by Edward Vilga
Janek spots me across the room and approaches. Gives me a brotherly hug.
“Congrats, man.”
“Thank you. I’m very happy.”
I limit further comments because I feel it would be in particularly bad taste if I continue to mispronounce his fiancée’s name at her engagement party.
Janek’s pulled away by other guests, and I start to circulate. I’m caught eyeing a sloe-eyed blonde colleague of Symphony’s by a vaguely familiar, good-looking guy wearing the kind of thick-framed black glasses that are so ugly, they’re stylish. His look telegraphs architect/designer/Arthur Miller Wannabe.
He smiles and walks right over to me. “You’re the yoga teacher, right?”
“Yup. Guru on the go,” I say, although I’m not sure how well I’m representing any spiritual path, given my double martini and my leering.
He extends his hand. “I’m Jeffrey Alston. We sort of met at that art opening last week. Janek has great things to say about working with you.” I recognize him as the dude who was in Janek’s posse as we departed.
“He’s a great guy. And a pleasure to teach,” I reply.
“I’m sure. I designed the lights for the new showroom. Best creative and business experience I’ve ever had.” So, he’s a designer, then. The look works and all, but I guess these guys just feel they have to unpretty themselves up when they’re too classically handsome, as though they can’t look like a matinee idol and still know where to artfully install track lighting.
Just then, Hutch arrives, throwing a big, public bear hug around me. I introduce Jeffrey. And then Hutch introduces Jeffrey to what seems to be his date, the beautiful Afro chick we’d met at that nameless bar two weeks ago.
Hutch reintroduces us, but we both remember each other, although, of course, I’ve totally forgotten her name. It’s “Etta,” I relearn and instantly forget again. Afro Chick is looking good and reeks of style. She’s reigned in her seventies retro vibe a bit, and while still urban and edgy, she’s doing it up a little more elegant, a little less club scene. The girl has taste, in other words.
We hang out a bit—Hutch, Afro Chick, Jeffrey, and me—until Jeffrey gets dragged away by what looks like a roving gay design posse. When Afro Chick runs into a colleague—despite her Jackie Brown persona, or maybe because of it, she works as a junior district attorney—the two of them head off to the ladies room together, leaving me and Hutch alone.
“So, how you doing, Dog?” Hutch asks. He signals for martini refills.
“I’m cool, man. But I gotta ask …” I wait for him to explain the Afro Chick situation. He doesn’t have a clue.
“Okay, ask what?”
“Dude, Afro Chick is—”
“Her name is Etta,” Hutch corrects me without reproach, although this is definitely the sort of slip on my part that he’s pretty much continuously ignored for the past decade.
“Okay, sorry. Anyway, Etta is really hot and actually surprisingly smart and cool, but why have you brought her here?”
“What do you mean?”
“Duh … We’re at a party given by a fuckin’ Scandinavian supermodel for her friends. Bringing a hot chick here is like bringing sand to the beach.”
Hutch laughs easily, but nonetheless, he doesn’t offer any explanation. Afro Chick—I mean, “Etta”—is a beautiful woman, and yet the city is teeming with them in endless varieties and combinations, especially in the present 3,000 feet of prime Soho loft space.
The next few hours become a happy blur of perfect martinis and digits exchanged with beautiful women who probably have trouble counting higher than their weight in kilos. In fact—and I never thought I’d say this—it’s almost too easy here, like shooting fish in a barrel. Janek and Symphony have stocked the room to overflowing with babes while creating the perfect trusting, cozy atmosphere. Unlike with a cold approach in a bar or a club, there’s almost no challenge to hitting up the ladies successfully, especially when they ask how I’m connected to the party, and I tell them I’m Janek’s yoga instructor. Since every hot model is addicted to yoga, it’s almost as good as bringing a puppy you rescued from a burning building. Once again, given the ease of gurus’ getting laid, I make a second “Note to Self” about starting a cult.
