Tales From A Broad

by Fran Lebowitz

  Now in Singapore, a full week has gone by and I haven’t done anything about finding my exercise routine. It is beyond my ken, running in this heat. The air is so thick, the sun so broiling, the locals are guided by one survival code: go to the mall. This way they can enjoy someone else’s air-conditioning and get their exercise by finding just the perfect place to eat. I can’t blame them. If you lived in a steam room, would you want to go out and play?

  The pool doesn’t open until Frank leaves for work. I dismiss the idea of doing laps while the kids bob up and down in their floaty things. I mean, they’d invariably blow over into someone else’s lane (unless I tethered them to the railing … nah, couldn’t … could I?). They’d also get pretty fried and by the second minute of my workout they’d just be screaming and crying and taking turns at having to go to the bathroom.

  I have to find a regular babysitter. I look everywhere for Pearl’s card-shaped piece of paper and finally find it, a tight little laundered ball in my shorts pocket, the writing obliterated. I step out with the kids to get a newspaper and see if there are any leads. We sit on the steps to the shops. I buy Sadie a breakfast ice-cream cone that almost immediately collapses into a muddy river flowing between her thumb and forefinger. Huxley is happy with his cookie. Only, I didn’t bring him a cookie. Either he stole it off a shelf in the store or it’s been waiting for him in the folds of his stroller since America.

  The problem with finding help in Singapore is that it’s pretty much a live-in-maid-only world – expats, locals, people in public housing, even maids have maids. Because having a maid is as commonplace and cheap as owning a coffee maker, there just isn’t much call for part-time work.

  We go back home and I write up a notice. I shove it in my bag, gather up the kids again and go to stick it on the grocery store bulletin board.

  A voice behind me says, ‘I can, lah. Few hours a day. No problem.’

  ‘Pearl, I was just thinking about you. I was just going to put up a –’

  ‘No need, no need, lah. Can can.’ She unwads a sheet of paper. It looks like my notice. ‘Few hours a day, lah, some evenings, lah. Where Jane and Michael?’

  ‘Sadie and Huxley, actually,’ I correct her. ‘I have to tell you, though, you know I was taken aback when we came home the other night to find a stranger’s kid on our sofa.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I don’t charge extra. First playdate is free.’

  ‘My kids don’t have playdates at night, and anyway, they tend to have less fun with their friends while they sleep.’

  ‘Next time, you pay dollar more.’

  ‘Please, just don’t bring other kids into the house.’

  ‘Why you so like that? Okay, okay, Jane and Michael go to Anastasia’s house.’

  ‘Sadie and Huxley! No, you babysit my kids alone. That’s it.’ And, remembering some lesson from responsible parenting, I ask for references.

  ‘Oh, I don’t believe in references.’

  What the heck, I don’t mess with people’s beliefs. ‘You know, we’re only here –’

  ‘For three months’ time,’ she interrupts.

  ‘Yeah. Can you –’

  ‘Can can.’

  ‘– start today?’ I decide to finish the sentence even though she is already pushing the kids back to the apartment.

  Once inside, I head to my bedroom, calling out behind me, ‘If you’re all okay, I’ll just get into my bathing suit.’ No response. The kids are glued to Pearl, watching as she pulls things out of her bag, amazed at what she can fit in such a modest compartment. When I leave, Pearl is giving the kids something yummy on a spoon.

  At the pool, I find myself intensely moved – almost doubting reality – by the change in my circumstances. A week ago, I was using my coat sleeve for a tissue and I didn’t care. It was more absorbent than paper anyway. A week ago, I was stomping my feet while waiting for the train. I was standing on the corner of Fifth and 57th in the company of 900 other people waiting to cross at the lights. I was sizing up a large and determined group on the opposite side who wanted to switch turf. It didn’t seem possible to accomplish this in the few seconds allowed, without stampeding each other to death. My team, the Heading Downtowners, looked ready and well trained, but I could see the Travelling Uptowners had some talent too, a few peddlers wheeling pretzel carts for instance. Damn, why didn’t we think of that, guys? Those things’ll just flatten you. All we had going for us were some suits, heavy briefcases and high heels. The walk sign came on and we were off … I survived to tell the tale, obviously.

