Of Hardhats and Runway Models

All summer long, the garment industry looks forward to Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week. So, it turns out, does the construction industry.

At least that portion of it working across the street from Bryant Park.

"They're gorgeous. Super hot. They come in and out and they're all 6-foot-6, long legs, little skirts, and they don't dress like normal people," a Local 638 steamfitter named Rich enthused. He was describing, of course, the models he sees from the construction site where he's working, at 42nd Street and Sixth Avenue. Weeks like this, he loves his job.

"I see an average of six to eight an hour," a demolition worker named Henry said, happy as any birdwatcher spotting speckle-bellied warblers.

Maintenance man Ray Costello stood on the corner of 41st Street and Sixth Avenue, directly across from the Fashion Week tent. When the light changed, everyone crossed the street … except him. This was his lookout.

"Over there — that doesn't look so bad," he said, when I asked what, exactly, he was looking out for. "Stand here and you'll see her between the phone booths."

I stood. I saw. There glowed yet another glamazon with mile-high legs, these encased in black leather boots that went just above the knee. After another foot or so, her skirt began, covering a bottom smaller than a Vespa's glove compartment.

No doubt about it, she was stunning, even to good old women-are-not-objects, fat-is-a-feminist-issue, hey-hey-ho-ho-the-patriarchy-has-got-to-go me. Not to admire the rare birds alighting this week would be like not admiring the fireworks on the Fourth or, more to the point, the spectacular sailors who alight during Fleet Week (the yin to Fashion Week's yang).

Which is not to say that the women on the receiving end of this admiration are all that keen on it.

"‘Yo, baby,' is not my favorite pickup line," a lovely young lady named Alex said, as she took a cigarette break across from the park. Her friend Erica agreed: "I always wonder if anyone ever ended up getting a date that way."

Well if construction worker Louis deJesus is any indication, no. It hasn't happened yet. But that doesn't mean he's about to stop trying.

"I holler at them," Mr. deJesus said, explaining that this was necessary because he never learned how to wolf whistle. "I say, ‘Hi, sexy!' or, ‘Hi, beautiful!' and they start blushing." He counts this as a thank you. In fact, he assumes it is his chivalrous duty to let women know how gorgeous they are. "If they pass by with a purple dress, I'll say, ‘I love purple!' And they laugh at that," Mr. deJesus said. "A lot of girls, they're having a rough time. I cheer them up."

For the record, Erica and Alex said they smile or say hi to construction workers just to shut them up.

"Communicating with the girls, that makes my day," Mr. deJesus said.

Only a few men within the Fashion Week force field were not as enthusiastic about the scene.

"No model has **ever** come up to my truck," a Mister Softee vendor on 41st Street said.

The gyro vendor next to him, Mohammed, was also having trouble making sales. "The models don't eat. Their bodyguards do," he said. Still, he would willingly date any of his willowy non-customers. "Even the ugliest from them, I am happy with," he said. Only Ahmed, a fruit vendor on West 40th Street, was pleased with the models' purchasing power. "They like peach, they like plum, orange, and nectarine. They appreciate my fruit," he said. He, in turn, appreciates them. "I am very happy because passing my street I see them and it's like a little festival. They're beautiful."

"Amazingly beautiful," sighed Mr. Costello, the guy still standing on the corner.

The light changed again.

He didn't move.