Although considered luxury lodging since its inception, the hotel established itself as the undisputed leader when America’s Golden Girl, Jennifer Aniston, checked in while filming The Break-up. Which I then heard all about because Ma was able to finagle a set visit for Geri. (When the mayor’s office asks for a favor? Grant it. That’s the real Chicago way.)
I’m told Geri charmed Jennifer, and they ran all over town having margaritas and manicures and massages together, leading me to believe Jennifer is more pretty than smart.
I notice a fleet of Maybachs lined up at the entrance, dozens of paparazzi, scores of groupies behind a velvet rope, and a handful of beefy bodyguards milling about, signifying Ol’ Nasty’s imminent arrival.
While we wait, I admire the hotel’s impressive facade with its giant stone fu dogs standing guard at either side of the doors. Impeccably white-suited doormen in little pillbox hats scurry to and fro, ushering posh guests through the revolving doors. Watching the high-heeled, scarf-wrapped socialites enter laden with bags from Chanel, Gucci, and Cartier, I’d be hard-pressed to discern this Chicago street from one in Paris. That is, until a thickly mustached construction worker strolls by eating a Maxwell Street–style Polish dog piled high with grilled onions and topped with mustard.
So many nitrates.
I’m not really sure what Ashlee’s plans entail, so while I wait for some sort of cue, I observe an impeccably appointed family exiting their Rolls. They’re immediately set upon by the bell staff. Never in my life have I witnessed so much Louis Vuitton luggage in one place, and I’ve traveled with Wendy Winsberg, so that’s saying something. Watching the privileged clientele conduct their business in front of the velvet rope–contained fans makes the scene all the more incongruous. Yet somehow there’s something inherently pleasing about the contrast between the groups. In fact, this dichotomy is one of the reasons I love this city so much—Chicago encompasses so many different worlds living side by side under the same sky.
I’ve never stepped inside the Peninsula, but it’s been on my list of places to frequent. Sebastian and I were supposed to meet up for drinks a while back, but he had to bail on me at the last minute. Ooh, that reminds me—I need to check my texts.
Nothing.
Argh, so annoying.
Anyway, when I mistakenly mentioned our missed connection, Geri prattled on about how the truffle-oil fries in the lounge were to die for and how the whole lobby turns into Chocolate at the Pen on the weekends, boasting buffets full of pastry chef–created delicacies.
Three points to make here: (1) Sebastian and I need to get on the same page about our “break” and soon, (2) I would be very careful about loading up on truffle-oil fries or chocolates if I wore Geri’s pant size, and (3) if the Wicked Witch of the South keeps crossing over into my northern territory, I’m going to have to find me some flying monkeys.
As we wait in the car, Gary and I quietly regard Ashlee taking an enormous swig of champagne, straight out of the bottle. Sensing our gaze, she offers a sip to Gary, who refuses only after he feels the weight of my glare.
I have a sinking feeling about this whole enterprise, so I try to offer Ashlee my counsel. “Please walk me through your plan, Ashlee. What I’m hearing you say is you’d like to start a relationship with Mr. Nasty. You believe that the only factor keeping you apart is physical separation, so when you see him, you’re planning to”—I pause to make sure I quote her correctly—“‘Get down on his jock.’ I’m wondering if there aren’t more appropriate ways to demonstrate your interest. Perhaps you could post on his Facebook wall.”
Then I remember her NC-17 tweets and reconsider the idea.
Regardless, my gentle guidance falls on deaf ears. Instead, she spits, “Why, do you think I’m a whore or something?”
“Ashlee,” I calmly reply, “what’s motivating you to ask that question? Perhaps you can tell me, how would you define the term ‘whore’?”
But the short answer here? Yes, yes, God, yes, I think you’re a whore! You tweeted four million Twitter followers in-depth details of your “panty hamster”!
Quick sidebar? It’s a myth that mental health professionals don’t judge their patients. As human beings, we find it almost impossible not to let our values seep in and color our opinions. The key here is keeping that information/judgment to ourselves. Even though we’d love to say, “You are as effed up as a soup sandwich,” we don’t.
