A Little Trouble with the Facts

by Nina Siegal

  The evening’s honoree was Jeremiah Sinclair Golden Jr., son of the Vermont senator and founder of TriBeCa’s Odyssey Pictures, the indie film giant known for cinematic milestones such as Under the Milk Sink and Dancing in Moscow. Not yet thirty, People magazine described Golden as “the glamour puss of the cutting-edge art set,” praising his “indefatigable faith in unproven quantities.” Tonight, he was being honored for promoting poetry slams in the former Soviet bloc.

  I figured he would arrive trailed by baby bluebloods. But as the guests filtered in, I saw most were probably pulling Social Security. Not that any of them needed a government assist. A single mink stole offered to the coat check could’ve supported poetry slams worldwide for as long as slams stayed hip. I popped mini crab cakes and washed them down with champagne. I walked out onto the patio with my flute and waited for a debonair millionaire to sidle up behind me and wrap me in a mink.

  But instead, I shivered until a young man in a tux politely rang a dinner bell and called us all inside. The speeches were to begin immediately. I was tipsy by the time Jeremiah Golden walked up to the mike, and maybe lightheaded too, because I almost fell off my seat. He was the very portrait of polite East Coast society, straight from the dog-eared pages of my ancient Vanity Fair. His Savile Row tuxedo wouldn’t have looked any smarter on John-John. His black curls flounced. Yes, flounced. In place of a bow tie, he wore a yellow silk cravat, tucked into his black vest, with a matching display hankie. I guessed he wore Alfred Dunhill cufflinks and carried a compendium case. Forget the silver spoon; he was born with a whole table setting in his mouth.

  I tried to listen. Really, I did. But I caught only a few phrases: “I couldn’t string together two words of prose, let alone improvise a revolutionary sonnet like these young people I met…” “The real honorees here tonight are the Ukrainian freestyler…” “I’ve always believed in underground movements, and never had the chance to…” My head was too busy with snippets of imagined repartee between us that would, preferably, take place in his Connecticut horse stables before he helped me mount. I heard the laughter of the crowd, punctuating the cadences of his thank-you speech, and I heard the thunderous clapping when he was through.

  “Think globally, slam locally,” he said, returning to take another bow before the mike, a fist in the air, making a power-to-the-people gesture, though it read more like, “Go get ’em champ.” He returned to his seat at Table 1, and I immediately began scheming for ways to position myself in the empty chair beside him.

  But then I remembered Bernie. I was supposed to be collecting string. I hadn’t gotten a single inch yet, not even the color of the room. We were between courses, so I took my notepad out of my purse and clutched my pen. I was standing on a gold mountain of gossip. All I had to do was mine. But how would I recognize any of the people I was supposed to be skewering? I didn’t know a single face, and even if I asked for names, they wouldn’t ring bells. These were all New York City insiders, after all, bigwigs with private bank accounts, not the kind of celebs appearing on Entertainment Tonight. Well, I thought, how hard can it be? I’m an attractive young woman in a spiffy dress. I hoisted my train and edged into a circle of gents. Their conversation stopped short and they all looked from my pen to my face and back again.

  “Pardon me,” I said. “My name is Sunburst and I don’t know a thing about poetry slams. Can someone clue me in?”

  “Starburst, you say?” said one of the gents. “As in fruit chew?”

  The circle erupted in laughter.

  “No, actually…”

  “Do you come in assorted flvors?” More laughter.

  “Why, I believe I’m your distributor!” said another gent, touching his watch chain. “We hold M&M/Mars.” Guffaws from the group as I backed away.

  After a while, the dinner bell rang. I took my seat at Table 13, still clutching my blank notepad. About halfway through supper, the gold-dipped septuagenarian at my elbow asked me to pass her a roll. I picked through the assortment and said, “Ooh, they have cinnamon raisin. Those are my favorite. My mother showed me how to make cinnamon raisin rolls and…” The septuagenarian smiled at me with her penciled-in lips, said, “That’s very nice dear,” and turned back to the Rolex at her right.

  After a couple of hours listening to silverware tap fine china, I heard crunching crinoline as the gents led their ladies away. I stood at the edge of the gilded railing on the second tier and gazed at the mezzanine. I’d failed to get any items or any contacts. I hadn’t managed a single round of witty quippery.

