Promisetown Tales
© Michael Walker
1999-20012

A Business Plan
by Maxwell Wellington

In the flurry to gather clues and catch a news story, the police and press failed to recognize Denim's address. And so, when he was first found deceased in his Avenue D walkup, they made several assumptions.

One was that he'd been killed. The other was that he was poor. And the third was that his was a life of misery.

They were wrong on all three points.

First of all, Denim (born Sidney Felch) died of natural causes, if you can call a heart attack at this age natural. Like both of his parents before him, and at the same age as both of them, he had a coronary in his sleep. This had always been a fear of his and it had come true.

The second assumption, that Denim was a poor slouch, was very far from the truth. A loner, with only several close and intimate friends, he died a millionaire. His body, found in torn jeans and a '96 NY Pride tee shirt, was very valuable when it was functioning.

Lastly, Denim was anything but unhappy. Born to wayward parents who put him up for adoption (he learned of their existence and deaths years ago), he figured out early on the value of tending for himself and pulling the wool over society's eyes.

Who ever can figure out the catalysts that lead people to think the way they think and to do what they do? Somehow, for Denim, feeble efforts by the state of Connecticut to protect him from evil and place him in a good home, defined life in terms of doubts, guilt, and charade. Perhaps it was because he expected the state's efforts to succeed. Maybe it was because he came to define failure as that which caused him more pain.

The good home they boy grew up in was middle class and normal - in every sense of the word. His father was a banker, his mother a housewife. Together they tried to instill in young Sidney a sense of success, determination, good will to the needy, and gratitude. But as is the case with so many orphans, these efforts were met head on with the cruel realities of life. The boy, abandoned at birth by the only two people he could ever naturally love, resisted the attempts unconsciously. It wasn't that he did not want to be successful or feel good about himself. It was more that he couldn't, that an unseen force from his birth, forced that lived in the memories of incubators, cold hands, and pathetic stares, molded his true insides.

So when Sidney was 12, he began to realize his tremulous dissatisfaction, began to form names for them. Names like strange, alone, and bereft. He felt marred and flawed in some way. In spite of the love (and money) his parents bestowed on him (they were far more generous and comfortable with the money), Sidney felt somehow cheated. For the reality was that nothing, not ever, could fill the hole scooped out of him by his abandonment.

By the time he was 15, Sidney was so convinced of the fact that his was a life completely different from others that he decided to make it so. But, he ruefully realized as a war ravaged his society, that it (and he) would have to wait.

As if in slow motion, the seventies dripped by and morphed into the eighties. Enough to bore the skin off a cat, the times forced Sidney into a dulled world of booze and drugs. Or so he believed. The truth was that his choosing to dull his bored brain with substances was very common for his ilk. And as his youth changed into more of a middle age, he sat down one day and reviewed his passions.

In a preface to his business plan, Sidney wrote about that day:

Sidney's transformation, however, did not begin immediately. Instead of plunging into this endeavor then, he chose instead to run it by some friends. The combined looks of horror, amusement, disbelief, and bafflement on their faces irked Sidney, but did not deter him. In fact, the words of one of his friends continually egged him on down the road:

"My GOD! You're too old for anyone to want to pay for you."

Denim's upbringing by a banker no doubt helped his success. Unlike others in this oldest of professions, the man created a business plan. In it he outlined his five and ten year goals (ambitious for a call boy fast approaching middle age), he described his plans for marketing himself (including photo shoots, the creation of mass mailing lists, and an advertising campaign), and more. The more, as it eventually turned out, was a method to achieve astronomical success while at the same time maintaining an anonymous side life.

Of course, the modeling career of Lukas paralleled the success of Denim. Nobody ever talked about the two people at the same time because no one ever wanted to rock the boat. Even the media knew that Denim might be Lukas, but to admit this in the news would ruin Denim's career and his cover. And that would mean that New York City would lose Denim; something nobody, man or woman alike, wanted to do. The rest of the world could go screw or stare at photos of Lukas, but New Yorkers could devour his alter ego in the flesh.

The business plan created by Denim outlined two separate people, two separate lifestyles, and two separate income streams. It also made abundantly clear that the money was secondary to the fame and notoriety - and clarified that Denim was well aware of his need for love and affection.

"Lukas," he wrote in the plan, "will represent the part of me who is aggressive and determined. I, Denim Tite, will be the vulnerable one. I will cultivate a style of being that is doe-eyed and tussle-haired. It will not matter what age I am, because as Denim ages, Lukas' success will be multiplying proportionally.

"The Forty Something" model first appeared in GQ Magazine at the turn of the century - just one month later than the business plan called for. Denim had originally gone to a gay photographer, as outlined in the plan, to have personal photos done. Incredibly, the photographer responded to the session as if he were following a script. He offered to do a series of photos for free and to act as an agent for Denim. In a practiced, doe-eyed fashion, Denim combined a look of innocence with lines he had rehearsed the week prior. In a halting and unsure manner, he suggested (and convinced the photographer to go along with) his stage name (Lukas), his moniker (The Forty Something Model), and even the genre (GQ). In turn, the photographer signed Denim on as Lukas and agreed to keep the two personalities separate entities.

The rest is merely the history of two successful men (or three, if you count the agent/photographer). Lukas became the most sought after 40+ model in the industry and made it acceptable, trendy even, to utilize ageism in fashion. 40-Something (and later 50-Something) models took over. And Lukas, who would otherwise be bored by this professional arrangement and success, lived out his true passion, his Midnight Cowboy persona, whenever he had spare time.

And New Yorkers ate him up. It is doubtful that there was anyone who didn't know that the waif of Avenue D and Lukas were one and the same. And those who knew that Lukas was Denim never let on. Sure, many clucked their tongues (out of jealousy, no doubt) and predicted the dreadful demise of a superstar someday. His limp and lifeless body no doubt would be found one day, slain by a crazed and felonious John in a deadbeat apartment. But Denim died in his sleep one early morning in October while watching the David Letterman show.

A suitable and satisfactory end for a man, half model and half street urchin gone whore, half angel and half devil, which took New York by the balls of its feet and adorned them with walking shoes.

Author Notes