Excuse Me for Living

by Ric Klass

  “Please, Coco, call me Mother now,” Dolores says sweetly, hoping for the décor subject to die a natural death.

  Coco waits for her mother’s forthcoming approving nod. “OK. Mom.”

  Now for lunch. Dolores prays for carry-out. She’s heard many times from Harriet about Coco’s financial acumen – big deal B-School credentials – but she knows for a fact that the daughter wouldn’t know how to find the Topler kitchen if it weren’t for late-night snacks rummaged cold from the fridge.

  The four sit down at the oval Lucite dining room table. Each mother feels confident it’s not her child that bears the responsibility for this furniture abomination.

  “How charming,” Harriet says. “We can all see each other’s feet.”

  The two invited ladies hold their noses and manage to politely swallow a few sips of Coco’s homemade cold rhubarb soup – a palette cleanser, they’re told. They’re very reasonably terrified of what might come next.

  “Turnips béchamel, anyone?” Coco asks, ladling heaping mounds of white-atop-white mush into blue-porcelain Japanese bento bowls.

  “Did you make this yourself, sweetie?” the future mother-in-law not-so-innocently inquires. She wants to know the answer before exposing herself to any further possibility of botulism.

  “I made it, Mom,” Ronald proudly announces to the alarm of both mothers. “Coco and I take cooking classes together at night now. It’s the main course. French.”

  “Why of course it’s French, Ronald. Béchamel just wouldn’t be béchamel without it being française,” Harriet says, hoping Dolores catches her drift.

  Dolores does.

  “What I think Harriet means is that you know how women are, Ronald,” his mother says, knowing full well her ignoramus son knows nothing of the kind whatsoever. “We’re always dieting. French foods are so fattening.”

  “Not a problem. I substituted canola oil for butter and soy milk for cream, so there’s nothing to worry about, ladies. Dig in.” Ronnie evokes a response from the matrons that nearly allows the engaged couple to see what palette cleansers look like when not fully digested.

  The two captives take tiny tastes and then must be going. Their very lives at stake, the women make a common socialite’s excuse for rushing off so soon – a spa appointment. By this time, Harriet and Dolores have each privately come to the same agreeable conclusion. Her child deserves better, but at least he/she’s marrying into a respectable, solvent family.

  Diversity Is Not Optional,

  it is what we must be, reflects Bhadra Raj in the Goldman Sachs conference room Monday evening. The firm’s business principle #13 sounds great, but not many Indian women before me have chaired such an important meeting for a Midas-sized merger.

  GS wined and dined her on two continents as only it can to leave her HITEC City engineering consultancy job in Hyderabad and join the world’s capital of capitalism. But until now she feels her talents have been grossly underused. Despite recent feminist gains there, she left her homeland mostly to renounce the sexism prevalent in Indian employment. Lately she’s begun to wonder if it’s all that different here in the States. But this meeting’s her chance. If this conference proves successful, Ms. Raj knows there’s no limit to how high her star can rise at GS. She wasn’t born a dalit – an untouchable – at the very bottom of the Hindu social barrel. Still, not bad for a thirty-two-year-old, lower-caste chick from New Delhi to run with the big dogs at the world’s financial summit.

  To Mason Rextal’s dismay, after the last such meeting Davian Corbeille instructed that the lead on the G.S. Davison deal switch from his hands to Bhadra’s. This time Rextal couldn’t charm his way to success by hosting the client with a few rounds of golf at the site of many a PGA tournament – the exclusive Westchester Country Club. After the previous debacle, the GS worldwide head of structured finance told him flat out, “You can’t cut the mustard.” Davian restrained himself from pointing out that Mason did however loudly cut the cheese in the last meeting with the heiress on his post-haste exit to the men’s room.

  The receptionist announces over the speakerphone that Charlotte Davison’s on her way in. Bhadra watches with amusement as the male investment bankers brace themselves for the onslaught.

  “Hi, Charlotte. Beautiful bag,” Bhadra notes, complimenting the new Givenchy, wrinkled-leather Nightingale on the client’s shoulder.

  “Thanks, Bhadra. Later I’ll tell you where I got it on sale,” Charlie cordially replies.

