Break in Case of Emergency
Page 4
“Well, let me get you hooked up with the hiring people,” Meg said. “And send me your résumé again—you changed the font on it, right?”
“Yes,” Jen said. Meg felt that the loops on the g’s and q’s on a previous iteration of Jen’s résumé were too large, connoting flightiness, and that the spacing between characters was too ample, connoting standoffishness.
“And wait a second,” Meg said. “You know who the Mrs. Bluff is, right?”
“Um,” Jen said. “She’s on TV?”
Who She Is to You
Leora Infinitas, aka the Mrs. Bluff, the founder of LIFt, was born Leeza Infanzia in Jacksonville, Florida, in 1960, on the same day John F. Kennedy was elected president of the United States. As Ruby Stevens-Meisel—pseudonymous sole proprietor of the gossip and philosophy website DOPENHAUER and her generation’s leading Infinitas scholar—wrote in her magnum opus, “Leora Infinitas Is the Fulcrum of the Universe,” “The fates chose an auspicious day to launch a life that would know both triumph and tragedy. One of the first tragedies—and first opportunities for triumph—was one of nomenclature. Leeza Infanzia was a name both bombastic and belittling—Leeza a bastardized diminutive, and when paired with Infanzia taking on the bathos of a Raphael Madonna-and-child rendered as a refrigerator magnet.”
“I was chubby. I wasn’t cute,” Leora Infinitas once said of her childhood self. “I wasn’t an easy child to love, visually.”
Barely out of her teens, Leeza Infanzia moved to Los Angeles, signing up for acting and dance auditions under her new name, Leora Infinitas. “Her name, its meaning, was now a speech act: I am infinite light,” Stevens-Meisel wrote. “She is beacon and power source; she is an illuminated manuscript. And yet this new text knowingly slant-rhymed with Leeza Infanzia—not leaving Leeza in the dark but rather shining a light through the palimpsest that is Leora Infinitas, paying tribute to the young woman who was not (yet) a mother, who first had to give (re)birth to herself.”
Leora Infinitas got bit roles in procedural television dramas and could be spotted, for three and a half seconds, two dancers behind Lionel Richie in the “All Night Long” video. Her breakthrough role arrived at the end of the 1980s: Trudy Wheeler née Gunderson, the brassy, no-nonsense wife to a nutty inventor and mother to his two sons on the sitcom Father of Invention née Inventing the Wheelers. Trudy spent the next eight years tripping over circuit boards powering cold-fusion experiments conducted on vintage Blue Comet train sets and pratfalling over domino structures that climaxed in the fusion of copper wire and silver nitrate. And each time Trudy found a fleet of white lab mice using her pantry as a buffet spread or that the boys had swapped her shampoo for disappearing ink, at the moment of recognition, she would deliver her catchphrase: “I am out; I am dunzo.”
The genius of Leora Infinitas—or the part of her genius that helped make her a muse for drag performers, but only once Father of Invention had moldered in syndication for years, “only once the wine of Leora had aged,” Stevens-Meisel wrote, “only once the complex chemical equation of Leora had intensified its flavor compounds”—was in her ability to find variation upon variation in those mere seven syllables. “I am out; I am dunzo” could deliver rat-tat-tat staccato frustration. “I am out; I am dunzo” could sound a howl of despair. “I am out; I am dunzo” could be a sigh of exhaustion, or a bleat of coquettish bemusement, or a fond surrender to the ineffable lovability of her three charges, no matter how many times they exploded her oven.
Celebrity-magazine editors and talk-show bookers relished the visual contrast between Trudy-Leora (patterned sweatshirts, high-waisted jeans) and Leora-Leora, who wore lots of red: red lips, red stilettos, diaphanous bias-cut red silk, a biker jacket in artery blast. Over time, the contrast faded. In later seasons of Father of Invention, the viewer may have paused over why Trudy would need five-inch stilettos and a blowout to clean the always-exploding oven. By then Leora had married Brent Simons, the twenty-five-years-older creator of the show and its equally lucrative spinoff Son of a Gunderson, and Leora had borne his two youngest children on a schedule that mapped onto Father of Invention’s summer hiatus. “In all things,” Stevens-Meisel wrote, “Leora had a sense of timing—or like light itself, she transcended time.”
