Hard Time With Naomi Campbell: The Diary
Claw-baring catwalker Naomi Campbell says she picked up more than trash while working off a community-service sentence at a city Sanitation Department facility - she also landed a much-needed lesson in humility. In a soul-baring, day-to-day diary that she penned during her week cleaning Sanit offices at Pier 36 in Manhattan, the manic mannequin provides more-than-skin-deep insight into her much-publicized, usually explosive psyche.
We don't know about you, but we cannot wait for Friday's W to read Naomi's deep thoughts. So we've obtained an advanced copy of the chronicles of her struggle. They are everything we expected and more.
Monday: Maid wakes me extra early. Reach for phone with which to strike her, but realize that today is the first day of my community service. Also that the court has forcibly removed all phones in my possession. Exfoliate, center myself, prepare for ordeal ahead.
Quite a stir as I arrive at Sanitation Department. Supposedly I'm overdressed for the occasion. What I wear when I walk into my community service has no connection to what I'm going to do when I get inside. Although, hopefully, with couture this first-class, they'll have me do something more along the lines of clerical work. I'd hate to get my hands dirty. Besides, I'm Naomi Fucking Campbell, who am I supposed to dress like, that slob Kate Moss?
As we were working, one of my co-workers tells me how he ended up here, which was basically because of alcohol. I bond with him, and I tell him I'm in recovery. I tell him it started with cocaine and speed when I was 23, and then it spiraled into an assortment of experiments with marijuana, hash, certain drugs generally administered to the equine population, heroin, crack, crank, Nembutol, Adderall, various prescription uppers and downers, cider, and some yellow pill whose name I never knew. God, I still remember that weekend. My new friend edged away a bit, with a look of what I can only assume was awe. He also mentioned that he "knows a guy," which may come in handy.
What I came to realize, during my darkest period of addiction, was that I'm too controlling. I needed to let go. Unfortunately, the last thing I let go of was my cellular phone, which somehow wound up embedded in my maid's head. Well, fuck her with her wrong-jeans-selecting ways. Okay, Naomi, center. Let the bad thoughts out.
Bought lunch for everyone today. They seemed quite appreciative, and no one stabbed me. Tomorrow I'll pick something a little less caloric; these porkies could use a bit of a trimming down.
Steak dinner and evening at home watching VH1. Am starting to feel like one of the "real" people.
Tuesday: There's something almost liberating about rising before noon. I say my prayers (mainly involving massive weight gain on the part of Tyra Banks) and rush into the shower. It's freezing outside. Really cold, so I wear a Guiliana Teso fur coat. Ironically, one of my co-workers is actually on the job for "boosting" a Guiliana Teso fur coat! Who knew one could be forced to do manual labor for simply promoting a product. I'm learning quite a bit about injustice.
When I get out of the car, my bodyguard grabs my bag and hands it to someone. It turns out it was a policeman. I'm not treating the police like they are my valet, as some of the papers say later—were that the case I would have flung it directly into his servanty face, hard.
After lunch—small salads for all, despite the complaints—we finish the hallway. I'm very proud of it, because it's so clean. My co-workers are learning to take direction quite well. The few times I pick up a broom I find solace in sweeping. I have no other responsibilities. I have the time to think. I realize that there's not a whole lot in this head of mine. Oddly reassuring.
Wednesday: Two of the people in the room have never been on a plane. They ask me what it's like, and I'm embarrassed to tell them I was on seven planes in the week previous alone. It's shocking to learn what kind of poverty still exists in this country. Although, given some of the rank odors these people emit, it's probably just as well that the joys of air travel still elude them.
The Sanitation people tell me all about Boy George [who did a similar community-service stint in August], and how lovely he was, which I'm so glad to hear. Growing up in London, I was such a huge fan of his and was in two of his videos. It reminds me of how much older George is than I.
When it's time to leave, one of my co-workers, Marc, walks me out. He's a lovely man who works on Wall Street. He says, 'Give me your bag, I'll carry it.' Later, I find out the press is describing Marc as my 'boy toy'! For God's sake! There's nothing physical between us. It was just two people in the same boat trying to make the best of it. I realize then that the press just has to write something. They don't care; they'll make it up. Also, I'm sure he makes less than a million dollars a year. As if.
Thursday: I'm up at 6, I pray every morning and every night. It's something that I do because I am very grateful that I'm sober today, that I'm clean. Not like Kate Moss. Get dressed in an Etro top and Pologeorgis fur and put on this Knicks cap that Spike [Lee] gave me. I'm finally dressing like one of them!
On my way in today, I decide to say hello to the paparazzi, because, I mean, God bless them, it's like they been [in] community service, too. They've been out here in the cold all week. Andrea Peyser spits at me, calls me the mother of all whores. For Andrea, that counts as a pleasant hello, which makes my day.
Recently, my mother agreed to go into therapy with me. It's something I wanted for a long time but haven't started because now I need to get myself on the right path first. Part of that involves cutting a lot of working relationships. I don't have many yes-people in my life anymore. I've gotten away from them—all the agents, assistants, people who would never tell me the truth and would just watch me destroy myself. From now on I'm only hiring people who cannot speak the language well enough to express themselves to the police.
After work, I take the subway uptown. The last time I was on the subway, you had to use tokens. This time, the bodyguard swipes some sort of yellow card through a slot. I vaguely remember seeing the card before. Where was it? Ah, yes, Kate Moss was cutting coke with it in one of the tents.
Friday: I feel like I've paid my debt to society. I'm not proud of what I did, but it's something I definitely learned from. Now I have to get on with my life, keep working on my problems and go to meetings every day. It's just one day at a time. That's how I'm going to live.
Say goodbye to all the good people I've spent the week with. Many of them are weak and emaciated from the ever-diminishing rations I've kept them on, but they'll thank me later. Tell Marc I think I'll miss him most of all. As I step into the car to—wait, is that the phone ringing downstairs? Three rings? Where is that little bitch? What do I pay her for? Excuse me, dear diary. Must go straighten that little pig out.
