One Fifth Avenue

by Candace Bushnell

  When she heard the elevator ding at seven A. M., signaling Paul Rice’s arrival in the lobby, she deliberately opened her door and let Skippy loose. Skippy, as usual, growled at Paul. Mindy, still in a lousy mood, didn’t snatch Skippy away as quickly as she normally did, and Skippy attacked Paul’s pant leg with a rabid viciousness that Mindy wished she herself could express. During the tussle, Skippy managed to rip a tiny hole in the fabric of Paul’s pants before he was able to shake Skippy off. He bent down and examined the tear. Then he stood up, making an odd thrusting motion of pushing his tongue into his cheek. “I will sue you for this,” he said coldly.

  “Go ahead,” Mindy said. “Make my day. It can’t really get any worse.”

  “Oh, but it can,” Paul said threateningly. “You’ll see.”

  Paul went out, and upstairs, Lola Fabrikant got out of bed and turned on the TV. Eventually, James appeared on the screen. Perhaps it was the makeup, but James didn’t look so bad. True, he appeared unnecessarily formal, but James was a little stiff in general. It would be interesting to loosen him up, Lola thought. And he was on TV! Anyone could be on YouTube. But real TV, and network TV at that, was a whole different level. “I watched you!” she texted. “You were great! xLola.” Underneath, she included her new tagline, with which she signed off on all her e-mails and blog posts: “The body dies, but the spirit lives forever.”

  Up at Thirty Rock, the publicist, a lanky young woman with long blond hair and a bland prettiness, smiled at James. “That was good,” she said.

  “Was it?” James said. “I wasn’t sure. I’ve never done TV before.”

  “No. You were good. Really,” the publicist said unconvincingly. “We’ve got to hurry if we’re going to make it to your interview at CBS radio.”

  James got into the Town Car. He briefly wondered if he would be famous now, recognized by strangers after appearing on the Today show. He didn’t feel any different, and the driver took as little notice of him as he had before. Then he checked his e-mails and found the text from Lola. At least someone appreciated him. He opened his window, letting in a rush of damp air.

  The day of Sam’s father’s book signing was strangely warm, leading to the inevitable discussion among his classmates about global warming. They agreed it was terrible to be born into a world where the adults had ruined the earth for their children, so that the children were forced to live under the shroud of impending Armageddon in which all living things might be wiped out. Sam knew his mother felt guilty about this—she was always telling him to recycle and turn off his light—but not every adult felt the same way. When he brought up the topic with Enid, she only laughed at him and said it had always been so: In the thirties, children had lived with food rationing and the threat of starvation (indeed, in the Great Depression, some people had starved); in the forties and fifties, it was air raids; and in the sixties and seventies, a nuclear bomb. And yet, she pointed out, people continued not only to survive but to flourish, given the fact that there were billions more people now than ever before. Sam didn’t find this reassuring. It was the billions of people, he argued, that were the problem.

  Marching through the West Village with his friends, Sam talked about how the earth was already two degrees cooler than suspected due to the proliferation of airplanes, which caused cloud cover and the dimming of the canopy, mitigating 5 percent of all sunlight. It was a scientific fact, he said, that during the two days following 9/11, when there were no flights and therefore less cloud cover, the temperature on earth had registered two degrees higher. The exhaust from airplanes caused a smaller particulate in the air and a greater reflection of light away from the earth’s surface, he said.

  Walking up Sixth Avenue, the group passed a basketball court with a game in progress. Sam forgot about climate change and peeled away to get in on the action. He’d been playing basketball on this particular litter-strewn, cracked asphalt court since he was two, when his father would bring him on spring and summer mornings to teach him how to dribble and throw. “Don’t tell your mother, Sammy,” his dad would say. “She’ll think we were goofing off.”

  Today the pickup game was particularly vicious, due perhaps to the warm weather in which everyone had come outside with their pent-up winter energy. Sam was off his game, and after being elbowed in the throat and knocked against the chain-link fence, he called it quits. He picked up a bagel with cream cheese on his way home, then worked on his website, which he was upgrading to Virtual Flash. Then the buzzer rang, and the doorman said he had a visitor.