Yet I wonder what would happen if we did?
Before Ashlee can answer, the first members of Ol’ Rat Nasty’s entourage begin to materialize. With their shiny grilles and low-hanging pants, they’re dressed in stark contrast to the rest of the guests, yet their confidence clearly projects the message We belong.
Wave after wave of handsome young men gather outside the vestibule’s doors, posturing, smoldering, and posing up and down the sidewalk. Then they do their best Red Sea impersonation and part, allowing Ol’ Rat Nasty to step out.
And that’s when, in the words of Chinua Achebe, one of my favorite writers, Things Fall Apart.
Seizing the opportunity, Ashlee leapfrogs over me and flies out the window of the limo, pushing aside a dowager clad in head-to-toe Lagerfeld. Fortunately, the bell staff rights the woman so quickly as they sweep her away, later she won’t even be sure that she’d fallen.
Then, instead of, say, introducing herself to Ol’ Nasty or perhaps shaking his hand, Ashlee chooses the more unconventional approach of reaching up under her minidress and removing her underwear, which she promptly tosses in his face.
My first thought is, Not enough hand sanitizer in the world.
After some contemplation, I find Ashlee’s action shocking, largely because I didn’t peg her for the kind of person who opts for any type of undergarment in day-to-day situations.
Shame on me for prejudging.
But trust me, we shall cover this in therapy. As extensively as time allows.
Then, in an entirely unforeseen turn of events, and like Rafiki displaying baby Simba in the “Circle of Life” song, Ol’ Nasty cups the wisp of fabric and holds her undies up over his head for the crowd to behold. While his audience is still gasping, he tucks the panties in his shirt like the world’s most perverse pocket square.
This is the point when I reconsider my decision to leave private practice.
The paparazzi are collectively losing their minds, not only for the act in and of itself, but also because this is the first time they’re received visual confirmation of the rumor that Ashlee shaved her head in a state of rage over having been seated at an undesirable table at the Ivy.
The moment is captured by a dozen cameras except, ironically, the one belonging to I Need a Push, as moments before, Gary discovered the button to raise and lower the privacy screen between the back and front seats and has been otherwise occupied.
I suspect some cognitive delays on his part.
As for Ashlee, I can’t speculate on what a mental health professional would normally do in a situation like this because situations like this don’t normally happen. My first impulse is to protect Push, so I rocket out of the car and attempt to grab her. Ashlee feels as light and delicate as a Hefty bag full of chicken bones in my arms, and she offers up little resistance as I try to wrestle her back into the limo. However, my efforts to stanch the humiliation (on both our parts) are waylaid by the groupies as they topple the velvet ropes and we’re swept up in the melee.
Instead of Ashlee’s act bringing shame down on everyone’s heads, the NastyGirlz (a skankier version of the Beliebers) are thusly inspired by her fresh, bold move. Suddenly, the staid East Superior Street entrance to one of the nation’s premier properties turns into the Running of the Brides at Filene’s Basement. Dozens of attractive women wearing very big hoop earrings and very small shirts start dropping trou right there on the sidewalk. Only instead of baring all in o
rder to snap up a bargain wedding dress, the NastyGirlz begin tossing their own unmentionables at Ol’ Nasty. I liken this to an explosion at a Victoria’s Secret sidewalk sale, with thongs and push-up bras raining lace and leopard-print shrapnel all around us.
I suspect that in the future, when the CDC traces the virology of the plague that wipes out half of the city, this spot will have been ground zero. I fear I’m contracting genital warts from simply watching the scene unfold.
One of the doormen is returning from walking a guest’s dogs, and that’s when the four prizewinning, Continental-clipped, tightly wound standard poodles enter the fray. Any dog enthusiast will tell you that, despite the poodle’s being the smartest of all breeds, there is no panic like Poodle Panic.
Let me repeat, lest there be misunderstanding: There is no panic like Poodle Panic.