Since the quality of my prospects is so high, I decide to focus on quantity. I set a goal for myself—obtaining a dozen model phone numbers, enough to tide me over for the next two months until the summer’s here—and proceed to exceed it by 1 a.m.
Nothing here thrashes my buzz except for Hutch and Etta’s departure. From halfway across the room, I see him helping her on with her hip fake fur. I’ve seen him make all sorts of moves on the ladies before, but there’s something particularly tender, protective even, as he folds her into her coat. And I suppose there’s the fact that he’s not bothering to find me to say good-bye. He’s done that before, obviously, when we’re out and the night has sent us to opposite ends of a large club. Hutch is not consistently sentimental in his comings and goings; his bear hug hellos and good-byes coexist with sudden vanishings from clubs with that night’s hookup, him texting in a cab, “Outta here, talk tomorrow.” But in a situation like this, where no hasty departure seems necessary, I’m surprised he doesn’t venture around the corner for a fond farewell. Having enveloped Etta in her coat, however, he looks up and our eyes meet. He smiles, waves warmly, and they depart without further ceremony.
Around 1:30, I decide that I should probably leave. The night feels complete. I already have a pocketful of numbers to pursue. I’m pretty buzzed without being shit-faced. Even the twelve-minute walk home seems strangely attractive.
Except, however, when I snap out of my posh party denial and remind myself that I’m about to lose my second—and probably final—chance at my dream.
Like staring at Andrea’s postcard, or walking past the bridge gallery, I renew my gluttony for punishment. In fact, my wandering home turns westwards towards the Blue Ribbon Brasserie, the site of my Valentine’s Day encounter with Shane.
Our appearance there last time was technically Monique’s idea. But now I’m on my own. There are, of course, about a million other places I might grab a nightcap before bed, many directly between Soho and my pad. I can’t even bother to pretend I’m not hoping to run into Shane again, which I know makes no sense whatsoever. Like drinking to get drunk, sometimes when things look grim, you want to darken them up even more.
In days, the property goes on the market. Of course, Monique might be right—in this economy, it could easily take months before it’s purchased. What does it matter? It’s not like I’m going to unearth a long lost billionaire uncle. I guess somehow the lingering feeling of lost opportunity wants to snowball into more misery. Before I know it, I’m seated at the bar at Blue Ribbon, nursing a scotch.
I’m about to give up hope—a truly ironic word in this context—when Shane and Frame Boy and two other friends of hers I vaguely recognize stroll in laughing.
As usual, I don’t really have a game plan here. I suppose knowing that I’m going to lose this last chance to make things up to Shane somehow requires that I see her again. But whether slightly smashed or stone-cold sober, my rational brain knows that no good can come from another carbon-copy contrition conversation.
A wave of common sense and cowardice washes over me, so I head to the men’s room before I can be spotted. Maybe a few splashes of cold water on my face will sober me up and drive some sense into me. Or, at least, maybe I can get out of here before I make an ass of myself.
No such luck. Exiting the bathroom, I run directly into Shane, who’s by herself and waiting outside the door. We’re both equally taken aback. She recovers first, and unlike her cool manner last time, there’s real anger in her voice.
“There are other restaurants in New York,” she glares.
“I know. I guess I was hoping to run into you.”
“Why? What the hell for? How clear do I have to make it to you: I don’t
want anything to do with you.”
“Shane, I—”
Her voice rises, much louder than normal. “Look, I don’t care what you have to say or how many apologies you want to make. Whatever it is you want from me, it’s not ever going to happen. So spare me the crawling-on-your-knees, ‘I’m so sorry’ bullshit. Accept the truth: I am NEVER going to forgive you.”
I take this in.
Her voice is quieter now but no less firm. “So please … just leave me alone.”
She pushes past me and shuts the door to the bathroom behind her.