  The man standing in the foyer had a distinct air about him—seedy, Sam thought. Looking Sam up and down, the man asked if his parents were home, and when Sam shook his head, he said, “You’ll do. You know how to sign your name?” “Of course,” Sam said, thinking he ought to close the door in the man’s face and call the doorman to escort him out. But it all happened so quickly. The man handed him an envelope and a clipboard. “Sign here,” he said. Unable to challenge grown-up authority, Sam signed. In a second, the man was gone, disappearing through the revolving doors of the lobby, and Sam was left holding the envelope in his hand.

  The return address was for an attorney on Park Avenue. Knowing he shouldn’t, Sam opened the envelope, figuring he could explain later that he’d opened it by mistake. Inside was a two-page letter. The attorney was writing on behalf of his client, Mr. Paul Rice, who was being maliciously and systematically harassed by his mother, without cause, and if such actions did not cease immediately and reparations begin, a restraining order would be placed on his mother by Paul Rice and his attorneys, who were prepared to pursue this case as far as the law allowed.

  In his bedroom, Sam read the letter again, feeling a white-hot adolescent rage engulf him. His mother was often annoying, but like most boys, he felt a fierce protectiveness toward her. She was smart, accomplished, and in his mind, beautiful; he placed her on a pedestal as the model to whom other girls must compare, although so far he had yet to meet another member of the female species who measured up. And now his mother was being attacked once again by Paul Rice. The thought infuriated him; looking around his room for something to break, and finding nothing of use, he changed his shoes and headed out of the building. He jogged down Ninth Street, past the porno shops and pet stores and fancy tea outlets. Sam meant to run along the Hudson River, but the entrance to the piers was blocked by several red and white barriers and a Con Edison truck. “Gas leak,” a beefy man shouted as Sam approached. “Go around.”

  The utility vehicle gave Sam an idea, and he headed back to One Fifth. He suddenly saw how he might get even with Paul Rice and his threatening letter. It would inconvenience everyone in the building, but it would be temporary, and Paul Rice, with all his computer equipment, would be the most inconvenienced of all. He might even lose data. Sam smiled, thinking about how angry Paul Rice would be. Maybe it would make him want to leave the building.

  At six-thirty in the evening, Sam headed over to the Barnes & Noble bookstore on Union Square with his parents. It was ten blocks from One Fifth, and the publicist wanted to send a car—no doubt, Mindy said, to make sure James would get there—but Mindy turned it down. They could walk, she declared. And reminding everyone of her recent vow to go green, she pointed out that there was no reason to waste gas and fill the air with carbon monoxide when God had given them perfectly good implements on which to get around. They were called feet. Ignoring his parents’ banter, Sam walked a few feet ahead of them, still brooding about his day. He hadn’t shown his mother the letter from Paul Rice’s attorney. He wasn’t going to allow Paul Rice to ruin his parents’ big day. Sam wouldn’t have been surprised if Paul had done it on purpose.

  Outside the store, the Gooch family stopped to admire a small poster announcing James’s reading, featuring the photograph of James taken at the shoot on the day he’d gotten the ride from Schiffer Diamond. James was pleased with the image: He looked appropriately brooding and intellectual, as if he alone were privy to some great universa
l secret. Stepping inside the store, he was greeted by the blasé publicist from that morning and two employees who escorted him up to the fifth floor. They sequestered him in a tiny office at the back of the store to wait while a cartload of books was brought in for him to sign. Holding a Sharpie, James paused, staring down at the title page and his name: James Gooch. This was, he thought, a historical moment in his life, and he wanted to remember his feelings.

  What he felt, however, was a little disappointing. There was some elation, a bit of dread, and a lot of nothing. Then Mindy barked out, “What’s wrong with you?” Startled, James quickly signed his name.

  At five minutes to seven, Redmon Richardly came in to congratulate him and walked James toward the stage. James was astounded by the size of the audience. Every folding chair was filled, and the standing-room-only crowd swelled around the stacks. Even Redmon was shocked. “There must be five hundred people,” he said, clapping James on the shoulder. “Good job.”

  James awkwardly made his way up to the podium. He could feel the crowd like one giant animal, anticipatory, eager, and curious. Again, he wondered how this had happened. How had these people even heard of him? And what could they possibly want—from him?