  I dip my toe into the water and watch the palm trees bristle dreamily, gracefully, in the barely there breeze. The few occupied chaises hold content, coconut-scented people reading books or magazines, sipping odd drinks, like Calypsos soda, Grass Jelly Tea, Pocara Sweat. No one is swimming. Not even a soul in the baby pool. I put on my goggles and slide in. The water has magically found some way to both refresh and soothe. I feel the sun pressing big, heavy hands on my back and shoulders, undoing knots, unleashing joy, turning me brown.

  The last time I really had a power swim was at the municipal pool on 50th and First. The heater had been busted all day, but no one told me. I jumped in. It was frigid. I couldn’t think straight. I was demented, and determined to get my workout in. I swam my 50 lengths, losing all feeling in my face, arms and legs. They didn’t allow hair dryers at this place – but they did allow homeless people to bathe and wash out their belongings. It was pretty dismal, really. The showers, a line of rusty faucets along one green mossy wall, also served as a spacious drawing room for several sorry bag ladies who could often be found entertaining invisible guests. I generally got out of the pool, into warm clothing and took the bus to my apartment. But, this one fateful night, the bus didn’t come, the temperature was below freezing, my hat was somewhere at home or left in last night’s bar or on a subway, anywhere but with me. As I waited, my hair froze into a winter wonderland of dreadlocks. Hairsicles clinked against each other, lashing at my face and neck. Unable to have rational thoughts, I wound up walking 30 blocks home, fell in the door stiffly and said, ‘Cccooolld. I had a sssspott of bad luck, Frank.’ As I sipped my Baileys in coffee and Frank took a break from chastising me, I said, ‘It’d be worse if I hadn’t exercised.’ We laughed.

  Pulling arms, breathing harder, I kick and turn, shoulders crashing, breaking the silence, strengthening, toning, challenging my triceps, my pecs. My legs force me through the water as my hands grab an invisible rope, pulling me from one end of the pool to the other faster than I’ve ever swum before. And, once in rhythm, I figure out my response to a letter, write a pitch for a proposal and invent a recipe for chilli shrimp.

  Man, that was an hour well spent. I hoist myself up next to a woman who is standing at the edge of the pool tucking her short curls into a swimming cap. She is smiling and talking to herself, as if she’s offering herself encouragement. I nod noncommittally and look for my towel and cover-up. I feel guilty about being away from the kids. The woman shouts enthusiastically, ‘Hi Fran!’ How do I know her? I don’t know her.

  She goes on, ‘Ya looked good in there. Forty-seven seconds a lap.’ She grins, showing nice white teeth and two deep dimples.

  ‘Thanks. It felt good. Too bad I’m only here for a little while.’

  ‘Well, three months for now … who knows later? Okay, gotta do it.’ And with that, she jumps in, still smiling, and strokes away.

  I find the kids flying kites on the lawn. Somehow I wind up paying for the kites, the sweets and the second hour, which we are all of one minute and 40 seconds into. Plus, I am asked for an advance against Pearl’s services later that day (I have asked her to come back so I can get some work done).

  But first we are going to meet the baby-pool crowd. I take the kids back to the apartment to change them into their swimsuits and we’re back at the pool in no time flat. The group is larger than I’d seen before, not all blonde this time. Still not a single Asian. Perhaps they’re at home teachin
g their kids something more useful.

  There are even a few ‘plain’ women in attendance (a coarser sort, a cattier person, not me, might toss out the phrase ‘butt ugly’). Hmmm, take a look at this one, would you? Now, she could be American … or maybe British. How in the world did her grandmother preserve that bathing suit so well? It’s a little dress down to mid-thigh, green with small blue flowers, and she wears a matching hat and shoes. Now I’m thinking British. Very white. Looks like someone who’d enjoy cream teas and blue Stilton on digestives. I see two kids – a boy and girl about my kids’ ages struggling toward the pool, shackled with arm floats and ankle floats, and each wearing an inflatable vest and an inner tube around their waist. What isn’t covered with life-preserving garments is hidden beneath a plastering of sunscreen. I think you could even call it sun-repellent. I wait around to see who the mother is. Maybe she’ll pull out blow-up hats or something. You know, in case everything else pops and the kids just start sputtering away. Yep, there she comes. She sticks little plugs of silly putty into each of their ears and goes over to sit in the shade with a book. Occasionally she looks up to say, ‘Jason, don’t splash’ or ‘Zooey, put them back in’. She has a sweet face, curls, freckles. American.

