d.a.m.n him, he was that good.

Mich.e.l.le pulled us out of there before I had the chance to meet Chloe. As soon as we were on the street she launched straight into her bad review of the day. "Abhorrent. Flimsy. Those people are lost beyond repair. And did you see how your friend Philip offered me those sample sizes knowing very well that none of them would fit me? And I had to go over and act all interested. And that Rudy! Ugh. I'm sorry, I know they're your friends, but they're just not my kind of people."

But these same abhorrent, flimsy people were how I met Ben Laden, my soon-to-be publicist and good friend. If it hadn't been for Philip, perhaps I would be sewing bridal wear in some backroom in the garment district of Manhattan. Then again, perhaps sewing bridal wear would ultimately have been a fate preferable to mine.

Thinking about this moment in my life makes me wonder about fate. For most of my life I believed I was bound to a certain destiny, a purpose to exist. I believed that good things were in store if only I believed in myself. But look at what happened to me. For that matter, look at what happened to Ben. What did he do? An American native, Irish Catholic in fact. You'd think he'd have luck on his side. But because of some phonetic coincidence with the world's most wanted man, Ben ended up losing most of his clients. He took a hit because of some other guy's mess. Makes me suspect there is no such thing as fate. Only coincidence. Life is a series of coincidences. It was a coincidence that Rudy Cohn, Chloe's stylist, happened to be at Philip's studio that day, and that Philip had pitched my work to her, triggering a series of events that would lead Chloe to make a red carpet appearance in my inside-out dress at the Grammys two years later (but for the performance of her hit single, "Chas-t.i.tty," that same night, it would be Philip Tang 2.0 that she'd change into). My rise as a hot new designer was precipitated by Ben Laden's loss of clientele after 9/11, coincidentally, and so I was given a dedicated publicist willing to promote me to the world. What great coincidences. So many random connections! And far too many mythical explanations for them!

I ask you, is it fate that I am in here and you are out there?

1. It was Maurice Sachs, the French writer, who said this. Not Andrew Saks, founder of Saks Fifth Avenue.

2. Founder of J. Lindeberg.

3. The flag of the Soviet Union ("hammer and sickle") was last used in 1991 at the time of the communist state's collapse. Russia's flag once again uses three colored stripes: red, white, blue.

4. Shakespeare: "My salad days, / When I was green in judgment." From Antony and Cleopatra, Act 1, Scene 5.

5. Proprietor of the label Doo. Ri.

6. Marc Jacobs did name a bag after Bryan Boy. The BB by Marc Jacobs, $2,199, Fall '06.

7. Council of Fashion Designers of America.

The Story of My Bathing Partner.

I shall devote today's installment to the story of my bathing partner. I cannot, in good conscience, keep it to myself any longer. (I trust my special agent will know what to do with this information.) You see, over the last few weeks I have gotten to know this man, my bathing partner, and from what I have learned about his situation, I believe a mistake has been made. Just as a mistake has been made with me. I do not mean to abuse my writing privileges by indulging in what the officials here may deem a cryptic tangent, and so I will respectfully curtail this digression.

Riad S-, my bathing partner, had trained as a civil engineer but left his discipline for something n.o.bler in his eyes. He became a bookseller, opening his own specialty bookshop with the small amount of money he had inherited from a distant uncle in Pakistan. The shop was in Birmingham, England. The uncle was a real loner, as I understand it, and so he left everything to Riad, his favorite nephew, the boy who was already so well traveled-Europe, the United States, the Middle East, Asia. It wasn't as if the uncle didn't have any other descendants. Riad came from a big family. But the uncle knew that by giving the money to Riad he was ensuring that it would not be squandered. And good for the uncle, because he was right. Riad opened his own business, the only bookshop of its kind in this working-cla.s.s section of Birmingham.

Unfortunately, the shop was not much of a success, and Riad had to close its doors within a year. There were really too many factors to say why the shop failed. Now a failed bookseller, Riad gathered his very pregnant wife, packed their bags, and moved the whole family to Pakistan, a place he often mythologized. Why? Several reasons. For one, this is where his family was from. The S-'s of Islamabad. And Riad felt he could do some good in Pakistan, perhaps by returning to his career as an engineer. The decision was also one of faith. Riad, a practicing Muslim, wanted his unborn daughter to grow up in a country where she would be surrounded by other little Muslim children. And there was no shortage of those in Pakistan. As we all know, childhood can be such a cruel stint, and Riad felt it best that his daughter not grow up in a place consumed by fear. This was the age of fear, remember. Riad saw Pakistan as a second chance, a new way of life for his family, one where they could live comfortably numb. His wife could have a maid to help with the baby. And when the baby got older, she could attend a Muslim school with other little Muslims just like her. Life would be sweet in Pakistan.

