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The Window

Jill Simons

    All us mannequins are all made the same, you know. We all come from the same factory in Italy, all from the same mold. We are all processed from the same fiberglass and plastic, poured into the same cast, and assembled in the same order. The only thing that makes us different is the window that we occupy. The window determines your quality of life. Some models will end up in malls around the United States. They’ll exist behind the windows of H&M, the Gap, and Victoria’s Secret. These windows are okay, but you know you’ve really made it when you’re displayed behind a window on Fifth Avenue in New York City. The Fifth Avenue models are the aristocracy of the mannequin world.
    What makes a mannequin on Fifth Avenue think she is better than anyone else? Is it just because she is wearing a Carolina Herrera contrast bow-shoulder satin gown, Jimmy Choo glittered crisscross sling backs, and a Gucci python medium shoulder flap bag? We are all made from the same mold, you know. Some of us are just luckier than others.
    I was one of the lucky ones once. Even though I couldn’t speak, I had the ability to communicate and attract the attention of a passerby. The only words I needed to declare were, “Here I am.” I reigned for three years behind that window of Bergdorf Goodman until one day an assailant bearing a name tag and carrying next season’s Alexander McQueen’s Lace Faux-Wrap Dress jerked down the zipper on my Versace gown, thrusting her fist into my back. I tumbled to the ground, my right hand shattered into dust. The window couldn’t have an imperfect model standing in it, so they banished me to 8^th Avenue and 40^th Street, where I stand outside next to Statues of Liberty encased in snow globes, coffee mugs imprinted with the Empire State Building, and a rack full of postcards. My uniform is an “I Love New York” t-shirt and jeans that are tearing at the seams. I am invisible. There are no more windows for me.
    All I can stand to do now is dream about my days behind my pane of glass that allowed me to be seen, knowing that a mannequin’s life is not measured in years, months, or days. It is measured in windows.

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