The dogs utterly, profoundly, and collectively lose their minds in the underwear storm and wrench loose from the hapless bellman. Like giant puffs of cotton candy run amok, they froth and foam and spin in circles, their stray fur floating on the air like so many dandelion seeds. They pinball through the crowd looking for egress, yipping at a decibel more often associated with dolphins.
At that moment, a family of Prada-panted, Disney World–shirted Japanese tourists exits the building, thus alerting the dogs to their escape route. In a cloud of pom-poms, fangs, and fury, the canines immediately dash underfoot toward the revolving door, making a beeline for the safety and sanity of the Peninsula lobby.
As the dogs prepare to force their way into the building, they first have to slip through the legs of Ol’ Rat Nasty’s entourage, who’ve since been frozen in position by shock. Many of these men grew up in questionable neighborhoods and are well equipped to not only maneuver but also protect themselves and their boss, having cut their teeth in the highly charged East Coast/West Coast dynamic so prevalent in the last generation of rap music.
But a Westminster Kennel Club throwdown?
Completely unprepared.
Because the men’s pants are flying at half-mast, and since a standard poodle can stand twenty-five inches from the tips of his paws to the top of his head, the fifteen-inch inseams prove no match for two hundred pounds of raging poodle.
One after another, the panicking poodles clothesline the entourage in their low-hanging fruit, butting beribboned heads into denim-clad crotches and tumbling the gents like so many bowling pins. Soon the ground is littered with flat-billed hats, unlaced Timberlands, and the shame of the next generation of rap artists.
Fortunately, their falls are broken by a cushion of undergarments, so their only bruises are to their egos.
And there’s Ol’ Rat Nasty, right in the middle of everything, grinning sardonically and saying, “Okay, gurl, message received. Imma do this.” He grabs Ashlee and tosses her into the limo, much to the delight of TMZ and much to the surprise of Gary, who’s been busy trying to tune in SportsCenter on the limo’s television. I’m still closing the door as we careen away from the chaos Ashlee created.
“That was awesome!” Ashlee squeals as she sidles up to Ol’ Rat Nasty.
Gurl, we need to talk about your choices.
But instead of capitalizing on his predicament and turning this moment into the beginning of an X-rated rap video, Ol’ Rat Nasty says, “Ashlee, I find your behavior appalling and I’m uncomfortable with your persistent advances.”
Beg your pardon, guy who TMZ dubbed the Master of Misogyny?
In the seconds since Ol’ Rat Nasty entered the car, his entire demeanor has changed. An imperceptible but crucial shift occurs. Gone is the hip-hop swagger, replaced by an icy calm and competence. In the blink of an eye, he morphs from the dude your parents warned you about to the man who brokered the merger between Bank of America and Merrill Lynch.
He brushes dust and groupie glitter off himself, then adjusts his pants so he can properly cross his legs. He says, “Ashlee, my dear, I urge you to channel the energy and creativity you devote to attempting to seduce me via social media into something more productive. Perhaps you could work with children or take a pottery course? You could change lives, or, at the very least, you’d create an interesting bit of crockery in which to store your keys.”
This from the performer who nightly closes his show with the lyrics “Punch the ho in the pussy / Punch the ho in the pussy / Don’t be a [f-bomb] wussy, [horrible, terrible, deeply offensive racial slur that I hesitate to even acknowledge exists, except that it’s part of the song so I feel I have little choice] / Punch her in the pussy”?
“Your interest is not reciprocated, am I making myself clear?”
Numbly, Ashlee nods. I glance over at Gary to see if he’s filming all of this, but he’s completely immersed in watching the wind take the cocktail napkins he’s tossing out the sunroof.
“Look, Dr. Reagan!” he exclaims. “Floaties!”
Nasty pats Ashlee’s knee in a fatherly manner. “I’m not well versed in what brought you to this point in your life, but I recognize your behavior as unhealthy and self-destructive. I implore you to seek help.”
“I’m getting help!” she whines before attempting to somehow make me responsible for today’s debacle. “That’s my shrink right there!”
He turns a gimlet eye on me. “You willingly participated in these shenanigans? I’m sorry, which of the APA guidelines are you following right now? Because I’m curious.”