  He opened his book to the page he’d selected and found his hand was trembling. Looking down at the words he’d struggled to write over so many years, he forced himself to concentrate. Opening his mouth and praying he could survive this ordeal, he began to read aloud.

  Later that same evening, Annalisa Rice greeted her husband at the door, dressed provocatively in a short Grecian column, her hair and makeup expertly applied so she appeared to have made hardly any effort at all. The look was slightly tousled and overwhelmingly sexy, but Paul barely noticed.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled, heading up the two flights of steps to his office, where he fiddled around with his computer for a moment and then gazed at his fish. Annalisa sighed and went into the kitchen, walking around Maria, the housekeeper, who was rearranging the condiments, and fixed herself a stiff drink. Carrying the vodka, she peeped into Paul’s office. “Paul?” she said. “Are you getting ready? Connie said the dinner starts at eight. And it’s eight now.”

  “It’s my dinner,” Paul said. “We’ll get there when we get there.” He went downstairs to change his suit, and Annalisa went into her pretty little office. She stared out the window at the monument in Washington Square Park. The perimeter of the park was encased in chain-link fencing and would be for at least the next year. The residents of the Village had been lobbying for years to have the fountain moved so it lined up perfectly with the monument, and they had finally won their battle. Sipping her cocktail, Annalisa understood the desire and pleasure in the attention to details. Thinking again about the time, she went into the bedroom to hurry Paul along. “Why are you hovering?” he asked. She shook her head and, once again finding communication difficult, decided to wait in the car.

  Over at Union Square, James was still signing books. At eight o’clock, three hundred people were in line, eagerly clutching their copies, and as James felt obligated to speak to each and every one of them, it was likely he’d be there for at least another three hours. Mindy sent Sam back to One Fifth to do his homework. Walking down Fifth Avenue, Sam spotted Annalisa getting into the back of a green Bentley idling at the curb. Passing the car on the way into the building, Sam was strangely disappointed in her, and hurt. After helping her so often with her website, Sam had developed a little crush. He imagined Annalisa as a princess, a damsel in distress, and seeing her in the back of that fancy car with the chauffeur who was actually wearing a cap destroyed his fantasy. She wasn’t a damsel in distress at all, he thought bitterly, but just another rich lady with too many privileges, married to a rich asshole. And he went inside.

  Sam opened the refrigerator. As he seemed to be all the time now, he was ravenously hungry. His parents didn’t understand how a growing boy needed to eat, and all he could find in the refrigerator were two containers of cut-up fruit, some leftover Indian food, and a quart of soy milk. Sam drank the soy milk straight from the carton, leaving a squirt for his mother’s coffee in the morning, and decided he needed red meat. He would go to the Village restaurant on Ninth Street, sit at the bar, and eat a steak.

  Stepping into the lobby, he came right up behind Paul Rice, who was heading out to the Bentley. Sam’s heart began beating rapidly, and he was reminded of his scheme. Sam hadn’t decided when he would execute his plan, but seeing Paul get into the backseat of the car, he decided he would do it tonight, while the Rices were out. Passing by the Bentley, he waved to Annalisa, who smiled at him and waved back.

  “Sam Gooch is such a sweet boy,” Annalisa said to Paul.

  “His mother’s a cunt,” Paul said.

  “I wish you would end this war with Mindy Gooch.”

  “Oh, I have,” Paul said.

  “Good,” Annalisa said.

  “Mindy Gooch and her stupid dog have harassed me one time too many.”

  “Her dog?” Annalisa said.

  “I had my lawyer send her a letter this afternoon. I want that woman, that dog, and that family out of my building.”

  This was outrageous, even for Paul, and Annalisa laughed. “Your building, Paul?”

  “That’s right,” he said, staring at the back of the driver’s head. “The China deal went through today. In a matter of weeks, I’ll be able to buy every apartment in One Fifth.”

  Annalisa gasped. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I’m telling you now.”

  “When did it happen?”

  Paul looked at his watch. “About forty minutes ago.”

  Annalisa sat back in the seat. “I’m astounded, Paul. But what does it mean?”

  “It was my idea, but Sandy and I pulled it off together. We sold one of my algorithms to the Chinese government in exchange for a percentage of their stock market.”