Fortunately, given the crowded restaurant, I’m able to slap a twenty on the bar and slip past Frame Boy and the rest of Shane’s friends unnoticed. Outside, going through my pockets to double-check if I have my keys and cell, I find a couple of loose cigarettes. In all honesty, I’m a failure as a smoker—only when I’ve had a scotch late at night do I even want to light up—but tonight’s definitely one of those nights. I round the corner, and seeing a homeless dude vacate his park bench, I indulge myself.
I’m a handful of drags into the cigarette when Shane and Frame Boy round the corner. Even at a distance of thirty feet, their choreography makes the scene clear: she’s left the restaurant without her coat and he’s hurrying after her. He gets her to stop—which is quite fortunate, since she would soon be stumbling towards me, the source of her misery.
Their body language tells it all. He’s tall and comforting and after a moment of resistance, she folds into his arms. Shane’s not angry anymore—I’m not around to provoke her—but from the shadows, it seems like she’s still acutely vulnerable, maybe even crying. This becomes clearer when he brushes away what must be a tear.
Frame Boy seems to be the soul of patience, a fantasy of the good guy who chases after you and somehow makes things all right again. He’s the opposite of me, the one who fucks things up in the first place. A few moments later, it seems Shane’s recovered, and as they hold hands, Frame Boy leads her back to the restaurant.
It’s funny but I realize that I’m not even jealous. Instead, I feel something inside me shift. Until now, I’ve wanted Shane to forgive me so that I can feel a little less guilty, so that I can feel a little better about myself. But seeing how angry and how hurt she still is, my motivation shifts. Forget about the forgiveness I’m craving; I just want Shane to feel better. I want her to be free of me and all my screwups.
Unfortunately, more than anything in the world, getting Shane to feel better is increasingly and utterly beyond my reach.
The Cleavage Twins are, as always, a welcome diversion. Serious and Diamond are not interested in blindfolds today, which is fine with me. This time, they want to tie me up. It’s really not my thing—you may have gathered by now that I like to be in control—but never having had a threesome before that involved a little bondage, I decide to play along. You never know …
As before, the ladies are experts with their tongues and hands and every other part of their bodies. In fact, they’re so skilled that I almost wonder if either or both of them did this professionally before. It wouldn’t be the first time a high-class call girl married money. I don’t voice the question, however, less out of politeness than simply because conversation isn’t the point here. Meaningless sex is.
We manage to spend two hours together, every moment of the encounter as technically perfect as a player piano pounding out soulless music no one wants to hear. Despite my increasingly depressed state, I’ve been fully functional—hell, I think I’ve performed admirably—but when it’s time for us to depart (separately, of course), Serious notices something’s amiss. Serious gets, well, serious for once.
“Is something wrong?” she asks.
“What? Oh, no. Just a little distracted is all.”
“No, really, baby. What’s up? You don’t seem quite yourself today,” Diamond concurs.
These chicks are very observant. I guess they’ve had to be to get and stay where they are despite their naughty transgressions.
“It’s no big deal. Just a little frustrated by a project that’s not working out,” I say, trying to skim over it entirely.
“Really? It sounds intriguing. Tell us more,” Diamond coaxes.
“It’s pretty lame actually. And I don’t think it’s going to come together.”
“Why not?”
“Financing. I need investors for a new venture, and I’m coming up dry. I can’t get anyone with cash to hear me out.”
They both giggle—well, it’s less than a giggle but yet another of their amused interchanges that make me feel like the slow child again.
“What’s so funny?” I’m slightly pissed that my rapidly falling-apart dream amuses them.
“Well, neither one of us is exactly an MBA—” Serious starts.
“Or even a CPA, for that matter,” Diamond interjects.
“But we are matrimonially affiliated with two rather splendid gentlemen who excel in such matters,” Serious continues.
“Yeah, but it’s for a nightclub venture,” I tell them. “And not the kind of thing they’re probably used to dealing with.”
“Our boys like all sorts of unusual investments, provided, of course, that the risks are reasonable,” Diamond adds.
“And the profit potential is huge. How much are we talking about anyway?” Serious asks.