  My celluloid fantasy was revived, though, because just then, Jeremiah burst back through the front doors and ran up the stairs. I wondered if I was imagining things, but he said, “I need to use the loo. Would you mind very much watching the door?” On his way out a few minutes later, he stopped. “This is no place for a beautiful woman in a scandalous gown,” he announced. “Unless you’re staying for the Carmen matinee, I could give you a ride anywhere you need to go.”

  Anywhere. It was a big offer for a girl fresh off the farm. I had nowhere to go except home to my redheaded roommate in her Peanuts Gang socks. I was all dressed up with nothing to show for it. Anywhere sounded like the place to be. I lowered my chin and said in my best Audrey Hepburn, “Yes, please.”

  If I’d been wise, I’d have made to the nearest pay phone and called an item in to Bernie: “Jeremiah Sinclair Golden Jr. seen making a trip to the WC and coming back glassy-eyed.” If I’d been smart, I’d have said, “What would a man like you want with a wildflower like me?” But after his “anywhere,” the room filled again with glitter, and all I could see was starlight.

  “Where to?” he said, holding open the door of his stretch Lincoln Town Car at the edge of the grand plaza, as the fountain’s waters glowed in triumphant arcs behind him. I looked around for Billy Wilder, to see if his ghost was directing the scene. I searched for Samuel Taylor, his scriptwriter, because I didn’t know my lines. What would Audrey say? I told him the address of my tenement on East Fifth Street and he repeated it to his driver, adding, “Take the long way through the park,” just like William Holden. He didn’t need any prompting. Then he closed the glass partition with his remote.

  It was one of those flawless New York City nights in the early blush of spring. The scent of lilacs drifted in through the cracked window. I leaned back on the soft leather bench and imagined the landscape montage that George Cukor would insert into this scene. We’d see the whole Central Park, from glorious glimmering Broadway down to the Plaza Hotel. The camera would pan out past the tinted glass of the limo, as I rolled down the window to smell the early blossoms. We’d see deer and elk frolic with foxes; see night shadows form on the Loeb Boathouse, near where—later in the movie—Jeremiah and I would have our first kiss in a rowboat. Swans would float in a moonlight-reflecting lake.

  “You must be new to the city. I’ve never seen you before,” said Jeremiah.

  I opened my eyes. “There are eight million people in this city. You couldn’t possibly have met everyone.”

  “But if I’d met you, I would’ve remembered.”

  My cheeks grew hot. “It’s true. I just moved here.”

  “You see? I was right. You’re new. The new new thing.”

  It felt like a kind of anointment. Then the old movies turned Blake Edwards–Technicolor. Jeremiah’s limo pulled to a stop in front of Tiffany, where Holly Golightly took her breakfast. The light changed and the car continued down Fifth Avenue, and the whole glinting panorama came to life. The gold-plated shops were like so many old friends from my magazines: Bergdorf and Trump Tower, Gucci and Brooks Brothers, Cartier and Saks. We drove through the Disney glow of Times Square—I saw Carolines and the Walter Kerr, TKTS and MTV—and past the Fashion District all the way down to the East Village.”

  Jeremiah’s leg was leaning against mine as we sat in the limo in front of my East Fifth tenement, and this was all the encouragement I needed to sit still and wait. The car idled and the driver
’s stereo played something jazzy and low. “Are you a fan of stuffed cabbage?” he asked. “I didn’t even touch my poached salmon.”

  The car dropped us at Veselka on Second Avenue, a well-lit diner that specialized in kielbasa and cold borscht. The train of my gown draped into the aisle, tripping the Polish waitress. I was leaning on one fist, gazing into the black puddles of Jeremiah’s eyes as he regaled me with stories of the film world, the art world, the poetry slammers, and the “sad, terrible struggles that artists face to get any recognition for their crafts.” He talked a one-man symphony, conducting with his fork. I poked my blintz and memorized each note.

  At 1:30, when our plates were lifted away, he mentioned martinis. I confessed I’d never tasted one. Minutes later, we were standing in front of a nondescript door in a darkened alley getting appraised by an electronic eyeball. The door swung open to admit us into a tiny room with a glittering wall of spirits. It was a drinking establishment all right. But the bartender, a Teddy boy in an Edwardian zoot suit, had vetted all the guests.

