winning collection on the show illustrated a classic rags-to-riches story: from the most basic cotton white tee and old, ripped jeans to a full wool coat in a rich, royal plum. 

Maybe he sent the looks down in the wrong order.

***

A few weeks later, he returned home from his part-time job at the local Key Food–the same one where they went for the first-ever challenge on The Show, using unconventional materials like candy wrappers–knowing it would be his last night in the apartment. He would never be able to make the rent. Time to hit the road.

He turned on the TV and settled in for his last night until who-knew-what-next. He probably should have been packing, but it wasn’t like there was a whole lot to pack. He flipped channels until he happened to catch the latest episode of the very show he had been on.

“Congratulations, Danielle,” the host said. “You are the winner–the next great fashion designer.”

The winning contestant burst into tears, surrounded by her family, much as Marshall had. He wondered if she felt like as much of a charity case as he had at the time.

“I hope you’re ready, because your life is about to change forever,” the host continued.

***

The next morning, as the sun rose over the East River, he gathered the few items he really wanted to take with him, leaving all his fabric scraps and dress forms right where they had been gathering dust for months. The landlord could clear them out–fuck him.

He looked around at the tiny studio, quickly evaluating the progress of his life: a place barely big enough to be a doghouse, flings here and there with other men in fashion and drag queens he met in clubs, never a loving, fulfilling relationship. All that apparent success, and where had it gotten him?

He started the car and just drove, with no direction in mind. Cruising on the highway with the radio on would help him clear his mind. Through the window, he could see the early-morning sun reflecting off the top of the Empire State Building. He laughed to himself as he remembered a dress he once created for one of the show’s challenges inspired by the building. How quaint that seemed now.

After emerging from the Holland Tunnel into Jersey City, toward Newark, he reached a turning point: 

Head toward I-95, staying on that mainstream Northeast corridor, heading toward the relative glitz of places like DC and Miami, where he had flown first class for fashion shows countless times before?

Or toward I-78, heading towards Charleston, West Virginia?

His hand, making the decision for him, flipped the blinker up, and he headed toward home.

***

After a few hours on the road, he pulled into a rest stop for gas and some food. Before heading back to the car with his bag of McDonald’s, he stopped at a newsstand and picked up a copy of The New York Times, something to keep his mind from melting completely. Opening to the Styles section–the urge to keep up with the latest in fashion would never go away–he noticed an obituary:

Elizabeth Johnson, “Villain” Contestant on First Season of Wildly Successful Fashion Competition TV Show, Dies at 55

Marshall rubbed his eyes and did a double take. Beth, as she was known on The Show, was famous (or infamous) as the “mean girl” during the season he won. In reality, it was more of a character she created for TV; in real life she was just a loving mom to her young daughter, and who loved making dresses in her local New England community. 

Surprising himself, a tear came from his eye. He closed his eyes in a brief moment of silence for Beth. He hadn’t thought of her in years, but he hoped she was at peace. 

The thought occurred to him: if it were his name there instead, at the same age, what would the headline be? Would there even be one at all?

***

The highway sign came into view: Welcome to West Virginia. Wild and Wonderful.

The sun setting over the mountains near Charleston, Marshall turned off onto the country road leading to his childhood home. His parents had no idea he was approaching, and he hoped he would be welcomed back in.

He parked in the overgrown driveway and knocked on the door (the doorbell had broken years ago). He heard the slow, deliberate steps of his mother, who was getting on in years, as she approached the door. The door slowly opened. His mother looked like she was looking at a ghost.

Without a word, she wrapped her arms around her son. He could feel her tears soaking his shirt.

***

Later that night, he headed into the small garage, which used to serve as his studio before he moved on to what he thought were bigger and better things. Walls of color-organized fabrics, tables with patterns and his old sewing machine, had been preserved almost as if it were a museum. 

He started to pick up and organize scraps of fabric and thread to begin to throw away. He figured he wouldn’t be needing them as he figured out what came next.

Then he saw a dress he had left all those years ago, that he hadn’t included in his collection for The Show, because everyone who knew better said it was too quaint, not high-fashion enough. It was a piece inspired by quilting, his cultural heritage, something passed on from his mother, grandmother, and even great-grandmother who lived until he was ten. Now his grandma was gone too–he had missed that.

These women never cared that he was a little weird, a little different–their way of showing that they knew he was gay and still loved him all the same. They always loved him for who he was and supported his dream, even when it meant he was leaving their little world. 

They had always accepted him–why could he never accept himself? Why was he always trying to run away, to find validation from people who would never fully accept him, use him until he was no longer convenient?

He thought of Beth, who he and his fellow contestants used to make fun of for making clothes inspired by her family traditions: the Pilgrims, since her family had arrived in America on the Mayflower. Maybe she wasn’t such a bad person–she, like all of us, was just trying to find her own way.

Maybe it wasn’t too late for him to find his.

He sat down at his sewing table, blew the dust of time off the quilted dress, and began to thread a needle.