I searched for a place to put the teacup sculpture down. In that split second, she found her way back on to my side of the couch, where she sat in lotus position next to me. I repositioned myself a bit so that I could face her as we spoke. Balancing the tea, her closeness and the ultra-fluffy couch beneath me was not easy. In fact, as I moved my crossed legs to make room for her, I knocked over the only object on the large glass coffee table in front of us. It was a coffee table book about Buddha, the four-color companion series volume that went along with the PBS special. Viewers who identified with the life of Buddha could go one step further by purchasing a $100 limited edition coffee table book that showed his life in four-color gatefolds.
“Oh, I am sorry, let me get that.” I fumbled for the book and placed it back on the table.
“Did you watch?” She awaited my answer for a nanosecond, before resuming her monologue.
“The Buddha. Did you watch the Buddha special?”
“No, I missed it. I was working,” I lied. I had a habit of telling people that I was working all the time, which had some truth to it. I tried to project the image of a busy bee to make clients think that I was in demand. I was busy creating my own myth, just like Joseph Campbell, the subject of another PBS miniseries that I had also missed watching.
“It was awesome, he gave up everything, until he was down to one grain of rice per day, that was all.”
As she explained his diet plan, I looked quizzically at the two bags of Whole Foods groceries, whose contents probably would have fed the young Buddha for the rest of his life.
“Was he your motivation to start…” But before I could continue my thought, Grace interrupted.
“Yes, yes, yes…Buddha, Jesus, Krishna, they are all inspirations to me. I have had conversations with all of them. What would Buddha do? What would Krishna do? I realized that I had to start asking more questions in my life, mostly spiritual ones. I was pretty hungry for enlightenment back then. Working with lawyers can do that to you.” She laughed.
I laughed as well and sensed I finally had my moment to speak. Usually when you meet with people who like to speak about themselves, the best thing to do is to continue the conversation centered on them. I liked this idea, because, in my state of mind, I did not want to talk about myself; I found comfort in asking others questions. And I knew that, at the same time, my phone was piling up with ignored texts from Emily. To be in this tranquil environment, knowing the storm of unanswered texts that would soon rain down on me, made me anxious.
But interrupting the flow of Grace’s monologue was proving to be difficult, simply because there were so few conversational breaks. She was like the Energizer Bunny of conversations. She just kept going and going and going and going…
“How did you get started in holistic healing and wellness, exactly?” I managed to squeeze in as she paused to take a breath. This was the story she was dying to tell. And I had the feeling that she had rehearsed this script before.
“I quit my job and saw the light. I worked in ‘the law.’” It was a job change she had made after 12 years in the “corporate blood-sucking division.”
Now it made sense. Her digs were courtesy of her old life, where she billed corporations $500 an hour, not her new life, where she helped wayward dieters get on the right track with high-priced supplements from designer food stores. She went on to tell me that she had left her firm almost by accident, like a divine intervention had taken place. Becoming partner at her firm had taken a toll on her health. The hours, the stress, the bad eating habits were her body’s way of telling her that she needed a change.
One morning in her local coffee shop, she had eyed a New Age publication and picked it up. There she saw an ad for a spa and retreat center in New England. The power of that ad really spoke to her, she told me.
“I knew the hand of something larger was at play in my life,” she explained and leaned in, just like they do on the Barbara Walters special when the celebrity is just about to cry.
After attending the expensive retreat, she had revamped her diet, her outlook, and her career choice. She reported back to work that following Monday and handed in her resignation. That afternoon she signed up for training in her new career as a holistic health counselor and wellness expert, a double major, if you will.
I had heard about this kind of transformation before, where you get so immersed in another experience, like a good vacation, that you think life is meant to be better. I was not convinced that life could be anything like a vacation, especially my life. But Grace did. In just a few short weeks she had her certification through an online course. And had rounded out her new education with some added study at a yoga center in lower Manhattan. She received an additional degree in Thai Yoga Bodywork. With those new certifications under her belt, she hung out her new shingle. She was ready to counsel other unhealthy corporate people who had abused their bodies through too much work.
Grace appeared to be unaware of her wealth. It had come so easily to her that now she wanted to distance herself from it to find deeper meaning in her life. After leaving the law, she started doing pro bono work at a women’s shelter. I couldn’t help but wonder which of her clients was more high-maintenance: a moneyed corporate raider who needed to hide money in the Cayman Islands or a homeless person who needed shoes but would prefer to spend her last dollar on a fifth of Popov vodka instead. Somehow, her first experience gave her the confidence to handle the second experience. Talk about extremes. But sometimes people go there when they are looking for a change. I knew that firsthand.
She sat drinking her spiritual tea as she discussed her working philosophy of nutrition and how she had seen this awesome “TED Talk,” about the globalization of food and how artisanal preparation was going to change the world.
“Did you know that there is a large part of the Iowa corn fields that is being grown just to make high fructose corn syrup? And they put that stuff in everything, even cough syrup for kids…” she explained. “I am just not going to eat that garbage anymore. That is why I decided to become an educator and advocate for this kind of food.” She had now adopted a spokesperson-at-a-dais approach to show me what she was talking about.