  Teddy cleared a spot for us at the bar and Jeremiah helped me up onto a stool. He ordered us a round of dirty martinis. I asked him what made them dirty, and he said, “The person you’re with,” placing a hand on my knee.

  I said, “Maybe you’ve got the wrong idea about me.” But I didn’t move my knee.

  He said, “I’ve got a few ideas about you.”

  I said, “We’ll have to start from the first idea and work our way down the list.”

  His first guess: “I bet in a few weeks you won’t even remember the girl you are today, the girl in front of me in this cotton-candy dress, these pink pumps, the big eyes, hungry for a taste of everything. You’ll be amazed to find that you’re a creature of the city, through and through.”

  My naïveté was like so many buttons on a flimsy silk blouse. He’d undone them and I felt exposed. “I certainly hope that’s true,” I said.

  He drained his martini glass. “Careful what you wish for.”

  The bar was a music box. It wound up each time a new group of sanctioned visitors waltzed through the velvet curtain. A guy in a smoking jacket told Jeremiah he’d loved the latest Odyssey release, Chance Meeting at Midnight. Jeremiah answered that he wished he could take the credit, but the real geniuses were the grips.

  “Everyone said I was a born candidate, like my dad,” he confided once his admirers dispersed. “But I’m really a very private person. Still, I needed to prove I was good for something.”

  “I’m sure you’re good for plenty of things,” I said, leaning closer.

  He moved closer too. “To me, you see, the arts are a more powerful tool. An intimate tool.” He moved his hand farther up my thigh. “A work of art can change everything, so I support groundbreaking artists. I buy their work; I encourage them. I give them the impetus to keep working. I can be very hands-on.”

  He certainly was hands-on. His hands were all over the place.

  I’d known my share of commune boys out west. I’d dated at Reed, young men with carefully disheveled hair who were eager to quote Kristeva. But I’d never been this close to a man who was so willing to play the part. Jeremiah didn’t apologize for having money; he flashed it. He didn’t play down his connections; he dropped names like a barman drops ice into a glass. And he wasn’t afraid to be forward. His hand sneaked unrepentantly from my knee to my thigh and I didn’t move to swat it.

  Just before dawn, when his Town Car was back on East Fifth Street, my battered tenement already seemed like a relic of the salad days that would be over soon enough. In three or four days, it would be all sorted out. I’d have that Vanity Fair job, thanks to a few calls from Jeremiah to the right people, and I’d phone my mother from under the plush duvet in his penthouse flat to tell her I was permanently engaged back east.

  Jeremiah leaned in to kiss me, right on cue. And then he backed me up against the limo. “Wow,” I said. “What a wonderful night. I can’t wait to see you again.”

  “Mmmmm,” he said, and pushed at the side of my gown.

  “I’d better get inside.”

  “Sounds great,” he said.

  I moved to the side, to press him away. Even if things happened fast in the movies, the first kiss always ended with a polite hat tipping at the door, a happy skip in his step as the leading man backed away. But Jeremiah wasn’t budging.

  “Can I make you dinner next week? I’m a very good cook, and I…”

  Now he stumbled back. He wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist. “No, no, not possible.”

  “Not possible?”

  “I’m not going to meet your mom, okay?”

  “Of course not, silly; she’s in Oregon,” I said. “I mean, if she visited—”

  He leaned against his limo and shook his head slowly. “You seem like a very nice girl, and we’ve had a good time tonight. But, uh, this”—his arm swept the air, to indicate, well, everything—“this doesn’t mean we’re dating, okay?”

  “But what about…?” I was about to say it, to articulate my celluloid dream, as if he’d been in on it with me all along.

  Jeremiah touched my face, placing two fingers under my chin. “Don’t you read the papers, princess? I’m engaged to an Astor.”

  “You’re engaged to an…” It took a minute to sink in. “I didn’t know…. I thought…”

  “Yeah. I know you thought. Funny. Girls and their ideas. Oh well.” He hopped back into the limo and gave me a halfhearted wave. Then the car door shut with a decisive thud. I stood there for a long time, until I saw the sun coming up over Avenue C, like an egg over hard.