Leora Infinitas, sitcom star, won wacky supporting parts in ensemble comedy films, voice-over roles in video games, her own jewelry and makeup lines. Her divorce from Simons was amicable, save for one spectacular conflagration over a koi pond surrounded by faux-Bernini figures depicting moments of sexual enslavement in Roman mythology, a conflict simultaneously so melodramatic, so inane, and so at odds with its otherwise affable context that Ruby Stevens-Meisel hypothesized that the whole episode was a bit of publicity-enhancing theater ahead of the premiere of her new reality show, Leora’s World, a hypnotic chronicle of her flinty encounters with her staff and/or friends, with her sulky pair of preteen daughters, and with her would-be colleagues in her nascent quest to become a “philanthropy innovator.”
When Leora and Brent Simons split up, the tabloid headlines read DUNZO. When she married Charles Bluff—he of the railroad Bluffs, he of the onetime-third-largest-private-landowners-in-the-northeast–United States Bluffs, he of the impeccable Bluff Foundation Bluffs, to which all other would-be boldface philanthropy innovators aspired—the headlines read DUNZO NO MORE. The chasm of class was a subtext of both the marriage and Leora’s World itself, most noticeably during the second season’s sixth episode, which was built around Leora’s thwarted efforts to corner the septuagenarian financier’s widow, revered art patron, Mayflower and Mitford descendant, and noted shy person Flossie Durbin at a hospital benefit. After filming, representatives of Mrs. Durbin—a trustee of the Bluff Foundation who also happened to blog semiannually about art shows she’d seen and liked—had personally interceded with Charles Bluff to have all references to Mrs. Durbin excised from the final broadcast.
“What this strange and bowdlerized episode tells us,” Stevens-Meisel wrote in one of her exhaustive scene-by-scene recaps of Leora’s World, “is that even a six-carat imprimatur of legal entry into a Citadel of extreme wealth and privilege cannot succeed in dazzling its true residents. Leora’s world is not one and the same with that forbidding fortress—she may be in it, but she is not (yet) of it.”
Like Trudy, the Leora of Leora’s World had her very own catchphrase, uttered spontaneously a few times to a soon-to-be-fired wedding planner, and then encouraged by producers. The catchphrase: “Who am I to you?” While “I am out; I am dunzo” was subject to endless variation, “Who am I to you?” had one correct intonation: the smallest susurrating pause on the Who, the am I to you a torrent, a rapids. The catchphrase nailed Leora’s charisma—it was both narcissistic and solicitous; it demanded an account of her Leora-ness and acknowledged her need for acknowledgment. “Examined over five seasons of Leora’s World, Who am I to you? interrogated the erosion of a woman’s identity when that identity has been built on beauty, desirability—the currency of youth,” Stevens-Meisel wrote. “By the end of the show’s run, however, Leora’s newfound identity as a philanthropic innovator with a sparkling new foundation had rendered the question moot. We no longer lived in Leora’s World. Now Leora belonged to the world.”
Foundations
The Leora Infinitas Foundation, also known as LIFt, will work tirelessly to support women’s education, entrepreneurship, and empowerment all over the world. We will acknowledge that no matter where they are on the planet—in a village in sub-Saharan Africa, in a corner office in Shanghai, or at a kitchen table in Des Moines—women share the same hopes, the same dreams for themselves and their children. We may sometimes seem far apart culturally and geographically, but our similarities are so much vaster than our differences. We women—all of us women—can own the means of production, with a cross-platform multimedia foundation. We can lift each other up.
That’s what the “LIFt Yourself” concept is all about. Women in the developing world and women here “at
home,” fulfilling their dreams, helping one another fulfill those dreams, and discovering our common ground.
Speaking personally for a moment: I take this word foundation literally. This is the foundation of everything I do: communication, conversation, transformation. It is the foundation of my identity as a woman, as a mother, as a communicator. One message across all platforms, consistent, solid, through and through.
—from the first draft of the “Proposed Platform of the Leora Infinitas Foundation (LIFt),” by Leora Infinitas in collaboration with Donna Skinner
Indulge Me
Karina—LIFt
Friday, March 27 5:15 PM
To: Jen
Subject: Happiness!
