Filthy Rich

by Dorothy Samuels

  The downer was awakening to find that it was only a dream, and that my overflowing message tape contained no messages from my eBay savior, Cliff Jentzen—the one potential bright spot on my otherwise bleak social horizon. It left me feeling as dark as the deep gray areas that now dotted the once pink Rosie sweats I was still wearing, and I responded in the same mature way I usually do when I’m feeling that depressed. I ate everything fattening in sight, and that was a lot, given the week’s still-mounting haul of gourmet freebies. Then, I crawled back into bed and fell into a comalike sleep, which, disappointingly for me, produced no new dreams of Neil’s violent death.

  It was three days since Neil had dumped me, and I was going to the dogs.

  I suspect, though obviously I have no way of proving it, that it was Ellewina’s ghostly spirit rather than an urgent need to relieve myself that caused me to reawaken suddenly at around eleven-thirty that night, and grab for the remote to tune in to Late Show with David Letterman. Normally, I do my best to avoid David Letterman. His much publicized bypass operation was supposed to make him nicer, but it hasn’t happened. Plus, not to seem mean myself, I don’t get what he’s up to with his hair—what there is of it, I mean. My mother, for what it’s worth, thinks his bandleader, “that sweetie” Paul Schaffer, should have left the show long ago.

  Anyway, there was yucky, disgusting, double-crossing Neil on Letterman.

  He appeared near the beginning of the show, dressed in his crisp, ultra-white dental jacket, which amused Dave and led to one of his snide asides: “Hey, help me out here. Is this guy really an orthodontist? I’m asking, because to me, anyway, he looks like the Good Humor man. Am I right on that, Paul?”

  “Definitely,” replied the bandleader. “Pretty groovy.”

  Maybe Letterman isn’t so bad after all, I decided. He was right. Neil did look like the Good Humor man.

  But Letterman’s ribbing didn’t seem to be spoiling Neil’s good time. My oblivious ex was still smiling broadly as he stood in the spotlight, his apparent joy in being included on the hip nighttime show totally undiminished. He was there to read the evening’s Top Ten List.

  TOP TEN REASONS TO CHOOSE MARCY LEE MALLOWITZ AS YOUR LIFELINE

  10. You’re a masochist and just love losing $1.75 million.

  9. She’s great in bed.

  8. She has the same initials as Marilyn Monroe, the Greatest Lifeline of All.

  7. You got the show’s name wrong. You thought it was So You Want to Go Down the Toilet!

  6. Kingman promised no questions about Sonny and Cher.

  5. Your real Personal Life Coach was busy that night.

  4. You had no choice. You were told it was either her or the insane Australian guy on cable who plays with crocodiles.

  3. It may be a cheap ring, but you want it back really, really badly.

  2. When Kingman said choose a Lifeline, you thought she’d just be reading palms.

  And the Number One Reason to Choose Marcy Lee Mallowitz as Your Lifeline?

  Her mother’s fat-filled cooking, stupid.

  “Nicely done,” said Dave.

  Nicely done, indeed.

  I was not amused. Neither, let me assure you, was my mother, who was watching—but with none of the customary kvelling—back in Brooklyn.

  My first reaction was horror and disbelief. I must have sat there in bed, completely frozen, for a full five minutes.

  My second reaction was to dip into the giant tin of dark chocolate butter-crunch squares, which Mike Wallace and his 60 Minutes producers had collectively sent over earlier in the day, no doubt hoping to gain an edge over the upstarts at 60 Minutes II, whose skimpy offering of a few Pepperidge Farm cookie assortments served merely to reinforce my long-standing worries about the future of TV news. In less than a minute of devouring the Mike Wallace butter crunch, my back teeth were pretty much stuck together, and a brown, nutty drool began cascading from the right corner of my mouth. It ran down my chin, until a big glob fell on my once-pink sweatshirt from Rosie O’Donnell, all but obscuring the distinctive Rosie logo. For the first time since losing Neil on Filthy Rich! I began to cry, and couldn’t seem to stop. It was my lowest moment.

