MFA Thesis David E

All Dressed Up, Nowhere to Go THESIS Presented in Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree Master of Fine Arts in the Graduate School of The Ohio State University By David E. Yee Graduate Program in English The Ohio State University 2017 Dissertation Committee: Michelle Rae Herman, Advisor Lee Martin Copyrighted by David Edward Yee 2017 Abstract “All Dressed Up, Nowhere to Go” is the story of Jonah Huang, an Asian American man in DC who is obsessed with fashion. The novel follows him through the six years of his life when he faces the choice of following his passion at the cost of financial stability and coping with a love that is unavailable to him. ii Acknowledgments For my friends. For my family. For my teachers. For my mother. iii Vita 2004................................................................Sherwood High School 2012................................................................B.A. English, University of Baltimore 2017 ...............................................................M.F.A. Creative Writing, Fiction, The Ohio State University Publications 2018 Juked Three Poems 2017 American Short Fiction “Heaven for Your Full Lungs” 2017 Seneca Review “Baptism” 2016 Gulf Coast Online “Wildflower” 2016 Hot Metal Bridge “Once You’ve Gone Back Home” Fields of Study Major Field: English iv Table of Contents Abstract ............................................................................................................................... ii Acknowledgments .............................................................................................................. iii Vita ..................................................................................................................................... iv All Dressed Up, Nowhere to Go ......................................................................................... 1 v All Dressed Up, Nowhere to Go Remember, first, Jonah was a coward. Before he rose from the belly of the whale, he fled the word of the lord on a ship, forced god to make a storm to strand him. He became a great prophet, but that wouldn’t be possible if not for the fear born into him—this was how I understood my name for the first time, six-years-old at Sunday school. Our teacher was a kind woman who, for a decade, thought I was Hawaiian even though my last name was Huang. Each hour-long lesson on the Sabbath covered one of the great Bible figures—Daniel and his lions, Job and the curses, Lot and his salt—until finally we came to Jonah. When the teacher said his name, the class turned to me as if I was that long dead man reborn. I didn’t like being called a coward, didn’t like being associated with it, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy the attention. This is the anecdote I liked to tell someone I’m getting to know, offering the negative connotations of my name and the small, almost illicit admission of my reaction as a child. I told it to my boss back in my interview. For a year, since the fall of 2011, I’d been working as a personal assistant for a consulting firm in Dupont, managing the life of Robert E., one of the firm’s partners, doing everything from running his calendar to helping decorate his new apartment in Foggy Bottom. One of my first assignments was to oversee the redesign of his wardrobe. His recent divorce had put a rift in his confidence— as if before, his god awful square-toed dress shoes and boxy Jos. A Banks suits had been 1 adequate, but as a bachelor, being that out of fashion was untenable. I was never sure if this amount of involvement was a literal part of my job description. The vibe I got was Just keep him happy and the raises will come. I didn’t really mind, though. I’d grown up the middle son, rhythm guitarist, office admin. I’d become accustomed to being told what to do. And shopping was something I found pleasure in. I hadn’t yet realized that I didn’t need to be living paycheck-to-paycheck if I could just cut back on my spending. I took pride in my attire, and sure, I was making a better salary in this new position, affording me the pieces I’d been saving for: five hundred on brand new Alden dress shoes instead of pre-worn off eBay, a pair of 21oz Iron Heart jeans, an excess of American made T’s and boxer briefs, and that Flathead chambray with the dots and diamonds that I hadn’t been able to justify spending $325.00 on before. I bought shit built to last. And under the guise of needing more work attire, I amassed suit sets from J Crew, usually on sale because even with my shitty spending habits, I never liked paying more for an article when I knew I could get it cheaper. I had a knack for knowing what would go on clearance, what would go out of stock, that sort of thing. It was on one of these work expeditions that I met Elle in Crate & Barrel. I mistook her for an employee and asked her for assistance. She tucked the bundle of printed hydrangeas on the front of her shirt into the waist of her jeans, said, ‘It’s Elle, like the letter.’ I was on an assignment for Javier, my boss’ decorator, to buy new glassware that was Elegant but not ostentatious. Javier handled the major purchases, the new furniture, artwork, et cetera, was supposed to be hand selecting everything, really. Robert gave him the authority to send me on pick-ups, and after that meeting about the kitchen 2 renovation, when it was just me and Javier in the office, he looked me up and down—that day I was in navy slacks, spread collar shirt, knit tie and tan shoes, slicked back hair neatly pinned behind my right ear—and said, ‘I trust your judgment.’ In my car, on the way to the store, I’d been annoyed. It wasn’t right that he got paid for something when I was doing the leg work, but I didn’t want to be the one to put tension between Javier and Robert, didn’t trust that I would come out of it professionally unscathed. I figured that if either of them didn’t like what I chose, they’d just have me return it, and Javier couldn’t blame me without Robert knowing he delegated more than transportation. I walked around the alcove of the store dedicated to dishware and then she was there—prescription Ray-Bans, bleached hair hanging from six inches of brown roots, that vintage flower print shirt and black, matchstick jeans. Her silhouette put an ambient sort of cautiousness in me like an open blade on a table, but I swallowed that nervousness, said, ‘Do you know if this is all the stemware? Is there more in the back?’ It is important to say—I’m often called a metrosexual, a hipster, occasionally a fashionista, but I find these terms lazy catch-alls meant solely to diffuse an uncomfortable tension between me and someone who cares less about their appearance. I don’t purchase expensive things because I think they are better than others, although technically speaking, if you want to try and make me feel stupid about buying a pair of $395.00 jeans that I will wear every temperate day for three to four years, and after they’re too beat up to stitch or patch, at the start of another humid Maryland summer, I’ll cut them at the knees and roll the frayed edges into cuffs, getting three to four more seasons out of them as shorts—if you want to make me try and feel foolish about that, then go ahead. But I 3 see a lot more sense in ethically hand-stitched Japanese denim than buying pair after pair of sweatshop shit that tears in the crotch or pockets after just one season. I bought this denim because I understand it, the breadth of the garment. I know it speaks to me in a different voice than others. Let me be clear—I don’t think there is one correct style for everyone. Clothes give the opportunity to create a fingerprint. There is a way to look purely you, to be yourself. Don’t call me some supposedly pejorative term because you don’t feel at ease—under thirty, Vera Bradley purse, or over fifteen in cargo shirts and flip-flops, no ocean in sight. You want to wear that jersey and pre-torn jeans? Fine, but it’s not my job to own it. So when I saw Elle in her oversized floral, her skintight jeans, leather Chelsea boots with a suede heel, I was in awe of how natural she looked. A good outfit does that to you, puts you perfectly at ease, gives you an aura—the embodiment of trouble, a cowboy coming into focus through the blur of desert haze. It’s a declaration— How else would I look? She glanced into my cart filled with sets of the essential beer glasses, everything from pints to Belgian goblets to 10oz chalices, the stuff that is typically standard cut between the retailers. I was having problems with the wine glasses—never drank it— couldn’t tell the difference between the tasteful or gaudy designs, couldn’t tell which were used for white or red. Placing her hand on the front of my cart, she said, ‘Let’s have a look.’ We discussed Javier’s parameters, his design for the kitchen and dining room— all Brazilian rosewood and local marble cut into long rectangular surfaces. Elle pulled demo glasses from the shelf, asking me what I thought, and there was something instantly ordinary to it, how we made jokes about each cup. How this stem-less one looked like it 4 belonged on a spaceship.

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