Fashion People


Jaydan Baldock

Mark Anthony Marquez

A Tribute to Jack Kerouac’s On the Road

They explode with such happiness. I stumble day and night for the ones who interest me because the only people for me are the fine, affluent ones, the ones who own Channel, the ones who only wear Gucci, the rich ones.  They are the ones who wear Ralph Lauren to bed, thrive in Prada, and strive in Burberry. They are ones who never go out without the scent of Dior, and they sleep at night knowing there’s a closet full of Dolce and Gabbana, and, when they wake, they walk into their marvelous, marbled bathroom hosting their reflections and stare, and stare, and stare     like the evil queen gawking, “Who’s the fairest of them all?”

She was so radiant attending her tables with such grace. She could carry twelve plates and never drop one, squeeze through tables all day long, balance five cups in one hand while the other takes tips. She’s fast on her feet but doesn’t trip. Her old ragged dress smelled of Curve Crush, but she’s content and fills a child’s hand asking for more tabasco. With dignity she smiles and walks towards the kitchen returning with a dollar tip and a note, “Next time clean.”

She crumples the note and firmly wipes and wipes the countertop.

“Hey can we have refills?”

“Miss, where’s the restroom?”

“Hello,’’ “Hey! “Miss!”

And she dodges their hands.

All my unoriginal friends are substandard like Chloe Razink scuffing the floor with her Sketchers leaving skid marks while people like Ashley Clans struts in clothes like Levis and custom tee-shirts from the clearance section. Meanwhile, low-figured humans like Syanali Celen thrive under the radar while on the edge with Katy Perry Mad Love perfume. Josh Glimming wears Goodwill. But Steven Burkans has a chance because he switched from Walmart to Marshalls. It’s all a disgrace, and my face will never be seen with such trace low quality things.