  Then something remarkable happened. Something I thought only happens in low-budget movies when the screenwriter has had a bad day and is rushing to get home. A faint voice inside my head—old Ellewina’s, I presumed—told me this was no time to be crying and drooling. Why let that tooth-moving piece of decay, Neil, have the last word, and ruin your reputation? Don’t sit around feeling sorry for yourself, kid. Wake up and sniff the sauces.

  Sniff the sauces. On the word “sauces” I had a revelation. Amid all the deliveries I received the Day After, I suddenly recalled a small but tasty box of imported pistachio nuts. It came with a small card, which read as follows: “Hope you’ll do the show. Dave.” No doubt Neil had received the same package. My ego was so bloated by my own avid courting by the media, it hadn’t occurred to me that Neil, the crumb, was simultaneously getting many of the same invitations and offers, and, worse, might actually accept some of them. At that very moment, for all I knew, Neil was lounging around in a Rosie O’Donnell sweatsuit identical to the one I still had on—except his was probably in navy blue and smelled a whole lot better than mine did at that particular point.

  Not Oprah, I thought. Please say Oprah’s personal chef didn’t cook for Neil. But Neil, the scum, had already abused my good name on Letterman. Who could say where on the dial he’d show up next?

  This was War, and I needed a game plan. So I did what any red-blooded American female would do under the circumstances. I dialed my two best girlfriends, Norma and Lois, and arranged a secret 1 A.M. strategy meeting at a favorite East Village restaurant, the Life Cafe, at the corner of Tenth Street and Avenue B. It wasn’t the most convenient choice. But Lois, who was still clad in a long Donna Karan sheath, had just returned from a stirring Democratic Party salute to Buddhist fund-raisers, where they served only meager appetizers consistent with a vow of poverty. She was feeling a craving for the cafe’s vegan nachos.

  I could feel my old determination begin to return as I peeled off the Rosie sweatsuit that had been my security blanket for three days, and hopped into the shower. The world looks a lot better when you have clean hair, I thought as I quickly toweled off. It’s one of the first rules I teach my Personal Life Coaching clients—Rule Number Three, to be exact, on the convenient wallet-size handout I call “Marcy’s Magnificent Seven.” Number One, in case you’re wondering, is “Remember to floss,” and was, quite obviously, rotten Neil’s contribution to the enterprise. You can quibble with its placement in the order, but after mulling it over while I finished blow-drying my hair, I decided flossing is still important for both appearance and fresh breath, and downgrading it on my list would just confuse any clients I still had remaining when I finally got back to work, and it would look vindictive besides.

  Figuring this was a conspiratorial gathering I was heading to, and wanting to blend in with the night, I opted for an all-black look—elegant, if suddenly hard-to-zip black Calvin Klein slacks, black scooped-neck tee with three-quarter-length sleeves, and a black cardigan with dark mother-of-pearl buttons that I bought years ago when all the fashion magazines were predicting that the country-club look was coming back. Black everything. Even black underwear. Everything black, that is, except for the purple bandanna and sunglasses that Cliff had left behind, and I decided those still made sense as an antipaparazzi precaution.

  “That you, Ms. Mallowitz?” said the night doorman, Al, when I appeared in the lobby. “Feeling better?”

  “I think so, Al,” I said. “I’ll know more after my stroll.”

  I hadn’t been out this late without a man in three years, and going out the door by myself this first time felt scary, but also strangely liberating. My goal was to briskly walk the seven crosstown blocks from my apartment to the Life Cafe, thereby achieving a mild aerobic workout. Despite the recent drop in crime, I know
it’s not prudent for a woman to be walking alone past midnight when the streets can get pretty deserted, even in all-night Greenwich Village. But three days spent mostly cooped up and eating like a sumo wrestler trying to achieve a higher weight class had left me feeling flabby and exercise deprived. I was anxious to make up for lost time.