  It’s all Bhadra can do to keep from laughing, seeing the other investment bankers turn leprechaun-green-with-envy from the men-not-invited encounter. Davian keeps his counsel. Any comment from him on the female topic could kill the merger and possibly land him in the hospital with this black-belt hellion.

  “Fat Chung ran the numbers, and we have Aramark’s approval for bumping the price one hundred million,” Bhadra tells Charlie.

  “I suppose I should take it,” Charlie says nonchalantly in her best negotiating stance.

  Sighs of relief all around. Sugarplum Maseratis dance in Malcolm Bennett’s noodle. At last I’ll get my wife off my neck about that Mediterranean island, thinks Davian.

  “But. . . . ” says Charlotte. Panic sets in again. “. . . I have one more condition that I think the buyer will agree to.”

  “Looks Like Pornography

  to me,” Dolores tells her best friend. Since the two women were already in the city to visit the children, she had her arm twisted to accompany Harriet to one of those evening Gallery Talks at the Metropolitan Museum of Art – a tony soirée carrot for President’s Circle patrons. As far as Dolores is concerned, a twenty-thousand-dollar contribution seems like a lot of dough for a special tour of naked statues. The one being described by the guide, a sculpture of an Indian couple dressed in those funny costumes, does exhibit a new way to copulate, Dolores considers. I hope Coco doesn’t bring Ronnie here, she thinks fleetingly and then shoos the disgusting thought away. At least guests attend free. And I’m finally going to meet the mysterious art professor tonight.

  “How can you say that, Dolores? This is art!” Harriet replies in alarm. She hopes the guide didn’t overhear the remark. He did but pretends he didn’t. By tacit custom, after talks at the Met, Harriet visits Florenz at his apartment downtown. Now that she’s proceeding with a divorce, something might just happen between them. Perhaps the sparks will finally start to fly. She wants to introduce Dolly and get her estimation of the man. A second opinion never hurts.

  “Aren’t we supposed to be at Professor Castillia’s place soon?” Dolores asks. She’s had enough of the tantric art displays. Now, if it had been a Broadway musical – that’s another matter. Harriet couldn’t drag her away.

  “I suppose so,” Harriet replies, and they slip away from the resplendent group – mostly wives of investment bankers and Manhattan real estate developers. She’s excited anyway to show off Florenz’s exquisitely-decorated residence to Dolores. He won’t care if I’m a tad early. Perhaps I should have mentioned I’m bringing a friend?

  “What a Damned Bother,”

  Florenz mumbles to Billy. “For the umpteenth time I have to pack my gorgeous original paintings in the closet and hide my statue. Screw it! Let her see my little faun and lovely pictures. It’s too heavy to drag around, and she won’t notice it anyway with a girl in my lap. Where the hell’s this thespian anyway? She’s late and we need to practice our lines.”

  Florenz begins, “Oh my goodness gracious, Harriet! Is tonight Monday? You’ve caught me in the arms of my lover.” Ugh. A few moments of silence, then Florenz nudges Billy.

  “Huh? Oh yeah. Oh my darling Florenz,” Billy says in falsetto. “Who is this woman? Please don’t ever leave me.”

  “Mary . . . . Florenz interrupts himself. “It never hurts to toss in some religious connotations, Billy,” then continues, “is having our baby, Harriet. I hope this won’t diminish your contribution to the Columbia University’s Art Department Fund-Raising Campaign.�
�� Florenz pushes Billy off the couch.

  Billy stands and delivers Harriet’s hoped-for lines in a deeper falsetto, “I understand, Florenz. I only pray that you’ll both be happy together. I’m going to give an extra one million dollars to the art department chair if you’ll name the baby after me. Harriet, if a girl. Harry, if a boy.” Now himself, “How was that, Prof?”

  “Just great. You could be another Theda Bara in drag.”

  “Who’s he?”

  Professor Castillia stands still for a moment after this fantasy and congratulates himself on a job well done. “Brilliant, even if I say so myself. This actress should be here any time. Better get going, handsome.”

  But when the art grad leaves, Florenz has second thoughts. What if Harriet feels slighted that I’m with some pubescent young chickie? She could get insulted that she’s not attractive enough for me. Not young enough. Not young enough? Oh dear lord! That’s the ultimate insult for these women. Not young anymore. That’ll be the end of the Topler Chair For the Arts, that’s for Goddamned sure. Man oh Man Ray, what the hell was I thinking?