  I have to hand it to Jeremiah. He taught me one essential lesson: never skip the tabloids.

  After that, the city became my teacher, and she was a strict schoolmarm. She didn’t like innocents and was suspicious of charmers. The city wasn’t teeming with Larrabees, only colorful cads who’d twirl a girl at midnight and disappear by dawn. She was quick with a ruler when she saw me falling into George Cukor daydreams, and she taught me that success didn’t fall out of the sky like pollen in springtime; it was won by hardscrabble sweat.

  My schoolmarm’s daily pop quiz asked one question, and one question only: Who’s on top?

  Who’s on top? I didn’t have the answer. I didn’t even know where to begin. To find it, I tried loitering near the jockeys at the “21” Club and lingering near the Picasso stage curtain at the Four Seasons Grill Room. I idled in the velvet chairs at the Algonquin, sipping Earl Gray, watching for signs of a new Dorothy Parker salon. But my hours in these haunts were long and futile, as they were only living shrines to ghosts of cachet.

  At the New York Public Library, behind the great lions, I began my research. I found clippings about the city’s oldest families and the rise of the nouveau riche. I jotted notes from Forbes and Fortune, Us and W, Interview and Details. Between admin duties at Gotham’s Gate, I searched the Internet for Mormon-style genealogies of Manhattan family trees. I tacked a map to my wall and marked off notable natives and recent arrivistes. I connected dots, and I followed my own routes, until I could’ve led a Hollywood-style Starline tour.

  And then I did the tour. I pressed my nose to the glass at Pravda and Pastis, observing how the clientele swirled their $100 reds. Skulking around Gramercy Park, I took notes on where and how to walk a well-groomed pet. With my snoop’s pad and pen, I lurked behind mailboxes and streetlamps, scuttled under canopies, and raised the suspicions of a thousand doormen, just to figure out who could be who.

  Whenever I had a free minute from my admin duties at the magazine, I badgered Bernie Wabash for legwork on his column. Despite my coming up zilch at the gala, he gave me another shot and made me a sometime stringer. When I did well, he printed my tidbits. “Inside Line” under Bernie wasn’t true gossip, but rather a stargazer travelogue of celebrity spa treatments, club sightings, and sunbathing shots on million-dollar cruises. So while I worked with Bernie, I took notes on how the column could be improved. I had
a plan brewing: once I had enough ideas about remaking “Inside Line,” I’d find a way to sell the idea to an even glossier mag.

  It wasn’t just career ambition that kept my fire fed. I also had a secret plan—to find my family, my father’s family, and to secure my spot in my own blue-blooded lineage. If I could find them, I wouldn’t be on the outside looking in anymore. I’d be more like My Man Godfrey, the society escapee who returned in the form of a butler and taught his society peers to see how the other half lived. Well, more like him, anyway.

  But even with my private study, I still got it wrong. My schoolmarm asked me, Who’s on top? And I didn’t know. Because all I had were charts and maps and facts and lists. I was nowhere near the door.

  Until one day—the day Bernie Wabash keeled over at his desk while he was eating a fistful of fries. Zip Winkle called me into his office and told me the news, saying he didn’t have anyone else to replace Bernie, so until he could find someone permanent, I would need to keep the column afloat. Before he handed over the keys to Bernie’s office, he said, “Trouble is, we can’t have any Sunburst Rhapsody anything as a byline for a gossip column. You need to change that. Think of a name that will look swell in print.”

  I stayed up all night, pacing, trying to come up with something that would make Zip make me Bernie for good, and not search for another replacement. My plan: to scrap “Inside Line” and rename the column “Inside and Out.” Instead of paparazzi shots on the Law and Order set or pillow talk from the masseurs at Bliss, I would dish out “power gossip.” Who was an insider and who was still pressing against the glass? Who was getting a raise and who was getting the boot? I wanted to make and break Manhattan. I spent the wee hours jotting ideas for my new name. I wanted it to have the ring of an old-time starlet, to honor my father; it had to feel quick on the tongue. But mostly, it needed to be the kind of name that would make anyone famous in a day.