  As I exited my building on Fifth Avenue, I noticed a navy blue Lincoln Town Car parked right out front. It was just sitting there, its lights out and its dark-tinted windows rolled up tight, as if the big, red “No Standing” sign rising from the sidewalk did not apply. I didn’t think much of it—there are even more Town Cars in the city than Gap stores, and if God meant man to obey parking rules, as far as I’m concerned, he would have commanded parking-garage owners not to charge as much as $29.50 an hour in some parts of Manhattan. Besides, at that moment I was preoccupied, mentally kicking myself for forgetting the small hand weights I’d meant to carry to turn this little nighttime hike into a legitimate Powerwalk. On the bright side, I told myself, the fact you’re so upset means you’re back to thinking like a Personal Life Coach. In the process, I was again observing Rule Number Three on Marcy’s Magnificent Seven, which is easy to remember because it also happens to be the title of a well-known song: “Keep Your Sunny Side Up.” As I always tell my clients: The best way to nurture your sunny side (apart from clean, shiny hair) is regular exercise, preferably a combination of aerobic and strength training at least three or four times a week. Try it! It’s also great for the skin and staying trim!

  Anyway, back to the parked Town Car in front of my building. As I was saying, it barely made an impression. But as I turned the corner to head east on Tenth Street, I developed the distinct feeling I was being followed. I started stepping faster, feeling fortunate I had chosen to wear my black Reeboks instead of the Ferragamo loafers I had forcibly wrested from another customer’s hands at a recent sale, causing something of a scene.

  Immediately, I began feeling like an idiot, although not for grabbing the shoes. (Lest you think badly of me, I should tell you that my competitor had been standing in such a way as to block everyone else’s access to the sale table for at least five minutes, making my aggressive seizure fully justified.) However, I did feel like an idiot for running. Stay calm. It’s just your imagination playing tricks, I told myself. It’s misty out, and wearing dark sunglasses at night can be disorienting. But events quickly confirmed that more was at work here than Cliff’s old Ray-Bans.

  The Town Car, suddenly alive, had just headed around the corner and was moving slowly along the curb in my direction.

  My walk now became a run. I still held out a hope that it was just my imagination, that the blue Lincoln would make a turn when we reached the corner of Tenth and University Place. Instead, the mystery car kept pace a few feet behind, following my bad example as I crossed the street illegally against a red light. On an impulse, I now turned around and started running in the opposite direction, back toward my apartment. But the Town Car would not be so easily eluded. Whoever was driving just put it in reverse, then slammed on the gas to catch up to me, heading the wrong way down the nearly empty one-way street. When the car was about even with me, the back window rolled down halfway, and I heard a man calling my name in a loud stage whisper.

  “Marcy. Marcy get over here. It’s me.”

  I stopped to look but didn’t say anything. I still couldn’t see who was talking.

  “Marcy, over here. It’s me, Kingman. Kingman Fenimore. I need to talk to you.”

  He rolled the window down farther, so I could confirm the ID.

  Much to my amazement, it really was Kingman Fenimore. I could see that now. But what was he doing here on East Tenth Street, scaring the wits out of Marcy Lee Mallowitz at this ungodly hour on a weekday night? I wondered. Why wasn’t he at home in bed getting rested to appear live at 9 A.M. as host of the phenomenally successful daytime gig that preceded his prime-time Filthy Rich! success? By that, of course, I’m referring to Gabbing! With Kingman and Tracy Ellen. Honestly, I’d never seen it, in keeping with Rule Number Five of Marcy’s Magnificent Seven: “Watching daytime TV is degenerate.” But I knew the imminent departure of Tracy Ellen, who was leaving to bring her special blend of folksy family stories and racy double-entendre humor to a new show the Christian Broadcasting Network was planning for her, had triggered a major nationwide talent search to find a replacement.

  Personally, I was pretty sick of hearing about it. It seemed you couldn’t pick up a newspaper without reading something about Kingman and Filthy Rich! or the daily ups and downs in the ongoing hunt for a new Tracy Ellen. Goodness, even the new surgically improved Linda Tripp was being considered for a tryout. Who next, Paula Jones? Fawn Hall? Kato Kaelin? After almost forty years in show business, including three demeaning years in the mid-eighties that saw him eke out a living turning letters on Wheel of Fortune when Vanna White was vacationing, Kingman Fenimore’s time had finally arrived.

  In fact, that’s exactly what Kingman told me when I accepted his invitation of a lift, and slid into the seat beside him in the Town Car’s roomy backseat.

  “This is my time!” said Kingman, displaying the same genial bombast he uses to great effect on TV. “They’re paying me twenty-two million a year, and I’m single-handedly keeping alive an entire network. With a stupid game show, can you believe it? At my age?”