“Come over here and try this organic, gluten-free, wheat berry muffin with boysenberries. This is such a better breakfast than what the packaged stuff is.” She waved her hand over the Whole Foods bounty.
“It sure beats a Pop-Tart!” I added enthusiastically.
“This is what Jesus would eat, before there were any preservatives,” she boasted. She paused and waited for me to react. This was her big moment.
I had the feeling that a professional litigator was schooling me. Needless to say, she already had me convinced. But then again, I couldn’t argue because the wheat berries made my mouth so dry I had trouble breaking them down and swallowing them. Mental note: if she needed a name for her company, I thought, “What Would Jesus eat?” would be perfect and kind of Book of Genesis cool.
My practical side was anxious for conversation more practical, maybe looking at a business plan or news release, but she just wanted to talk about odd foods and have me sample the stuff she was mashing up in her very professional-looking juicer. She followed up the backyard tea with lemonade that contained no actual lemons; it was pretty good, actually, although I questioned why she would need to find a better substitute for lemons. At that point, I was questioning so many things that the danger of eating a real lemon was the least of my worries.
But like a good BFH, I was not there to ask questions, but to support, listen, and, in this case, taste and praise. And in turn, I was being paid for my service. Then suddenly she looked at her watch.
“Oh my goodness!” she said. “I am going to be late for my monthly colonic! Can we continue our conversation another time?” I was relieved that she hadn’t asked me to accompany her to the colonic in order to continue our conversation.
&nbs
p; She got up and led me to the door, scooped a check out of her Aztec bowl, and handed it over to me. She gave me a “Jesus” muffin to go, gave me a quick hug and rushed me out the door. I did not have a chance to present an invoice, discuss my rate, or even make sure the check was made out properly. Our session was over. I slowly unfolded the check and was thrilled to see the amount.
I had little time to savor my success before the next emergency had presented itself.
I had missed eleven calls from Emily and the twelfth text had come in just as I turned my phone back on. It read, GET ME THE PEONIES, IT IS ESSENTAL. She, of course, had spelled essential wrong. I left a voice mail for the florist. I had turned into one of those people who ask the same question over and over again, until I got the answer I wanted. And if that weren’t enough, I got a callback for the fundraiser RSVP line letting me know that Cyndi Lauper would not attend, after her publicist had promised that she would. Needless to say this girl was just not having fun at the moment.
When I left Grace’s apartment, I needed to stop by another one of my recent clients, Gary, just to check in. I had met Gary during my publishing days. He used to date Andrea Koslowitz, an editor from Smith & Drake with whom I had briefly worked. The two had been dating for a number of years after she had acquired his book about weapons of mass destruction. I think I met him at the book’s release party at Housing Works, but I couldn’t really be sure.
Gary and Andrea were one of those couples that found love after trying several times with everyone else on the island of Manhattan. Andrea had serial-dated her way through most of her authors, most journalists she had worked with, and the few male producers who were straight in the television industry. Actually, she had also dated a few gay ones, in the hopes that she could turn them. That never worked, for reasons obvious to everyone but Andrea. She had met Gary before he was divorced, and the ink dried on his separation agreement, she already had a strategy in place to snare him. Just a few months later, they were ready to make it official and signed a lease on a new apartment that they would share.
Combining households had proved to be a bit more difficult than they had expected. They needed an objective third party to help them. The move was more complicated, since Gary’s children would be moving into the apartment as well, at least part of the time. Gary shared custody with his recently divorced wife, a child psychologist who opted to stay in Old Lyme, Connecticut, where, until recently, they had lived together. The kids would stay on alternate weekends and holidays, and Gary wanted them each to have their own room so they could feel at home there as well.
At our first meeting, we discussed room placement and choosing a moving company. But the hidden agenda (in my business, there is always a hidden agenda) was what to do with all the things from Gary’s first marriage. He wanted to take as many of his things with him to the new apartment. Andrea was not interested in taking all this furniture of his first marriage into their future world. They fought. They were “in front of people” fighters. I am not really a shy person or unfamiliar with conflict. But the openness in which these two went at it made me uncomfortable. They wanted me to be the referee to their verbal sparring. Take, for instance, the subject of plates.
“These are just plates, pretty nice plates, if you ask me,” Gary argued.
“But I don’t want to use somebody else’s plates,” Andrea pleaded.
“Why buy new plates, these plates are good.”
“They are HERS. And I don’t want HER stuff in MY house.”
“Oh come on, Andy, do you think you’re going to catch something, like a bad attitude off these plates?”
“You never know. I’m already going to be raising her kids on the weekends, why should I also have to do it on her plates?”
“Do you believe this?” Gary looked to me for comfort.