“$3.8 Million.” I say, with a little hesitation. They have no reaction. I might as well have told them that I need $7 for a pack of cigarettes or $12 for cab fare.
“Tell us about what you want to do.”
I hesitate for a second. I really hadn’t seen this coming. In fact, I contacted the Cleavage Twins because I wanted to escape from my inability to make this happen, not to discuss and dissect it. “Really?” I wonder aloud.
“Really,” Serious replies, handing me a fresh scotch.
And so, I tell them everything. The amazing location. The concept. Its uniqueness. The daring architecture required. My entire vision for the place. And they listen, only occasionally asking a few pointed and surprisingly intelligent questions, all of which I have reasonably coherent answers for. As if they’d rehearsed this, Serious and Diamond nod to each other. “Well, then, I think this is something our Boys might want to hear about.”
“Really? Are you kidding me?”
“Trust me, there are two things we do not joke about: Money and Our Men.” I’m sure those are the truest words Serious has ever spoken.
In minutes, it’s arranged. I’m invited to come out the following weekend to the Hamptons—Diamond and Serious want to go out before the season starts on Memorial Day to get their houses in order. A luncheon meeting for Saturday at Diamond’s house is set. Serious writes down the address. As I’m leaving, I have a twinge of uncertainty.
“What is it?” Diamond asks.
“Nothing. Except … are you both sure about this being wise?”
“You mean, do we want to mix business with pleasure?” Serious says. I nod.
“Darling,” Diamond says as she kisses me out of the room, “for the professional, business is pleasure.”
More in need of advice and less of a handout, I tell Andrew everything—well, almost everything—and he listens with superb intensity to all of it.
He thinks the venture sounds promising, but, of course, he makes not even the slightest gesture toward getting involved financially. There’s something eerie about this, actually, although perhaps I am the only one feeling that. Neither of us addresses in any way the fact that he has plenty of exactly what I need: Money.
I mean, I’d expect him to get invested in the situation if I were on fire and he were holding a bucket of water. Of course, I realize that my speculative venture isn’t fully parallel to a dire emergency. Yet even without the sense of life-threatening urgency, you’d think he’d still feel compelled to address the point that he possesses the very thing I lack in vast amounts.
I wonder, if like Brooke’s and Andrew’
s interviewing style, this is something they teach the very rich in some kind of Outward Bound program. “If a fierce grizzly confronts you in the wild, just freeze. Do not attempt to run away. Do not offer him anything of yours. In fact, do not acknowledge his existence in any way. Simply be still, and wait until the moment passes, and said grizzly will most likely leave you unharmed.” Substitute “person who genuinely needs some of your money” for “grizzly bear” and you pretty much have Andrew’s reaction.
And this strategy works, of course. I don’t consider asking him for money for one second despite our bonding and shared confidences and the fact that he probably wouldn’t even miss a few million dollars here or there.
Andrew does generously volunteer some free advice, however. “When you visit them, have someone financial with you. Doesn’t matter who as long as it’s someone with an MBA from a good school, preferably one of theirs.”
“Okay.” I agree.
“And why don’t you take the Jag,” Andrew proffers.
“Excuse me?” I ask, wondering what I must have misheard.
“I think it’s better if you drive there, rather than have them pick you up at the train. That reads as needy, summer-guest-for-a-weekend behavior.”
“I could just rent a car,” I venture.
“Why? The Jag’s just sitting right next to the Bentley in the garage. Frankly, since Danielle and I go out every weekend after Memorial Day, the car practically drives itself there.”
“That’s very generous of you. It’s an awfully valuable thing to loan.”
“It’s insured. And you’re a good driver, right?”
“Yes.” And I am.
“It’s settled then. People will only invest in something if they think you don’t need the money. You’ve got to create that impression—that you’re jaunting out to the Hamptons, gracing them with your presence, instead of accepting any of the dozens of other investor invites you’ve received. It will add just a little extra splash to your whole presentation, to the impression of thriving self-sufficiency that you need to project in order to get anyone to help you.”