  He then turned serious. “But something’s come up, Marcy. Believe me, I don’t usually skulk around Greenwich Village following attractive young women like yourself. I’m happily married. But I need your help.”

  He handed me an official-looking twenty-odd-page report.

  “The new ratings numbers,” he said. “They won’t be public until tomorrow morning, but they’re giving me a bad headache already. Driver, you have a couple of spare Advils up there?”

  “Sorry, Mr. Fenimore,” said the driver. “You finished my last headache stuff about an hour ago.”

  “I’d settle for a stiff drink, but I don’t want people to start talking if I happen to slur words one night on Filthy Rich!,” said Kingman, segueing into an imitation of an inebriated host delivering the familiar line, “Is that your absolute answer?” “I’m swimming with sharks, Marcy. Sharks, I tell you.”

  “But everyone loves you, Kingman,” I said. “Even Letterman is nice to you.”

  “Letterman. If he’s such a good friend, why did he send a taped segment for my last birthday instead of waking up early to wish me well on the morning show with Tracy Ellen? And this cockamamie search for Tracy Ellen’s replacement. Let’s not even go there.”

  By then, we’d been kibitzing about half an hour, circling the restaurant six or seven times. Seeing the Life Cafe go by again, I shared my concern that Lois and Norma were waiting for me, and were apt to call the police if I didn’t arrive soon, which could be pretty embarrassing all around, especially after my minor dustup at Ferragamo.

  “Look at this,” Kingman said, pointing to a bunch of figures buried in the middle of the report. “They’re going to have a field day with this.”

  What the numbers showed, Kingman explained, was that The Plank, the pseudo pirates/executives survival show up against Filthy Rich! two days a week on a competing network, was now attracting millions more viewers. In other words, Filthy Rich!, that seemingly indomitable nighttime colossus, had slipped from number one in the ratings. The demographics were even more dire, with The Plank killing Filthy Rich! in the critical competition for the eighteen- to thirty-five-year-old viewers that advertisers most covet. Even the other truly awful “reality” show that follows The Plank—the one featuring the exciting doings on a luxury cruise ship populated by two dozen well-tanned seniors from Miami—scored better than Kingman’s show among younger viewers. If you haven’t seen it, think an elderly Love Boat without those finely crafted scripts, and featuring a thickened Gopher behind the bar serving up tall glasses of Ensure with those cute little paper umbrellas.

  Why this sudden fall from grace?<
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  Kingman didn’t get it. He was frustrated, and it caused him to launch into a little rant.

  “What’s so great about The Plank? They say it’s more ‘real’ than Filthy Rich! Have you seen it? We’re talking network people dressed in costumes left over from an old DeMille epic yelling, ‘Shiver me timbers.’ It’s filmed in Burbank, for Chrissakes. Burbank! Ever been to Burbank? It makes Los Angeles look like bucolic, open countryside. And those rats they eat? They’re from Spago, I swear. Check out the credits. Can you believe it, the show simulates hardship on a remote tropical island by hiring Wolfgang Puck as the official food consultant. That’s not what I call real entertainment. It’s not even real cuisine.”

  The polling data Kingman showed me didn’t mention Spago or Wolfgang Puck. It suggested instead that Filthy Rich! was lagging badly owing mainly to a shortage of contestants with a high likability quotient, or Q rating, and insufficient real-life drama. I understood why Kingman was agitated. For a comparatively high-quality effort like Filthy Rich! to lose out to boring drivel like The Plank wasn’t just insulting, it was damned unfair.

  “They want drama. I’m going to give them drama,” Kingman said. “Marcy, that’s where you come in.”

  While Neil’s Q rating fell somewhere in the zero range, it turned out that my rating was astronomical. “The audience loved you, Marcy, the way you think Letterman loves me,” Kingman said. “Only in your case, it’s actually true.”

  Kingman’s plan, which he wanted my permission to announce at a news conference already scheduled for the late morning, called for me to make a much-heralded return to Filthy Rich! in just twenty-one days—as a contestant this time, not a piddling Lifeline. The “bounce” from my appearance and all the preshow publicity it was bound to generate, he figured, would be enough to reclaim the number one spot for at least a few weeks, at which point he’d just have to come up with another desperate plan in the event public enthusiasm for The Plank didn’t cool down.