In most arguments, one of the parties involved gets to a breaking point and simply gives in, but not these two stubborn mules. Instead, Gary stormed out and slammed the front door. He then came back in, grabbed the box of plates, and took them with him. Only he didn’t take the plates, he took a different box instead. When he realized this, he came back in one more time and switched boxes, and then slammed the door for the third time. This would have been a good time for them to realize that this was a silly fight.
“I mean, really,” Andrea said. She was one of those people who used those catchy phrases that I describe as conversation fillers. Terms like, “have you ever,” “and there you have it,” and “really, right,” all of which were usually part of larger declarative sentences, but used by Andrea as standalone fragments, begging for approval and acceptance.
And that is how session one ended. Andrea and I stared at each other and wondered what to do to fill in the awkward gap left by one of the parties leaving mid-session.
“Right, so, here we go,” I said in an effort to show support. It was hard to be totally honest with her, but I got the sense that the plates were not the real issue here.
I read in Self magazine that people get frustrated when their needs are not met, so it is important to communicate those needs to others. Then, and only then, do you have a chance for those needs to be met. I explained this philosophy to Andrea as I left her apartment that afternoon. I was not sure if I was giving her the advice or advising myself at the point, since we both could have benefitted from that wise counsel.
Two days later, Gary e-mailed me to set up another meeting. I should have known from his e-mails, which were more “I” focused than “we” focused, that there was a deeper problem here. I arrived at his new apartment and found it nearly empty, save for his bedroom and the two bedrooms for the kids.
“Let’s sit down and talk for a moment,” Gary said. And I said to myself, “Uh-oh.”
I took a seat in his bright empty apartment and settled in for the long story.
“She told me that if I could not let go of the plates, then I was not ready to move on with our life,” he confessed.
And while I thought there was some truth to this, I was skeptical that the plates had anything to do with the underlying problem here.
“I am so sorry, Gary. Do you think there is any way she would come back?”
“No, she said it’s either me or the plates. And I guess I picked the plates.”
With that handy yet cold piece of information, I sat on the couch with Gary, sipped Dunkin’ Donuts coffee and again wondered how in the world I could help him. I was still a friend in training myself. Trying to employ that sage Self magazine advice, I went directly at the target.
“What can I help you with?” I asked. I needed an activity, something to ground me back to work, to productivity. Gary answered that he just needed someone to sit with him and had thought of me.
“You can’t get what you want until you know what you want,” I said authoritatively, not immediately aware of the fact that I had serendipitously quoted one of my favorite Joe Jackson songs from my childhood.
“I did get my yoga instructor to come up for a few hours the other day by bribing her with a smoothie. But I doubt that I could do that again,” he shared, embarrassed that he had revealed that much about himself.
He was lonely. In one year, he had divorced his wife, broken up with his new girlfriend, and moved to a new city where he didn’t know many people. He needed a best friend, even if he had to hire one. So I did what any friend or girlfriend would do—I hung out with him for a typical Saturday. Gary made breakfast, read the paper, and watched a little tennis on television. Eventually, we took a walk to the Fairway and prepared for the visit of his children, who would be staying that weekend. Together, we unpacked some of the things from his old marriage and I convinced him to let go of some of the things that held him back. And he did. Who knows, maybe he would now have more room for Andrea in his life without all those stored memories. I left as the kids arrived, happy that I was able to fill up his alone time.
In between calming down my budding bridezilla and chasing down publicity leads, I hunted down any other possible clients for BFH. I was overcome by my monthly expenses, which I had listed on a spreadsheet, and since my time away from a steady paycheck I had made a significant dent in my savings account. I feared that borrowing money from my parents would give them even more control over my life’s choices. In truth, my parents were not the kind of people who would do that. This was more about my fear of failure. I doubted that my mother or father would want me to go without anything that I needed, but I had too much pride to ask.
In the meantime, I took some small clients to help out on the side. These clients could best be described as people who needed help with the mundane things in life. Late one Saturday night, I came up with a new ad to cater this particular client; I called it the Gal Friday Special. It included an hourly fee for running errands, picking up dry cleaning, shopping, and picking up takeout. Essentially, I offered to do all the stuff that no one feels like doing. I made up a flyer with those tiny little contact tabs at the bottom that you see at bus stops and train stations so that interested clients could pull a little tab of your information off of it on their way through the terminal. That’s how I found my target audience—a woman named Marcy.
Marcy liked all the latest trends, but hated to shop for them. Since I had a car and she did not, she hired me to travel to stores that she could not get to. Mostly, she wanted decorative items for her apartment, like throw pillows, curtains, and kitchen utensils. I would arrive at her apartment on a Monday morning, where she had my shopping binder prepared. It was a classic three-ring binder with plastic sleeves divided by each room of the house. I no longer wondered who the audience was for all those sections in magazines that do a roundup of the new things for each season. Marcy would tinker with the binder throughout the week, shuffling the order of the pages, to make sure she had just the right items. But even with her obsession over the binder selections, she often was unhappy with the items once they were in her hands. So I also had to return unwanted items that she had wanted so decisively the week before.
Best Friend for Hire Page 16