And so the young couple moved to Islamabad, where the wife, we'll call her Ma.n.a.l, did get her own maid. Riad was able to find work as an engineer, for the government. And the baby, born by a reputable doctor, was healthy and fat. And then there were three, plus the maid. But Riad had a weak spot. His empathy. After all his good fortune in his new country, he just wasn't satisfied. Even as his boss at the government office, aware of Riad's talents, showered him with promotion after promotion, would you believe that Riad still wanted more? Not more, I should say, but less. Riad longed to help the lesser off, the poor. Call it a hobby. We all have those. There were plenty of corners in Pakistan for Riad to practice his new hobby. Which led him to travel outside of Islamabad, where the lesser off seemed to proliferate. He traveled to the southern provinces of Sindh and Balochistan and to the western towns bordering Afghanistan (a horrible place at the time, and even more horrible today, as I understand it).

What can be said? Riad had a soft spot for the poor. He was, in the cla.s.sic sense of the term, a real "do-gooder." Eventually his empathy led him away from his career. He began to take more and more time off to travel to these impoverished areas, where he brought along, among other things, books. Literature. He still had a pa.s.sion for books. He never gave up on them. (His words.) He frequented bookshops all over the country. Books were cheap in Pakistan, and he bought them in bulk, as he once had as a bookseller. Then he distributed the literature to these impoverished towns, where the people could barely write their own names. Though Riad claims never to have stepped foot in Afghanistan, his charity brought him into tribal-run areas in the north where the border between the two countries is somewhat blurry-where Riad may as well have stepped across the border. "What's the difference?" his interrogators would say to him anyway.

And yet Riad wasn't arrested in one of the poor districts or the dangerous tribal areas. Riad S-, of Birmingham, was in no way connected with weapons or jihad; in fact, he was promoting just the opposite-the word. Not just G.o.d's word but poetry and literature-Islamic, sure, but also translations of English cla.s.sics, like Charles d.i.c.kens. And he had help. Friends, translators, others involved in his cause. A whole caravan of book peddlers. No matter. You see, the man we perceive as a do-gooder was to others an antagonist. Throughout his travels he got on many people's nerves. One such nerve belonged to a mullah who was up for reelection in some poor, s.h.i.tty district. This mullah saw Riad as someone trying to undermine his campaign, administering foreign literature to eligible voters who couldn't even read. The mullah had ties in the government, a cousin's cousin or what have you, and it might have been as simple as placing a call, speaking Riad's name into a receiver to so-and-so, who gave the name to so-and-so, and on up the chain of command. Well, what happened next wasn't so pleasant, and it is the only part of Riad's story that mirrors mine.

The knock on the door in the middle of the night.

My Name Is (B)oy.

So very much is in a name. Ralph Lifs.h.i.tz and Donna Ivy Faske are n.o.bodies, but Ralph Lauren and Donna Karan are G.o.ds. A name can bring happiness, fame, fortune, but it can also destroy you. Such was the case for my publicist, Ben Laden.

Ben was an architect of fame. He could build names into brands, and he operated with panache. He had everything to do with getting my own name exposure. Ben had been an established name himself in New York in the late nineties, representing all of the hot ethnic designers, mostly Asians. Doo Ri Chung, Derek Lam, Pho(2), Yellow b.a.s.t.a.r.d, and later Philip and Vivienne. But after 9/11 Ben felt the hurt, personally and professionally. His brother, Patrick Laden, a police officer twice decorated, was in the north tower when it fell. Then, without a minute's notice, more than half of Ben's clientele dropped out-most of the aforementioned, with the exception of Vivienne and Philip. All because of a name. When I finally worked up the courage to ring him, Ben was willing to take on even the smallest unknown designers. Though he would have taken me on Philip's word alone.

We first met over dinner at Freeman's. We were drunk by the time the appetizers were served. One Manhattan after the next, we talked about fashion, art, and all the latest gossip: which sellouts had an eyewear or fragrance deal in the works, who was banging whom. By the time I dug into my pork chop it had gone cold. At the end of the night, out came the Macallan, and Ben couldn't contain himself.