Dearest Jen, I’m so thrilled you’ve accepted the position here at LIFt. I’m sure Leora is sorry she couldn’t make it for our chat, but I’m also sure she’s just so amped to meet you. Promise me that, on your first day, you’ll let me take you out for a proper lunch—an old-school, glamorous, steak-and-wine lunch. We should celebrate! Indulge me? xo K.
Jen
Friday, March 27 5:19 PM
To: Karina—LIFt
Subject: Re: Happiness!
Karina,
I’d be thrilled to! I’m so excited to be joining LIFt. You’ve already extended such a warm welcome! Very grateful—and looking forward to lunch.
All my best,
Jen
Solidarity
“Remember,” Meg had said, “don’t accept the first offer.”
“Number one,” Jen had said, “obviously I won’t, and two, we are not there yet.”
“Just don’t accept the first offer. Write that on your hand. Leave notes around the house. Chant it before you go to sleep.”
“Oh my God,” Jen had said.
“You negotiated, yes?” Meg was saying now. Jen could hear Millie trilling in the background over the phone line.
“Um,” Jen said.
“You didn’t.”
“I’m unemployed! Or I was.”
“So you just took whatever they offered?”
“What position was I in to negotiate? Did I have a matching offer from the unemployment office?”
“A lot of places would have rescinded the offer the moment you accepted without negotiating. They would see it—and look, I’m not necessarily agreeing with this, I’m just telling you—they would see it as a sign that you’re—that you’re not—well, it doesn’t matter.”
“No, what? A sign that I’m not what?”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m sorry. This is good news. I’m happy for you. I am.”
“You have to finish that sentence. A sign that I’m not what?”
Meg sighed. Millie hooted. “That you’re not a fighter, that you don’t fight for yourself. Which in your case is not true. I’m just saying.”
“But wait,” Jen said. “Isn’t it a sign of solidarity with the organization to take less money from them? Like I’m looking out for their best interests at a time of financial uncertainty? You could see it that way, couldn’t you?”
“Yes,” Meg said, “you could choose to see it that way.”
Oof
Jen
Monday, April 6 9:14 AM
To: Karina—LIFt
Subject: Re: Happiness!
Good morning, Karina! I was having trouble getting buzzed in, so I sneaked in with a UPS guy—hope that’s okay! I’ve parked myself on a couch in reception. Do you happen to know where my desk is located? Or someone else who could help? Sorry to bother you with these mundane matters. And most important: Are we still on for lunch today? Thanks!—Jen
Jen
Monday, April 6 11:47 AM
To: Karina—LIFt
Subject: Re: Happiness!
Hey Karina, I knocked on your door earlier, but I think you were on a call. My wonderful new colleague Daisy found a cubicle for me and is helping me get on the grid. Let me know when you have time to chat today—does lunch still work? Thanks, Jen
Jen
Monday, April 6 3:52 PM
To: Karina—LIFt
Subject: Re: Happiness!
Hey Karina, things are humming along here, but I will need your sign-off before I can log on to my computer and get set up with email. You might have noticed that John from building IT has been calling you—his extension is 25233—and all he needs is a signature to get us going here. Thanks, Jen
Karina—LIFt
Monday, April 6 4:52 PM
To: Jen
Subject: Re: Happiness!
Belatedly, welcome, Jen! Sooo glad you’re here. Been slammed all day and need to run—tell Jon yes it’s fine—and send me days for lunch. :)
Jen
Monday, April 6 4:55 PM
To: Karina—LIFt
Subject: Re: Happiness!
No worries! John does actually need a signature, but it can totally wait until tomorrow. For lunch, how about tomorrow, Wednesday, or Thursday? Have a great evening! Thanks, Jen
Jen
Tuesday, April 7 9:22 AM
To: Karina—LIFt
Subject: Re: Happiness!