  Florenz has only started to replace his erotic paintings with Daumier political cartoon reproductions when he stops dead in his tracks. Got to call Pirot and cancel this fiasco. Before he reaches the phone, the doorbell rings.

  “Tonight’s the Night,”

  Butterworth told him earlier in the day. “Whenever Harriet goes to the special tours at the Met, she always goes to his apartment afterward.” Against Mr. Norman’s strong warnings, Albert’s on his way with the private investigator to see for himself. Butterworth will jimmy open the door. Then take pictures. They’ll both be gone in a flash.

  Albert begins to regret his decision as he parks his car in a lot and they get out. It will hurt like the devil to see my bride in someone else’s arms. At least I’m getting an evening rate for the parking. As they approach the address from a block away, neither of the men notices the two women entering the building ahead of them.

  Maybe She’ll Go Away

  if I don’t answer the door, Florenz hopes.

  Tapping her foot impatiently, Carrie Blade waits outside Castillia’s apartment. She’s arrived with all the necessary equipment for the assignment. If I can get out of here in about an hour-and-a-half, I might still make it to Bloomie’s before they close. They gave her a rain check in the SoHo store for the sale on that cute Coach Hobo handbag she stole for only a hundred and fourteen bucks. It’s in.

  Florenz squints through the peephole. Damn. Maybe I’ll pretend I’m not home. Several thunderous knocks later and he opens the door a smidgen. “Are you trying to raise the dead, for Christ’s sake? I’ve got neighbors. . . .” he starts to complain as Ms. Blade pushes her way in and starts the festivities in motion. She craves that bag. And she’s getting it tonight. even if she has to whip him unconscious to do it.

  “Just relax,” she tells him and pushes flustered Florenz onto the sofa. Lots of S&M customers like to pretend that they’re victims of assault. A real turn-on for some.

  “Pardon me, Madam, but there’s been a mistake.” His eyes gape open at her leather accoutrements. His gender predilections notwithstanding, the art professor’s an altogether conservative man. “You don’t understand. I vote Republican. You see, I was just in the process of calling Mr. Pirot when. . . .” But that’s all Florenz will say for some time tonight – muffled bleating withstanding.

  The athletic Carrie Blade quickly ball-gags the chairman of the art department and handcuffs his arms to his legs. As she slowly cuts his clothes off the way Pirot taught her, Karen considers that he’s wearing some nice duds. Most customers buy cheap suits or sometimes a kangaroo costume. Now that he’s naked and bent over, she sprays him with a couple of shots of cheap perfume. It’s for both of them.

  “You’ve been a bad boy, haven’t you, Florence?” the lissome gentleman’s club dancer asks as she removes her dress to reveal a black lace bodice. He’s not the first john to use a woman’s name for one of these gigs. She slips on a ruby-red mask and menacing stiletto heels – purchased very reasonably at La La Lingerie dot com. Carrie turns up the ’70s disco music volume on the CD player she unpacked – some neighbors get upset to hear a solid hour of moaning next door. Then takes out the soft velveteen cat o’ nine tails that hurts, but not so much that the man won’t tip generously. And she gets to work.

  “I had no idea that Florenz likes that sort of music,” cringes Harriet. Her best friend grimaces with a condescending, uplifted brow. They stand outside Dr. Castillia’s door and can hear the obnoxious beat inside – certainly not Stephen Sondheim tunes, Dolores thinks with disdain. Harriet’s been knocking on the door for two minutes. She’s impatient to finally show off her traveling cohort to Dolores. Mrs. Topler turns the doorknob. Unfortunately for Florenz, he didn’t lock the door behind him when Ms. Blade shoved her way in. The ladies enter.

  “I’m going to break him in two,” Albert shouts and, amazingly to Butterworth at his side, breaks into a fast trot down the hall leading to Florenz’s ornate apartment. The jealous husband recognizes his wife’s voice and she’s shrieking, “Oh my God, no!”

