I always told myself the beauty of having so many guy friends is that it would make moving apartments so easy. Jordan, my best girlfriend from high school, and I have been roommates ever since we moved to New York City. For years, we had occupied a pretty small but equally bitching apartment in Harlem that truly has come to feel like home. After years of temp jobs, bad OKCupid dates and pregnancy scares (I’ll point the finger more at Jordan on that one), the time has come for us to move on from B.B. King. That’s what we named our apartment in part to our landlord who lived in the building and had a penchant for playing B.B. King music quite loudly every Saturday morning. Apparently, it helped him clean. Since he lived in the unit below us, it prematurely woke us up and neither Jordan or I are peaches in the morning.

When we told our landlord that we wouldn’t be renewing our lease, he actually seemed pretty bummed out. “But you’re good tenants. Your rent was almost never late!” he hollered with a big smile on his face. “Why are you leaving me?” he asked, his brow scrunching a bit. Jordan took the lead by blurting out how she had finally found a guy and that they were moving in together. It was a great apartment but I couldn’t imagine having another person in Jordan’s room so when she told me about her moving in with her beau once our lease expired, I had come to the conclusion that I would also vacate the space. B. B. King wouldn’t be B. B. King unless it were the two of us there.

That might sound a bit juvenile me giving up my great apartment all because I couldn’t imagine living in it with a stranger. 95% of New Yorkers would agree that once you find a good apartment, you do your damnedest to try and hold onto it harder than Madonna clutches to the long-faded idea of her youth. Well, go ahead and call me juvenile but I might get the last laugh. Remember the temp jobs I mentioned? After paying my dues, I finally landed a grossly overpaid position at a creative consulting agency and could afford to rent a junior one-bedroom on 96th Street and Amsterdam Avenue.

So, when the time came for me to transport my belongings down two flights of stairs, into a U-Haul van, drive south twenty-nine blocks and carry said belongings into a first-floor unit, I thought two guy friends would be sufficient. Hell, one would probably do since I didn’t really have too much furniture. Most of that belonged to Jordan and her boyfriend had agreed to let her bring most of it to decorate his freakishly bare apartment. Yes, two guy friends would be plenty!

About a half hour into moving, I came to the painful realization that my guy friends were young, dainty male models that would prefer to skateboard or do coke rather than focus on the task at hand which was lifting a box clearly labeled “FRAGILE!!!”  I kid you not, it took these motherfuckers close to an hour to stop dicking around on the first piece of non-Ikea furniture I purchased (a beautiful red chair with a matching red suede cushion).

Now I understand where U-Haul got its name: I found myself constantly shouting at them “You! HAUL!”

Models Sol Goss, Michael Lockley, Dimytri Lebedyev and Rory Cooper for’s “The New School” editorial photographed by Paul Morel


Fictitious Fashion is a flash fiction series that finds inspiration from imagery found in fashion magazines and brand campaigns.

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