Denim directly off the truck

Giggles emanated from the restroom of the recently opened Chipotle's on Seventh Avenue in North Chelsea. Even for women, they were taking an unusually long time. The fact that it sounded like a slumber party made me suspicious.

Only later would I would learn it was a jeans party. Needing to use the restroom myself, I decided to apply the old passive-aggressive technique of loudly jiggling the door hand. When I did, a muscular, thick-mustached, middle-aged black man noticed my impatience. "Don't worry, they'll be out in a minute. They're trying on jeans."

Thus, I met Max The Underground Jeans Dealer. He was a little charismatic and beamed with confidence. He looked as though he would have had no problem taking care of himself if things got physical. He could have been intimidating, but his demeanor was unthreatening and almost, well, soothing.

A few minutes later, four twentysomething women exited the bathrooms giddy as schoolgirls. They each carried armloads of brand-new designer jeans. "Let me see honey, spin around," Max said. His eyes stopped at the derriere. Max reassured her. "Don't worry, baby, I'm just doing my job. Yes, this fits you nicely." Max discharged any potential sleaze factor with his obvious sincerity.

The cash transaction took place out in the open at the Chipotle. One of Max's customers explained that she would call him every few months for a pair of jeans. They meet here or a Starbucks, usually near her Chelsea apartment. The jeans, she said, were always cheap and legit.

New York is one of those places where you can buy anything on the streets. It's easy to find knick-knacks you never knew existed. When it rains, there are plenty of umbrella salesmen. With the right imagination and a little bit of investigating, anything illegal can be yours.

This includes pricey denim. But most underground jeans dealers boldly take to the street with their poor-quality bootlegs, ready to close up shop if a cop is spotted. Max runs his jeans operation inside businesses with public restrooms or private apartments, in what he calls "jeans parties." The more friends you invite over, the better.

"It's busy, but I'll hook you up," Max said after we met up with him at a random Upper East Side intersection on a lazy Sunday afternoon. "I was in the military for 15 years, and I know how to multi-task." Max held a pad with a dozen different styles and sizes of jeans scribbled on it.

He was in the process of delivering them from his over-sized cargo van to a nearby apartment for a party. April was shaping up to be a demanding month for him; he was already booked up for jeans parties on all but four days.

A jeans party is similar to Tupperware parties. Basically, you plan a time with Max and invite a bunch of jeans-crazed friends over to try on whatever Max has in stock. He was vague about the requirements needed to throw a party, but boasted of once having 80 women in one bedroom.

When asked where he got his jeans, Max replied with only a threatening smile that implicitly described his method as "don't ask, don't tell." An inside tag for a pair of Citizen of Humanity's read "Designed for Bloomingdales." If they weren't the real deal, they were one flawless knockoff. With Max, you're welcome to make requests, but usually he shows you a handful of different styles out of his crude, homemade catalog. Only the thread designs on the back pockets are shown-and the lamination is usually beginning to peel.

At this particular party, he was selling various styles of Seven and Citizen of Humanity for about $60 each, less than half the retail price for both.

Nothing caught my attention, while everything caught Michelle's. Max understood the dilemma women face when buying jeans, and told Michelle she could always return them later if they didn't fit. Since we weren't invited to the party, trying them on meant heading back to the coffee shop we just left. He was, however, aghast when she turned down his recommended size, but shrugged it off.

"You girls are funny," he sighed. "I should know, I got about 30 up there, and they're driving me crazy." We sneaked back into the coffee shop, and Michelle went straight for the restroom. The jeans were one size too large. Max was positive the smaller size was correct.

On our way back to the van, two twentysomething Asian women had taken our place and were looking through the jeans in a quiet state of excitement. Once we could see Max sifting through various jeans in the back of his van, he greeted us with an enormous grin.

"I knew you would be back. I know butts."