"Boy," he started in, "you think I give a lick about what people think of me? Do I look like an Osama to you? I'm a gay Irishman from Queens. The youngest of four. Our name used to be McLaden, but my grandpappy dropped the Mc because he didn't like being called Mac everywhere he went. In his day it was derogatory. He took an offense. This was at a time when an Irishman couldn't get a cab in this city, let alone a decent job. My, how everything comes back around. So he changed the family name, and I'll be d.a.m.ned if I'm going to change it back because some jihadi thinks himself Allah's messenger. Disgrace my grandpappy? I've lived lies for most of my life, but when I came out to my parents in 1987, I said, 'That's it. No more.'" Ben took a swig. "Honest to G.o.d. That's all we can be."

"True that."

"There isn't a lot of loyalty in this business. Believe me, I've borne the brunt of it. But I'm a G.o.dd.a.m.n patriot first and foremost. I'll be the first in line to wring al-Qaeda around the neck. We'll skip trial, verdict, what have you. And my brother, the hero...After all this, would you believe the FBI has been to my house? Do you know that I was detained trying to fly out of JFK. I missed London Fashion Week altogether. I never made it past check-in. The clerk looked at me like I was putting him on. This is the age we're living in. My job will be to shield you from all of this nonsense. The world as it is will not be your world. With me you won't have to worry about a G.o.dd.a.m.n thing. Now where's that rugged waiter? I'm running on empty." Ben snapped his fingers and the waiter appeared.

"We'll get the check," I said, trying to inspire our exit. I didn't want Ben to become any redder in the face. I'd soon learn that the scotch whiskey only came out when he talked about his namesake.

"Nonsense, we'll have two more," he told the waiter. He turned to me. "They made us wait forty-five minutes for a table, now they can wait on us forty-five minutes more. It's an eye for an eye where I come from."

"You come from Queens," I said.

"I mean America, Boy. America."

He was hungry like I was. His clients were still dropping out by the fistful, only he used that betrayal as fuel to salvage his reputation. He was a stand-up, all-around, cutthroat guy's guy. He had grit, guts, and gusto-the three Gs as he called them. His rough, leathery face had seen one too many hours in the tanning bed, and written in the lines around his eyes was the story of a man who wouldn't be defeated.

Christ, Ben was born into this world just as we all are-with no say in his d.a.m.ned name. And he would help me make mine.

Philip opened his own boutique in the summer of 2003 at the intersection of Howard and Crosby-the crossroads of Chinatown and downtown chic. Opening Ceremony, Rogan, Chinese teashop, bad dim sum, and then Philip Tang 2.0. Philip had just been awarded best new designer in women's wear by the CFDA, beating out Zac Posen, who came in second. They gave Philip one hundred thousand dollars for his promise. Me, a familiar face from Manila and a close personal friend, I got to share in Philip's success. I spent the rest of that year helping him with his seminal fall/winter and spring '04 collections. I sat front row at the shows with Ben, Vivienne, Rudy Cohn, and even Chloe. I was introduced to editors and buyers alike as Ben toted me around on his arm like a trophy lay, displaying me throughout the tents in Bryant Park, the after parties at Hiro and Masquerade. It had been a year since my stroll down Forty-second Street had brought me face-to-face with menu man, my doppelganger, in front of the Sovereign Diner. How it could have gone that way for me! I owe all I owe to myself, because I was not going to let it happen. I was not going to be a walking menu! And now I had Ben and a whole crew of important people who would shepherd me away from all that darkness.

I was also consistently working on my line in preparation for the (B)oy launch scheduled for the following winter. We were planning a small runway show for February during fashion week. Ben would make sure all of the right people showed, and after, depending on whether anything sold (which was unlikely for a first collection, even I knew that), I'd adapt whatever worked best into a line of knitwear that I could sell out of consignment shops. There was indeed a market for handmade clothing by new designers on a small scale. One couldn't make a living off of it, but it was a way to get some notice. And if an editor was putting together a story on rising New York designers, particularly Brooklyn designers, Ben would make sure I got in.

Throughout the year Ahmed stopped by the studio intermittently to check in on his investment, or his "garden," as he put it. "Look at all of these clothes! How our garden does grow! Didn't I pin the tack on the camel's a.s.s? You and me together will take over the world!"

