You Look Lovely in That Hat!
Most people don’t know about my short brush with celebrity—except I already wrote about the time I was momentarily mistaken for Dom DeLuise in Iceland.
In the mid-eighties, my sister Diane worked at the Eaves-Brooks Costume Company in Long Island City (L.I.C.) in Queens. It was housed in a five-story warehouse, each floor packed with every type of costume imaginable. Saturday Night Live, Broadway plays, countless television shows and movies—even Barnum and Bailey Circus—used wardrobes supplied by Eaves-Brooks.
Before I started my thirty-plus years at AT&T, my sister got me a job there. I wasn’t sure what I’d be doing—having limited (if any) talent for creating costumes—but I was confident they’d find a place for me.
My first day of work was also my first time taking a bus to the Port Authority (of New York and New Jersey) on my own. Normally, any trips to the city involved groups of friends (and lots and lots of beer).
My sister met me to show me which train to take to L.I.C. (the Double-R), and while I walked to meet her, I made every mistake a tourist could make. I made eye contact with people I shouldn’t—Hare Krishnas (remember them?)—people asking for money, and those who were just plain crazy.
Note: Two weeks later, I’d step over bodies in the Port Authority (dead or otherwise) and keep right on walking.
Before Eaves-Brooks, I’d worked in warehouses, driven forklifts, loaded trucks, and bounced in bars. Never, in all those jobs, had I encountered so many…
...boa scarves and feathers. They hung on the walls and draped around the necks of the two men who rode the freight elevator with me to the fifth floor.
In the workshop, I was introduced to a small group of people whose names I don’t remember—except for Paul, the artist who ran the place (and my sister’s friend), and Laura.
Laura was adorable: brown hair, brown eyes, lived in the Village. I worked with her for a few months and (spoiler alert) really liked her.
After a while, I asked her out and (spoiler alert) she said no.
Let’s move on.
The workshop was filled with projects—lots of heads on the walls and hanging from the ceiling.
Heads?
Yes, because at that time Paul (remember him?) designed and created every NFL team’s mascot head. So, twenty-eight oversize helmets surrounded us as we worked.
What did I actually work on while I was there?
I made a spoon suit for Mr. Green Jeans (from Captain Kangaroo—kids, ask your parents). And by “made,” I mean I sewed multicolored spoons onto an old suit.
Then, after being handed a dozen brand-new, still-in-the-box work boots, I was directed to a small side room. Inside was a hand grinder and shelves filled with cans of spray paint.
My task?
For Fiddler on the Roof, I was to take those pristine boots, rough up the leather with the sander—simply beat the hell out of them. To complete the look—to make these brand-new boots appear like peasant footwear worn for years—I sprayed them with silver and brown paint.
Wish I’d worn my own boots that day; I could have swapped them out and saved myself some work.
Show of hands—who knew Mr. Snuffleupagus from Sesame Street had a cousin who visited from Puerto Rico?
Well, I did.
Why? Because we made a huge sombrero for his cousin, Señor Esnofelopago. A few problems arose from making such a massive hat:
We lowered it out a window because it wouldn’t fit through the door.
We put it in a taxi—alone—because no one else could fit inside the cab with it.
Safe travels.
However, the best perk of working at a world-famous costume company came on Halloween. Normally, I hate trying to figure out a costume for that holiday, but working here, I was a kid in a candy store. I had my pick from thousands of theater-ready costumes for the holiday—the trick was choosing wisely.
That Halloween, I borrowed a sheikh costume from the racks. It was handmade, with crocheted designs and jewels strategically placed throughout. I had a full beard and wore sunglasses (at night). It was perfect for my friend’s party that weekend.
Well, it was perfect until my friend’s parents walked in.
Her Jewish parents.
It was awkward.
However, not as awkward as my friend—whom I convinced to wear a ballerina costume I’d also borrowed from the warehouse. Turns out, it wasn’t a good look.
He was not happy.
Broadway, television, and movies; my secret celebrity background that you never knew about.
Anyway, we will always have Iceland.
