Fiorucci was hailed as the daytime Studio 54. People like Andy Warhol, Keith Haring, Madonna, and Diane von Furstenberg were regular customers.  Located in Manhattan on East 59^th Street, near Bloomingdales, the shop was instantly recognizable by its winged cherub logo.  It reminded me a little of the store where I worked, Ylang Ylang, on Madison Avenue, but cooler.

Whenever I was in Fiorucci, I felt excited and giddy, my senses overloaded.  Daddy Cool by Boney M. thumped from the speakers into my bones.  I wanted to bop to the music, move my body through the store, inhale the surroundings, including the signature energized Fiorucci cologne. There were polka dots, glitter, lamé.  I always tried to buy at least one small thing, something to remind me of this place that made me feel like me.

When I was 21, on a scorching summer day, my mom and I drove in from Queens.  My mom was more Halston and Gucci, but she was intrigued. As soon as we stepped into the air conditioned store, it was as if we had entered a portal to somewhere sublime.  Sister Sledge sang We are Family. A disco ball hung from the ceiling, rotating and casting reflections throughout the store. My mom looked around. “I can see why you like it here so much,” she said as she grazed her painted nails along a rack of clothing.  “It has ambiance. It’s fresh.” 

At the end of each rack, bins of clothing dotted the floor.  I spotted something gleaming from one of the bins and dipped my hand in. I pulled out vibrant leggings and a matching tube top. The pattern was a leopard print flecked with florescent green.  Leggings wasn’t even a word back then; no one wore them.  I came out of the dressing room, and my mom smiled.  “It’s both gorgeous and obscene,” she said.  

“I know. I love it,” I said as I did a twirl in my bare feet.  The pieces looked like they were painted seamlessly onto my body and appeared to be a single garment. I bounced around in front of the dressing room to The Go-Go’s We Got the Beat.  

“You can’t wear that outside,” my mom said as she dug into her bag for her Marlboros and lighter.  

I pondered this.  “I’ll have a party,” I said.  “A birthday and going away party in one!” I hopped around, my hair flying, unable to contain myself.  

My 22^nd birthday was a month away.   I was going to spend it in Paris, where I’d be starting my study abroad program with Queens College two weeks later.  

“If you have a party, make sure Dorian or Debi are around,” she said, referring to my older siblings.  

The night of the party, I slid into the outfit that felt like silk and wore it with multicolored pumps and dangling heart-shaped earrings.  Before the 25 guests came, I was in my tiny room with my best friend, Claudia, getting ready.  My brother-in-law, Michael, with his suitcase-sized video camera perched on his shoulder, came in to record us as I was fixing my hair.  Debi joined us in the peach silk skirt I’d lent her and my mom’s prized shoes, the ones she’d told us we couldn’t borrow.  The ones that looked like white lace.  “Mom is going to kill you,” I said. Michael zeroed in on the shoes, and Debi collapsed the skirt over her feet to hide them, laughing, shouting into the camera saying, “I was just trying them on!” 

The doorbell rang, and Claudia and I scrambled downstairs.  My friends arrived in small groups. Jackie was with her boyfriend and squealed when she saw my outfit, making me nearly jump up in excitement.  Her clothes  – pleated slacks, white shirt, and string of pearls – were so conservative that she would have fit right in at a country club.  Miriam came with her brother and his girlfriend. Miriam wore a dress with geometric designs; she and Claudia were always on the cutting edge of fashion.  “Love this,” she said, pointing to all of me. More friends arrived in Ralph Lauren dresses and shirts, making me feel a little self-conscious. But, I thought, I was the hostess, so why couldn’t I be a little more outrageous?  Like a bride at her wedding with a princess dress.

Claudia took a seat at the kitchen table with a group of boys who were drinking beer.  They were my boyfriend’s friends and older by a year. I also knew them because Dorian taught most of them how to box at the schoolyard near our house where they played stickball.  Claudia and I didn’t drink, so I only saw them on my way in and out of the kitchen when I had to get something. 

Dorian, our cousin David by his side, manned the stereo.  He played Ring My Bell, He’s the Greatest Dancer, and Relax as I danced with two of my friends in front of my dad’s giant speakers, my heels getting stuck in the shag rug.  

The outfit was perfect.  Wearing it gave me the courage to feel less inhibited as I pranced around my living room. I didn’t have to adjust it anywhere, and it didn’t pull or pinch, though I did kick off my shoes. 

Maurice, one of the stickball guys, came over to dance with us.  

Johnny, the star swimmer from high school whom I’d been going to Queens College with, stood up, lifted his shirt, and undulated his belly.  Everyone hollered as he grinned shyly.