But more often than not he would disappear for long periods of time, sometimes weeks. I never really knew where he went off to. One day he'd stop by for a look at the collection; the next he'd be in Moscow or Marrakesh. Yes, it's true. Mich.e.l.le always ha.s.sled me about whether I thought I could trust him. But she ha.s.sled me about everything, and I honestly didn't think I was in a position to question Ahmed's trust. I mean, he was funding my label entirely. He had set me up in Williamsburg in the toothpick factory. It was Ahmed who should have been worried about trusting me. I could have run off with his investment.

Plus, it wasn't like I'd been completely relying on Ahmed's payments, anyway. I had plenty of money coming in from my work on Philip's line, combined with filling in some days at his new boutique on Howard, as well as the odd job for Vivienne Cho.

But as 2004 approached, and Ben and I started scouting locations for our first runway show, I was suddenly in need of capital I didn't have. And of course the one time I desperately needed Ahmed, he decided to take off for an entire month, only to reappear at my doorstep one January morning straight from JFK.

"Where have you been?" I said. "I've been trying to get ahold of you."

"Russia. Scouting mission with modern-day Cossacks. It's another business venture. I'll tell you all about it if and when it pans out."

"We need to put a large down payment on a s.p.a.ce for the fashion show," I told him. "Somewhere near Seventh Avenue."

"Talk to d.i.c.k. What's the problem?"

"I did talk to d.i.c.k. He has me on a spending freeze."

"Why?"

"You tell me. This is a crucial point in our business. If we don't have a show we have nothing. We have a collection that doesn't get seen. Tell me, what good is that?"

"Boy, not a problem. We call d.i.c.k now. We figure it out. And stop giving me that look."

"What look?"

"Like you need to c.r.a.p."

Immediately, we got d.i.c.k Levine, CPA, on speaker. It was over my cell phone, so the speaker volume was a little weak. Ahmed and I had to lean into each other, our heads turned at a most uncomfortable angle.

"d.i.c.k?" said Ahmed. "It's Ami, beby. I'm here with Boy Hernandez, our designer."

"Don't beby me," said d.i.c.k. "I knew this was coming. You ratted me out, huh Boychik? You little snake. As if this is all my fault."

"Easy, d.i.c.k. What's the problem with the account?"

"What's the problem? I'll tell you the problem. It's dry. We've run dry. Boy has been spending like it's going out of style. No pun intended."

This was a gross exaggeration.

Ahmed turned to me. "Boy, is this true? What d.i.c.k says-"

"I had to hire a publicist. A good one. Ben Laden."

"Who?"

"Christ O mighty," said d.i.c.k.

"Ben Laden. There's no relation. He's the best publicist in town. We're getting all sorts of good press because of him."

"d.i.c.k, you heard Boy. He had to hire a publicist. This Bin Laden."

"I heard. Way to go. Bin Laden. We'll all end up in federal prison by mere a.s.sociation. I can see it now. Dolce, Gabanna, and Levine indicted on tax fraud and conspiring to commit acts of terror. Listen, I'm just telling you two how it is. We've run out of money."

"How?" I pressed him.

"How? He asks how. How should I know? You don't keep receipts. We've been an all-cash operation so far, so who's keeping track of where the money's going. Not me. Boy, I've said it before. You have to be vigilant about keeping receipts. Vigilant."

"Vigilant, Boy," repeated Ahmed, who had once called receipts reeshmeets just to mock me.

"Okay," I said. "But both of you have been giving me mixed signals."

d.i.c.k continued: "You're my only two clients-who may or may not be legal residents-schlepping pricey product in a very public sphere. Before you two Versaces steer us through the fog into that very big iceberg up ahead, I'm putting a cap on all spending."

"Ah, so there is money left. You see Boy, he's good at what he does."

"Oh no, we're definitely in the red," said d.i.c.k. "I wasn't kidding about that."

"Hmm, Boy here says we need to put a down payment on a s.p.a.ce for the fashion show."

"Somewhere downtown," I added.

"Well then, we'll need a loan. I can do the paperwork if that's what you want to do."

"Hold on that, d.i.c.k. Let me talk to Hajji first. I think I can get one without going through the banks."

This was the first mention of Hajji, a man who would come to plague me in my final days before the Overwhelming Event. Had I known what I was getting into then, maybe things could have worked out differently. d.a.m.n these known unknowns.

"Ahmed, let me say this. If I don't know where the money is coming from, we'll be entering some very scary territory," d.i.c.k said. And he was right. I suddenly thought of my auntie Baby,

the moneylender, who was murdered in her hotel room at the Shangri-la.