  There are four other women – three golden blondes and a strawberry blonde, all of whom I’ve seen before. I throw Sadie and Huxley’s toys into the middle of the pool, hoping to entice some of the other kids. No one is attracted to our garbage. The others have watering cans and super soakers, boats and swimmer Dans. We have margarine containers and shoe liners (I thought they’d float and Barbie could pretend she was on a raft). Undefeated, I cautiously inch closer to the crowd and lob a universal icebreaker: ‘Where can you get a Diet Coke around here?’ The general opinion is: ‘I dunno’ and ‘Never thought about it’. Thick ice. But the lady with the book bolts up and offers, ‘Prestons has them cold and Liberty has them warm. Either way, you’ll need to go early on Friday.’ I sidle over to her and tell her my stats: ‘from New York, here for three months’. She lounges back, turns a page of her book and says, ‘We all thought we were here for three months.’ A moment or two later, she calls over to me, ‘I’m Caroline. Do you want a Diet Coke?’

  ‘Sure,’ I answer.

  ‘Okay.’ She pulls out a little keep-cold bag and gives me her only can, then goes back to her book, after shouting, ‘Jason, don’t you dare run.’

  Around 11, Jennifer, from Australia, a truly Olivia Newton-John fresh, minty beauty, pulls out a splendid array of homemade cookies and coffee cake. Yenna, from Sweden, with thick rings of blonde hair, high cheekbones and a gorgeous bustline, lays out a dozen cups and produces some tea. Tess, from South Africa, with silky, shimmering blonde hair and an impossibly flat stomach, pops open soft drinks. My compatriot has a Tupperware container of devilled eggs (no doubt a real crowd pleaser in the searing mid-morning heat). I offer up Cheez-It crackers and no one objects or even notices. At noon, the kids are called out of the pool and the eating begins.

  I don’t feel quite invited and a few cheesy crackers that have flown from America probably don’t amount to admission.

  ‘Well, nice meeting you all.’

  Nothing.

  ‘We’re off to do some sightseeing,’ I say, walking away but still facing them.

  ‘Have fun,’ someone says and a few others giggle.

  I add, ‘Then I have to come back and work. Yeah, can you believe? I’ve kept my job. I’m a literary agent … Yeah … okay … well, see you tomorrow.’

  I’m humiliated. I stop in the ladies room to change Sadie’s and Huxley’s diapers. When I look in the mirror, I see myself at 13 losing David Satosky to Paula Levin. I also see that my eyes have deep rims around them in the exact shape of my goggles – dreaded goggle eyes – and my forehead is beet-red. I look butt ugly.

  But, it would have been worse if I hadn’t exercised.

  While the kids and I were out conquering the world, making friends, sightseeing and absorbing the culture, Frank was ducking into doorways, talking into his shoephone and drawing down the cone of silence. Level-headed Frank was taking the whole Sebastiantrigue pretty hard. He was hurt and he was angry. No one was beyond suspicion now. He still had a job to do and a new director to hire on top of everything else. I didn’t know where he was finding the time. He was making late-night calls to New York City and frantically bashing out follow-up emails. He was busy debugging his life – serious pest control. Nothing was straightforward any more; everything had an angle, no matter how bizarre. He rarely greeted me. I was afraid to say much to him. One conversation was aborted because, well, I tend to think it was one of God’s creatures, but …

  ‘Oh, you think that’s a spider, do you, Fran? And I suppose that’s a web, too? Haven’t you heard of fiber optics, Fran?’

  Then there was the time I was clumsy and careless when I asked, ‘How are you?’ I actually spoke before all the windows were shut and the television volume cranked up to 11.

  ‘Frank, aren’t you getting carried away?’ I asked as he hacked at the butter and peeked under the bread … just in case.