My cousin Daniella, who was Dorian’s age, sat beside her husband on the couch, smoking her Israeli cigarettes and swinging her red hair to the music.  

Tony, Dorian’s best friend, sang out loud to Blondie’s Heart of Glass in his blue polo shirt with the collar turned up.  His girlfriend, Jeanie, was there, too; she didn’t mind that he danced even though she didn’t.

Michael set up the video camera on top of the TV and flipped the viewer so we could watch ourselves being filmed.  It was the latest technology. Maurice, short and muscular, couldn’t get enough of himself dancing. Six of us, including Melody, Maurice’s girlfriend, formed a conga line, passing back and forth in front of the video player, going lower and lower, bumping into one another, performing for the camera, our words unintelligible because of our laughter.  

We ate a creampuff cake layered into a tower with fresh cream, my annual birthday choice. I had picked it up from a French bakery on Skillman Avenue earlier that day. I devoured the cake with abandon, oblivious to the possibility that my stomach wouldn’t always be flat. 

My boyfriend, with his green eyes and dark hair, was somber and unsmiling.  I was about to leave him.

When I packed for my trip, I didn’t take the outfit, but I did take the shoes.

Once in Paris, I missed everything about New York. I wandered the streets alone and went into clothing shops.  The salespeople didn’t seem to like that I was browsing, and I didn’t know how to say “I’m just looking” in French.  After a few minutes of feeling like an interloper, I would leave.  I missed the days when Claudia and I went to Patricia Fields, Canal Jeans, Reminiscence, and especially Fiorucci.  In Paris, my clothes were more subdued, nothing like the Fiorucci outfit.  I usually wore a button-down shirt, my green scarf, my favorite jeans, and boots.  

My mom visited that winter, and we went into a store.  When a salesperson approached us, I dismissed her with a look.  “When did you get so mean?” my mom whispered.  “You have to be that way here,” I said. We bought nothing.  

The only thing I purchased in Paris over the seven months I was there was a leather jacket from a street vendor, a man who seemed as foreign as I felt.  

Melody and then Claudia visited me in Paris, too, giving me a jolt of New York City and making my stay much better.  “I don’t want to do any touristy stuff,” Claudia said. “Just take me to the clubs and cafés.”  This made me love her even more.  “I hate the stores here,” I said.  So she took me to the Jean Paul Gaultier shop, and I felt like myself again.  

I made friends, and Paris started to feel little like home.  I stayed two months longer after my semester ended – until my mom called one day.  “Arrête tes bêtises,” she said, and my trip was over. 

Adjusting to being home in Queens was challenging.  I felt different, although I wasn’t sure how.  I was no longer a student and unsure of my next steps. I unpacked my new life back into my tiny room.  

I called Claudia. “Let’s go to Fiorucci,” I said.  

“I have bad news,” she said. “It closed.”  

I was stunned.  

“I know.  It sucks,” she said.  

“A lot has been going on since you left,” she said.  She was dating a Beastie Boy and had VIP access to all the clubs.  She wanted to take me to a new one that night.  “You can meet my boyfriend and his friends.”

“The Tunnel?” I said.  

“It’ll be fun,” she said.  

I looked through all my clothes that I hadn’t seen since the summer, trying to figure out what to wear.  I brought my soft leather jacket, the color of a pecan, to my face and breathed in for inspiration.  I took out my body-hugging leopard outfit from Fiorucci.  The smooth material slithered in my hand and weighed nothing.  I wondered how I had pulled it off. 

Debi called to tell me that the video of the party was in the VCR in the living room.  I went downstairs, pressed play, and sat back on the couch to watch. My parents weren’t home. My dogs were at my feet.  I waited for it to start.  I noticed how sad my boyfriend looked.  I guess he knew with more certainty than I did that it was the end. It was like I was looking at another life; all those people, save for two or three close friends, were no longer part of my world.  The conga line was still funny, but seeing myself in the outfit dancing, I cringed and paused the video.  

I went back upstairs and listened to a cassette tape that I had recorded from a French radio station.  I lay on my bed and wished I could be anywhere but here.  

I called Claudia.  “What are you wearing tonight?” I said.  

“My bow dress from Betsy Johnson,” she said.  

Ugh, I thought.  The stakes were high.  I had nothing.  

I tried on the Fiorucci outfit and looked at myself in the mirror.  It was all wrong. I threw it on my chair and finally found a wine-colored dress that could work.  

As I sat on the edge of my bed I thought, my mom had been right:  I couldn’t wear the florescent leopard outfit out of the house.  In fact, I never wore it again.  

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