  “Can you do that?”

  “Of course I can do it,” Paul said. “I just did.” Without missing a beat, he addressed the driver. “Change of plans,” he said. “We’re going to the West Side heliport instead.” He turned to his wife and patted her leg. “I thought we’d go to the Lodge for dinner to celebrate. I know how much you’ve always wanted to see it.”

  “Oh, Paul,” she said. The Lodge was an exclusive resort in the Adirondacks that was rumored to be stunningly beautiful. Annalisa had read about it years ago and mentioned to Paul that she wished they could go there on their anniversary. But at three thousand dollars a night, it had been too expensive back then for them to even consider. But Paul had remembered. She smiled and shook her head, realizing that her slight dissatisfaction with Paul in the last couple of months was something she’d made up in her mind. Paul was still Paul—wonderful in his unique and unfathomable way—and Connie Brewer was right. Annalisa did love her husband.

  Paul reached into the pocket of his pants and withdrew a small black velvet box. Inside was a large yellow diamond ring surrounded by pink stones. It was beautiful and gaudy, exactly the sort of thing Connie Brewer would love. Annalisa slipped it onto her right middle finger. “Do you like it?” Paul asked. “Sandy said Connie has one just like it. I thought you might want one, too.”

  “Oh, Paul.” She put her hand on the side of his head and stroked his hair. “I love it. It’s stunning.”

  Back in the Gooches’ apartment, Sam rifled through his mother’s underwear drawer and, finding a pair of old leather gloves, tucked them into the waistband of his jeans. From the toolbox in the cramped coat closet, he extracted a small screwdriver, a pair of pliers, an X-Acto knife, wire clippers, and a small spool of electrical tape. He stuck these items in the back pockets of his jeans, making sure the bulges were covered by his shirt. Then he rode the elevator up to Enid and Philip’s floor and, slipping through the hallway, took the stairwell up to the first floor of the penthouse apartment.

  The stairwell led to a small foyer outside a service entrance, and there, as Sam had kno
wn, was a metal plate. He put on his mother’s gloves, took out the screwdriver, and unscrewed the plate from the wall. Inside was a compartment filled with cables. Every floor had a cable box, and the cables ran from one floor to another. Most boxes contained one or two cables, but on the Rices’ floor, due to all of Paul’s equipment, there were six. Sam tugged the cables out of a hole in the back and, using the X-Acto knife, cut away the white plastic casing. Then he clipped the wires and, mixing them up, spliced the wrong wires together using the pliers. Finally, he wrapped the newly configured wires in the electrical tape. Then he pushed the cables back into the wall. He wasn’t sure what would happen, but it was guaranteed to be big.

  16

  Under regular circumstances, Paul Rice, the early riser, would have been the first to discover The Internet Debacle, as it would be later referred to by the residents of One Fifth. But on the following morning, James Gooch happened to be up first. Following his triumphant book reading the night before (“Four hundred twenty books sold, it’s practically a record,” Redmond had boasted), James was booked on the first flight from La Guardia to Boston at six A. M.; from Boston, he would go on to Philadelphia, Washington, St. Louis, Chicago, Cleveland, and then Houston, Dallas, Seattle, San Francisco, and Los Angeles. He would be away for two weeks. As a consequence, he had to get up at three A. M. to pack. James was a noisy, nervous packer, so Mindy was up as well. Mindy normally would have been testy about this disturbance to her sleep—considering sleep the most precious of all modern-day commodities—but on this day, she was forgiving. The evening before, James had made her proud. All the years of supporting him were paying off when they easily might not have, and Mindy found herself imagining enormous sums of money coming their way. If the book made a million dollars, they could send Sam to any university—Harvard, or perhaps Cambridge in England, which was even more prestigious—without feeling a pinch. Two million dollars would mean university for Sam, and maybe the luxury of owning a car and housing it in a garage and paying off their mortgage. Three million dollars would get them all that plus a tiny getaway home in Montauk or Amagansett or Litchfield County in Connecticut. Beyond this, Mindy’s imagination could go no further. She was so accustomed to living a life of relative deprivation, she couldn’t picture herself needing or wanting more.