Grace Schoeppner looks as if she has just stepped out of a dictionary, the one she occupies as the definition of the word “chic.” Floating in, she casually peels off a red pashmina of smooth Japanese silk and ties it around her waist, much like how the LAPD has recently tied a string of late night hit-and-runs to her, not that you would care.
Underneath, a faded denim jacket, vintage of course, wrapped around an Iron Maiden T-shirt she claims to have screen-printed herself. “Without question my favorite band. I grew up on rock,” she coos, without any sign of remorse for the three dead and two wounded she’d allegedly left behind at area Sonics, if you were curious about anything other than how she dresses, which you aren’t.
For her pants, denim as well: distressed bell bottoms, cuffed, from Rag & Bone. The essence of “I don’t care” cool, her jeans have rips in the knees, long off-white threads hanging over bare skin like skimpy curtains, quite similar to the tendons of a recent victim’s own legs, freshly ripped off by the back axle of an Audi S5, like you give a shit, because hey, doesn’t she look great?
Laced up tight, her high-top sneakers are to die for ( ! ), hand-painted with thin stripes of rich primary colors by local street artist, and possible accomplice, Meadow Boat. “They’re not comfortable at all, but Meadow would never forgive me if I didn’t show off her work,” she tells me in response to my question of, “How do you sleep at night?” Peeking over her high-tops are polka-dotted, Alpaca wool socks. They look so fashionable and comfortable that, honestly, I’m starting to understand the appeal of this over, say, further investigating how Grace is morally capable of committing multiple acts of manslaughter.
Hugging her neck is a belated birthday gift from her assistant, a classically thin necklace stringing together a Latin phrase: Ego occidit coram me occidere et iterum. Never mind that its translation, “I’ve killed before and I will kill again,” seems like a particularly brazen confession. This is an ensemble-defining piece. “It’s one of my favorite things. In order to make sure I wore it for this piece, I’ve been wearing it day in and day out. Like I didn’t even take it off when I went to bed,” Grace excitedly confesses to me, in a slightly more on-topic response to my repeated request as to how she sleeps at night.
As our menus arrive, Grace reaches into a white leather Coach bag to pull out a pair of thick black Dolce & Gabbana glasses. The lenses only seem to magnify the cold deadness of her pupils, witnesses to the horrors of mangled flesh torn asunder by a machine beast of rubber and steel. As I lean in to look deeper into these inky, shallow pools of darkness, I notice how well the green of her irises pairs with the glossy black of her glasses.
Watching her metaphorically blood soaked hands leafing through the menu, I spy what looks like an engagement ring, until Grace corrects me, saying, “God, I feel like I’m going to come off like such a dork telling you this, but a fan gave it to me at a convention. Also, know this interloper: I am untouchable. No one will ever believe you. So shut up and give them what they want already.” It’s practically 24-karat gold!
Grace to the Finish Line premieres this Friday on Crackle.
Jeff Wucher is a writer and performer living in Brooklyn.