  ‘Are you fucking blind, Fran? You act like you don’t want me to make a go of it here. You want me to fall on my face, is that it? You want four years of work to go down the fucking toilet? Why don’t I just walk under a goddamned bus, Fran? You’d like that, huh? Get all that insurance money and find yourself a nice Jewish boy. Why don’t you just go, go out that door, ’cause I don’t want you, I don’t want you any more. After all I’ve given …’

  I banged out loudly, taking Sadie and Huxley with me. I took them off to the playground while they still had a few good years left. With a manic mother and paranoid father, I could see their shameful lives pass before me. First, they’d be picked last for all teams because no one had taught them how to catch: the roundness of a ball depressed Mom, and Dad thought the ball was out to git ’em. In a few years, they’d be making powerful little bombs in the basement – Mom loves big noises and Dad believes our zip code needs its own arsenal. Or, worse, they’d get into scouting.

  Before long, I wasn’t mad any more. More to the point, I found myself sort of wanting to hear the next riveting instalment. Last night, I learned that besides the car, Sebastian is now demanding a ton of cash and a letter of recommendation. He told Frank that he already had one lunch with the defendant’s counsel, at which he only said they must wait. It sounds a lot like his stint at Frank’s company: ‘Be patient … I have the goods … Feed me.’

  I should mention that owning a car in Singapore is as expensive as owning a house in Singapore. First, you have to purchase a document saying you have the right to own a car, and that costs about 150 per cent of the car’s worth, then, the base price of the most modest set of wheels is about $80,000. After ten years, you have to give it up because there is a no-clunker law. In fact, you could get a ticket here for driving a vehicle that has a couple of mud stains. What Sebastian was driving was worth $130,000 plus.

  ‘Come on, Frank, call his bluff,’ I whispered. ‘I could use some wheels ’cause tomorrow we’re going …’

  Frank’s eyes darted from side to side. He took up a pen and paper and wrote: Shhh.

  I laughed.

  He didn’t.

  He furiously scrawled: He might tell them who we’re targeting and blow the raid!

  ‘What a sexy business you’re in, Frank. Raids, bugs – what’s next?’ I leaned closer and asked in a low voice. ‘Fly swatters? Why not put a nibble of cheese out for him?

  ‘I’ll tell you why not,’ Frank said, shoving me into the safe room, which happens to be in the stairwell, in another apartment building, ‘but then, I’ll have to kill you.’

  I can make fun of Frank all day, for sure, but the truth is he finally has my attention. I mean, the whole time Frank and I have been together, we’ve talked about me. Certainly in all work-related discussions. Really, honestly, by and large, most of our other discussions have had a way of revolving around me
too, but work-talk in particular has always been me, me, me. It was ever thus. I’m the more entertaining, engaging one, undeniably, and my job provides better stories. If I let him, Frank could be really boring.

  I knew where he worked and his title, but any time he tried to tell me more, I’d wave my hands, like, ‘Oh, I just couldn’t …’, as if I were being offered a second scone. ‘Too full from all that stuff about Lexington Avenue and some cross street in midtown … A VP, did you say? Do you make good money?’

  Now, all of a sudden, I’m listening. Frank is full of energy. The stress is revving him up, taking him a few crayons away from his place among the pointy-headed beige set. I believe he is starting to feel burnt-umberish.

  There is also a tacit understanding that we are here because of me. I folded from the vicissitudes of life; I let everything get to me. I prayed for time to get in touch and slow down. To start breathlessly bemoaning the day’s events on the job while wearing a wet bathing suit, arms and legs bronzed and shapely, would have really been like a picnic at the beach where you never actually get out of the car, like leaving the wrapper on the sofa, like seeing the glass as I tend to see it. A reason for Frank to say, for the bazillionth time, ‘You are never happy.’ At which point I usually start bawling and say, ‘I am too!’

  Plus, starting every tale of office drama with ‘I just got an email …’ quite lacks the same punch as the sort of stuff I used to bring home, eg ‘You’ll never guess who hung up on me today’ or ‘Fucking so and so just fired me’ (at which point we’d open a bottle of something yummy we’d been saving and toast good riddance to bad rubbish, and then I’d start to bawl).

  But, I’ll tell you, listening, well, that’s an art form. It’s hard.

  ‘I hate to interrupt,’ I say one night when I am truly starving for the sound of my own voice.