Hey Karina, great to chat with you in person, even if briefly! Will definitely get that memo to Sunny about responding to the board’s latest brainstorms—really excited to dig in there. You asked me again to send you days for lunch—how about Wednesday? Also, not sure if your original proposal of “steak and wine” was intended as a literal menu or not, but I’ve never been to Staley’s Steakhouse, and I’d be tickled to experience it for the first time. The buttery leather booths, the all-star mural of celebrity caricatures on the walls, the presence of octogenarian talent agents—it all screams old-school cheeseball glamour, at least to me. If we want something lighter, there’s a really good vegan place—and by that I do mean “really good,” not just “really good for a vegan place”—one block up from Staley’s where the un-burger is better than the un-un thing and the cashew ice cream rivals the hard stuff. Or, if this lovely weather holds, we could just grab-and-go from the dumpling truck and sit in the plaza! Looking forward—Jen
Jen
Wednesday, April 8 11:38 AM
To: Karina—LIFt
Subject: Re: Happiness!
Hey Karina, are we still on for lunch today?
Karina—LIFt
Wednesday, April 8 12:59 PM
To: Jen
Subject: Re: Happiness!
Oof, today is tough—Friday better
Jen
Wednesday, April 8 1:02 PM
To: Karina—LIFt
Subject: Re: Happiness!
Sure thing.
Jen—LIFt
Thursday, April 9 4:45 PM
To: Karina—LIFt
Subject: Hello!
Hey Karina, just wanted to let you know that I’m now the proud owner of an in-house email handle. We still on for lunch tomorrow?
Karina—LIFt
Thursday, April 9 8:58 PM
To: Jen—LIFt
Subject: Re: Hello!
Sure. I’m not a big lunch eater—coffee instead?
Jen—LIFt
Thursday, April 9 9:03 PM
To: Karina—LIFt
Subject: Re: Hello!
Of course. Let’s see…Baccalá has one of those patented stir-brewer machines for minimum acidity—I’m not much of a coffee snob, but drinking that stuff makes me feel like I’m in Monti, about to hop on a Vespa. Q.E.D. is a six-block hike but worth it for the cantuccios, and for the adorable ancient lady who makes the cantuccios. And last time I grabbed a latte at Cake Walk I saw Natalie Portman filming a movie nearby, which is an endorsement unto itself!
Karina—LIFt
Thursday, April 9 10:07 PM
To: Jen—LIFt
Subject: Re: H
ello!
There’s a Starbucks half a block from the office
Jen—LIFt
Thursday, April 9 10:10 PM
To: Karina—LIFt
Subject: Re: Hello!
Easy enough! Around 3 or 4? That’s when I usually need a caffeine infusion.
Karina—LIFt
Thursday, April 9 10:12 PM
To: Jen—LIFt
Subject: Re: Hello!
Let’s say 9.30, I have a call at 10
Jen—LIFt
Thursday, April 9 10:14 PM
To: Karina—LIFt
Subject: Re: Hello!
Perfect.
Jen—LIFt
Friday, April 10 9:45 AM
To: Karina—LIFt
Subject: Re: Hello!
Hey, Karina, just wanted to make sure you remembered our coffee date!
Jen—LIFt
Thursday, April 10 10:07 AM
To: Karina—LIFt
Subject: Re: Hello!
Hey, Karina, it’s just after 10 and I know you had an important call, so I’m going to head over to the office—see you soon!
Special Projects
LIFt leased part of an upper floor of a midcentury skyscraper, one whose date of completion coincided with the apotheosis of America’s postwar white-man’s utopia, an industrial ecstasy synonymous with its Midtown Manhattan location and expressed in the vast and echoing lobby—one that strived for timelessness in its haphazard signifiers, in its Art Deco–ish brassy trims and flourishes, and in the Works Progress Administration swagger of the Diego Rivera–manqué mural behind the elevator bank, in which bulbous-muscled iron workers bore aloft a boyish-looking potentate: yellow forelock, three-piece suit. Once upon a time, salons and way stations and anterooms had hugged the lobby like a golden horseshoe. There was the dining room with the glass chandelier supposedly custom-crafted for Mamie Eisenhower and, mounted on a wall like a stag’s head, the jewel-encrusted suit of armor supposedly stolen from the Kremlin, each of which came with bottomless permutations of tales about the past-resident banker, broker, or blueblood newspaper editor who had acquired the items and how. There was the carpeted, split-level commissary, with its subsidized prime rib and its free booze after six p.m. and all day Friday. There were the oddly apportioned conference rooms, dotted with alcoves and tiny partitions. By some historical accounts, these vaults and bowers provided randy executives and their conquests with points of rendezvous that promised both a necessary sense of discretion and a frisson of sex-in-public excitement.