Daniel R. Day - Dapper Dan. Made in Harlem: A Memoir

A legend. Ava DuVernay

Black fashions greatest treasure. BET

The ultimate success saga. Andr Leon Talley

The godfather of hip-hop fashion. The Source

America at its best. Michaela angela Davis

The epitome of style and grace. La La Anthony

A creative icon. Bethann Hardison

The original influencer. Ashley Graham

Harlem, 1989

It was a midnight like any other at the store. The lights were on out front, the door unlocked, the grate rolled halfway up. Dapper Dans Boutique was open. My night crew of tailors was in the back filling orders. Jackets, jumpsuits, parkas. Their sewing machines hummed into the wee hours. I was lying on my bed in the little apartment Id built in back for myself. Most nights, you could find me there, rereading a book of philosophy or spirituality or trying to sneak in a nap.

I had good reasons for never closing the shop and rarely leaving it. For one, a lot of my customers preferred late-night visits, for anonymity during the week or for the after-hours vibe of the weekends. I also had to keep an eye on my employees, who were backdooring my designs. It was my name on the awning out front, and in my world, your name means everything. It was my reputation, my brand, and people came from all over the city and beyondfrom Philly and Chicago, Houston and Miamibecause they wanted a Dapper Dan. I was the store, and the store was me.

We were open all day every damn day for nine straight years.

And yet I couldnt really complain. After three decades hustling in the streets, it was my first legitimate hustle, and business was good. Real good.

That night, I heard someone walk into the store and got myself out of bed. I closed the book, washed my face to wake up, and glanced in the mirror to make sure I looked decent. I wasnt young anymore. I had a wife. I had grown kids and babies. With a deep breath, I put on my shop persona and emerged into the light.

Standing in the store was a Puerto Rican drug dealer from the Bronx who had been in before. People called him Serge. I greeted him with a warm handshake and shoulder clap, and we made small talk. Hows your night going? Where you coming from? You watch the fight yesterday? He was in a good mood, and his good mood put me in a good mood.

Before I ever made anything for a rapper or basketball player, I catered mostly to gangsters and drug dealers, guys with real money in the community, guys like Serge. When I started out, I didnt know the first thing about selling clothes, let alone making them myself. Starting a custom-clothing shop was by far the riskiest gamble of my life, and thats coming from someone who used to shoot dice with gangsters. The stock market had crashed. New York City was broke. But it had worked out somehow. My business was thriving because of the underworld. Sure, hip-hop had taken the popularity of my clothes to the next level, but early on, if it hadnt been for hustlers like Serge, I would have been out on my ass. They made the boutique what it was.

I saw the glimmer of his jewelry, I saw his clothes, I saw he was fly. I would soon see the big stack of money he was about to whip out of his pocket.

What I failed to see was the truck parked across the street with its lights off. Waiting.

Listen, said Serge. Got some beef uptown. I heard you got some new shit. Whats good?

Hanging on a rack behind the register were a number of custom pieces waiting to be picked up. I showed them to Serge to whet his appetite. This is a new Fendi lambskin jacket I made for Big Daddy Kane, I said, casually dropping names as I flipped through the rack. Finally I came to the full-length parka I knew he was waiting to see. This is the snorkel you heard about.

I rapped my knuckle against the leather and it sounded back solid. Serge ran his hand along the printed Louis Vuitton logo on the front. This shit really bulletproof? he asked, his eyes widening.

Go test it on the roof right now, I said. You got your gun?

He shook his head in awe. I could tell he was getting excited.

Can you make mines Gucci? he said, placing his hand on his midsection. With two big-ass Gs on the front.

I hadnt even thought about that. Now I was getting excited. Yeah, yeah, I like that, I said as he pulled out his stack of cash, peeling off three thousand dollars worth of large bills like they were Kleenex.

I can even make you a matching hat, protect your head.

With the Gs, too?

All in red and green?

Yeah, thats it!

The secret to what I do is to capture what you think you look good in. But I also had a slogan: Everything in your mind dont look good on your behind. I would build on how a customer like Serge felt about himself and how he wanted to look, and wed work from there. When I get them right in that zone where were both excited and hollering and giving each other five, thats when I know Ive got something good. Yeah, thats right. Yeah, man. Thats it! I love that moment. I live for that moment.

Serge slapped me five and peeled off a couple more Franklins. For the hat.

I could tell that, underneath his hard exterior, he was buzzing with excitement as I casually went through more of my inventory, showing him what else I had. It was the late 1980s, and everybody who was anybody had an order in at my store. On the rack was a sweater waiting for a Grammy-winning singer, a jacket for a Knicks point guard, an embossed suit for a rap supergroup.