  Mr. Norman tries to catch up with his portly client. He’s seen Albert’s surprisingly tough-guy side and considers the possibility that the art professor could end up with a broken nose or worse. But there’s another woman’s loud voice, too. And she’s laughing deliriously, both men note just as they push their way inside the professor’s magnificently appointed co-op, thereby accidentally breaking into smithereens a nude goat boy statue.

  “Zealous Advocacy

  can’t be all bad,” senior partner Evan Roth whispers to the firm’s founder, Raoul Bleeder. “It made us rich,” making them both chuckle.

  “Yeah, warring divorce litigation might burn down our clients’ houses, but it sure as hell built ours,” Raoul answers.

  “Shush,” Charlotte tells the guffawing bad boys.

  The two men create a small stir in the mediation proceedings Charlotte Davison conducts this Tuesday afternoon. They have decided to sit in on the discussion between Albert and Harriet Topler to see if they were wrong to permit their firm’s foray into reasonable, mature discussions between husband and wife.To the litigious warriors, peaceful negotiations instinctively seem like a rotten idea – not nearly as much fun, and worse – possibly a hit to the law firm’s bottom line. Still, the parties today agreed to waive the right to get their retainers back if there’s an immediate settlement.

  Charlotte officially starts the meeting. “Mrs. Topler, your husband cooperated fully and gave what appears to be a full reporting of his assets not in joint accounts with you. He also supplied us with his full beneficial interest in Universal Recycling, excluding what the two of you have already carved out for your children.”

  Charlotte and the two partners notice Albert and Harriet smiling at each other – nothing less than an extraordinary encounter, considering that there’s another woman involved in the break-up. Extramarital dalliances almost always cause inconsolable anger for one party or the other.

  “How about his funds in the Cayman Islands?” Harriet asks.

  How the hell did she know about them? Albert wonders, withering under Harriet’s self-satisfied smile.

  Hiding assets from wives in tax havens always proves irritating if discovered, Raoul thinks. But disclosing them can cause the IRS to come down on both parties with leaden feet. He repeats the LLC’s private motto to himself: It’s good to be the attorney – not the litigant.

  “They’re right here on paper,” Charlie says to everybody’s surprise but Al’s.

  He wants to stick his tongue out at his wife but doesn’t.

  “Was there any ownership of any kind indicated in the company holdings or other of Albert’s assets belonging to a Miss Elaine Bushkin?”

  “Harriet, I thought we weren’t going to bring her up?” Albert says defensively to his wife.

  So much for this mediation baloney, thinks Evan.r />
  Not bring up the other woman? Raoul says under his breath. Who does he think he’s kidding?

  “There is no evidence whatsoever of any such ownership,” Charlotte replies to Albert’s I-told-you-so look and a noncommittal expression from Harriet. “And no evidence of cash transfers, either. Albert’s prepared to give you fifty percent of everything he owns and not ask for half of any of your individually-owned assets, Mrs. Topler. He told me he owes it to his lifelong wife and companion and the mother of his children.”

  Raoul’s take on the offer: Uh oh! Here come the malpractice lawsuits. He jumps up from his seat. “Now, Ms. Davison. . . . ” but stops in mid-sentence.

  Albert and Harriet also stand up. The Hereford-calf-sized husband almost canters around the mammoth conference table to his wife. The two kiss in a long, amorous embrace that embarrasses the three attorneys. Then – to mystified gawking from the attorneys – the couple says thanks to all and walks out of the room, hubby’s arm around his bride’s waist.

  “God almighty, Charlotte. You sure did one heck of a job,” Raoul tells her with amazement.

  “Since we keep the retainers, on an hourly basis the firm comes out status quo, I suppose,” says Evan.

  Charlotte just smiles knowingly. She’s frankly dumbfounded herself by her clients’ behavior. But she’s savvy enough to take credit for what-the-hell-happened she couldn’t say.

  Two blocks away from the Raoul Bleeder & Associates offices, Harriet slips into Al’s Mercedes close beside her husband. He pulls away toward the Midtown Tunnel and their home on Long Island. They made sure that the lawyers wouldn’t see that they came together to the meeting.

  “Poor Ms. Davison. It seems so important she show her bosses that mediation works,” Harriet told Al before the conference. “We must go to the meeting.” Not mentioned to Albert was that she also fully intended to find out about his previous financial intentions for her and if that hussy had weaseled any money out of him.