"It's Hajji, beby. You know Hajji."

"The Indian gangster?"

"He's a businessman."

"G.o.d help us. Just call me back when you figure out what you want me to do. Maybe the less I know the better. They can't flip me if I don't know anything."

"Beby, cool your jets. It'll all work out. If it doesn't we'll think of something."

"Like one-way tickets to Venezuela."

"He's such a kidder this guy. You're such a kidder, d.i.c.k. Ciao, huh."

Expecting a reprimand, I quickly tried to explain myself to Ahmed. But he wouldn't hear me out. "Zip! 'Am I my brother's keeper?' as Cain once said to Abel.1 Money shan't ever come between us. This is why we have d.i.c.k, accountant nonpareil. We're a legitimate business company now, Boyo. I'll talk to Hajji."

"This Indian gangster?"

"Listen, I was borrowing money from Hajji when you were still feeding from Mama's teat."

Without fail Ahmed always got the last word, dropping such b.e.s.t.i.a.l metaphors from philosophical heights. He could go from French jargon and biblical tales to t.i.ts and a.s.s in two seconds flat. Tolerating him was at times incredibly difficult. Though it would be nothing in comparison to what I've had to tolerate here in No Man's Land. I've never spent so much time with other men, and it becomes increasingly testing. Tolerance? Ha! I knew nothing about what I could or couldn't tolerate. Which leads me to mention that my circ.u.mstances here grow more absurd and inhumane by the day.

For instance, yesterday-Columbus Day, in fact-they took away our plastic water bottles. We each get a plastic water bottle in No Man's Land, and as punishment, they were taken away from us. All because one of the men on the block tried to eat his during the night. The man crumpled the bottle up and then began to chew. Of course, it's a piece of plastic, so he didn't get anywhere by chewing alone. a.s.sisted swallowing is what the guards are calling it, I believe. Meaning once the man determined he couldn't swallow the bottle by means of chewing, he used his hands to force it down the hatch. Though he didn't manage to eat all of it. It was early morning when we were woken up by the medics and guards rushing to his cell. He was taken out before the morning prayer. I caught a glimpse of him convulsing on the stretcher as they took him out, the bottle already removed from his mouth. Blood spatter covered his shirt and face. So much that it looked as if he had slit his own throat.

Because of yesterday's incident with the water bottle, everyone on the block suffers. No more plastic. They've switched us to Styrofoam cups, which Win tells me is what they used in No Man's Land at the beginning.

Me, I couldn't care one way or the other what I drink my water out of. But the others reacted very badly to the Styrofoam. Today, as the guards administered the new cups, one per cell, the prisoners started up a protest by cursing and spitting. It was a synchronized protest, everyone at once. I am used to their outbursts by now. I have been its target in the prison yard, remember. But this time, when the guards told them to quiet down, they resisted, and continued to act like a bunch of animals. Each prisoner did a fine job of contributing to the overall chaos, banging his cell door, kicking and screaming, throwing p.i.s.s at the guards with the new Styrofoam cups. I could make out Riad's voice at the other end of the block. He was carrying on just like the others. Cursing, not in his British voice but in the voice he used when he spoke Arabic. The guards put on face protectors to shield themselves from the urine being hurled into the corridor. I tell you, it was madness. There was a brief second when I thought the prisoners were really going to take control of the cell block, that somehow they had the power to get out of their cells and overtake the guards.

What happens to the animals in their cages when they become unruly?

The SMERF2 squad is called in to sedate them. The SMERF squad is composed of four guards in black riot gear, and they come marching through the corridor, one behind the other, at a slow, intimidating pace. One, two, three, four. The first soldier carries a shield, and the others have various contraptions: shackles, cuffs, clubs, pepper spray, etc. They tell each prisoner individually to stand down. The prisoner does not listen, of course. In fact, at the sight of the SMERF squad most everyone goes ape s.h.i.t. So the SMERFs proceed to enter the cell while the prisoner stands at the back of his cage. First he gets doused with pepper spray. Then he is rammed with the shield. All the SMERFs hold him down while he is shackled, and if the prisoner resists he is met with a series of non-injurious acts (clubs, fists, boot heels, etc.). Once the SMERFs have the prisoner sedated, they drag him out by his feet, sometimes facedown. It is a most violent display of authority, but completely necessary, especially when the prisoners carry on as they have been today.