I give him the nutshell version of Ashlee’s participation in Push and the new format of the show, and his attitude changes.
“I thought I recognized you!” he replies. “Hey, aren’t you a Pepperdine alum?”
“Yes! Go Waves!” Even though I didn’t follow sports, I feel like this is the appropriate thing to say.
“I almost did my MBA there!”
“What’s a Pepperdine?” Ashlee asks, clearly distressed at having been excluded from the conversation.
He gives me a sidelong glance. “It’s where they used to hold the Battle of the Network Stars.”
“Totes cool!”
“Let me ask you something, Dr. Bishop,” the increasingly inappropriately named Ol’ Rat Nasty asks. “How does anyone expect you to resolve problems rooted in choices in an afternoon? Patients need time to implement behavior modification. The onus is on them to learn how to respond to triggers, rather than react. You’re not a witch doctor! You can’t give your patients a magic potion and make their behaviors go away! I’m so disenchanted with Wendy for allowing this to happen. The next time she and I are in Southampton together, I’ll definitely share my disappointment.”
I reply, “You’re rapping to the choir here.”
As we drive around waiting for the crowd in front of the Peninsula to disperse, Nasty asks for a quick architecture tour. He’s particularly smitten with the Mies van der Rohe buildings. “I adore his use of nonhierarchical wall enclosures,” he sighs.
We make a loop past the hotel and see there’s still a bit of a presence there, so we end up circling the Viagra Triangle, thusly named for the drug of choice of the gentlemen who frequent the area on the weekend. Were it a Saturday night, this whole area north of the Magnificent Mile would be full of hair-plugged men, driving convertibles through their midlife crises, looking to hook up with the plentiful twentysomething women angling to quit their day jobs and become trophy wives. But as it’s midafternoon, the streets are empty, save for a few Jamaican nannies and their young charges.
When Sebastian and I met, he was living in an apartment down here right behind Hugo’s Frog Bar. I convinced him he’d be far better off in Lincoln Park, so when it came time to buy, I helped him find a wonderful condo with a lake view in walking distance from my place. Despite things being on and off between us right now, I’m so glad he’s away from here. This place is a spawning ground for bad decisions. I don’t even like driving on this block,
so I instruct the chauffeur to head south.
That reminds me to check my texts.
Nada.
I wonder if he’s in a meeting. He sure wasn’t in a meeting last night!
(I mean we had sex, if that wasn’t clear enough.)
As we pass the Peninsula again, we note that save for the TMZ crew, it’s business as usual, and Ol’ Rat Nasty decides it’s time to say good-bye.
With a glance at the sullen bald girl, he tells me, “You have a Sisyphean task ahead of you, and I wish you all the best.”
I shake his hand, unsure if he means with Ashlee or the show in general. I’m not sure I desire clarification. “It was a pleasure to meet you, and I’m sorry for the circumstances.”
“Godspeed, Dr. Bishop. Pleasure to meet you, Gary. And, Ashlee? The Sinead look doesn’t work for you.” Gary, who has since nodded off, wakes long enough to give him a mock salute.
As we pull up to the curb, Ashlee asks him, “Are we really not going to bone?”
He kisses her on the cheek and replies, “Not in this lifetime, my dear.” Then he takes Ashlee’s underwear out of his pocket and hands them back to her. “These belong to you. My advice is you put them on and leave them on.” Then, almost sheepishly, he adds, “I hope you all can forgive me for what happens next, but I have an empire to protect. There’s a reason it’s not called NiceWater.”
When he exits the car, he seamlessly shifts right back into his public persona, strutting up to the guys from TMZ. “Y’all see that shiz? That was wack. I’mma tell you all about it!”
I actually enjoyed connecting with the Clarence behind Ol’ Rat Nasty, yet despite my appreciation for his rationale, I can’t help but resent how he just threw me, my guest, and my show directly under the bus.
CHAPTER NINE
Blast from the Past
“The network feels I should fire you, Peace Corps.”
Twisted Sisters Page 10