Sunday, April 22, 2007

Principles

On Houston Street there's a place that sells caviar cream cheese. I had just driven from Kansas City to New York in twenty-four hours. I was tired but couldn't sleep. I met my friend at Russ and Daughters for bagels with caviar schmear. My friend owned a club where I promoted parties. It was a boite of the moment and we were making loot hand over fist. I had been away for over a week, which was a long time to leave the fickle club promotion business to chance. It was Saturday of Thanksgiving weekend. I was eating caviar for breakfast after flying across the country in the silver Mercedes I had gone out to Portland to pick up. I stopped in Kansas City to eat Thanksgiving dinner on a lawn chair in front of the television with my father and his wife. Life was good yet filled with that uneasiness common to young succesful people in New York City that eat holiday meals on tv trays when they go home -- I was waiting to be found out. How do you tell your dad that makes ten bucks an hour that you take home thousands of dollars a night hosting parties for celebrities and the pretty people that spend a lot of money to be around them? How do you tell the pretty people that you saw them on tv while eating Thanksgiving dinner?
In those days I wore custom suits tailored in a late 1930s cut -- high-waisted, double-breasted, pinstriped things of beauty. Spectator shoes year round. And a fedora to match. I was known to many as Big Daddy, Wiseacre, Two Caddy Daddy or any combination of the three. My suits cost more than my father made in a month. Each. And I had a closet full of them. I suppose that helped keep the pretty people off the scent that I was the son of a nobody. Maybe they wouldn't have cared. That was a notion I never considered.
Most nights I walked through the crowds projecting an air of mystery and danger, pretending not to notice the people that whispered to each other as they watched me pass. When I spoke to someone I leaned close and whispered in their ear. I had a group of male friends that dressed like I did. We greeted each other with a kiss on the cheek, acting like gangsters from another era. We put on a show that we seemed to believe more than anyone -- the suits, the hats, the shoes, the music, the dancing, the tattoos, the vintage cars, et cetera. I had two Cadillacs -- a 1950 sedan and a 1968 convertible. The Mercedes was my driver. Crazy to own a car in Manhattan? I had three of them! How's that for overcompensating?
The first night back at the club was a long one. I was tired from the drive and it turned out to be slower than usual because of the holiday. I didn't get the usual rush of adrenaline that a packed house gave me. I felt mortal. Which was no shape to be in for who was about to give me her attention. I don't remember how we got to talking, but we had met before and I certainly knew who she was. All you had to do was check out a Sports Illustrated Swimsuit issue to see a lot of her. I bought her a Lychee Martini. We chatted through that cocktail. When I noticed she was empty, I hesitated to offer her another for fear it would open the door for her exit. Any other night I would have given the signal to the barman and kept 'em coming on the slick and cool. But, as I've mentioned, I didn't have it that night. She might even have had to ask me to get her another drink, god forbid. Some way or another we got another drink in front of her and our conversation continued. I remember thinking there was no way I was getting anywhere with her but I was happy to get the free publicity. I played it real cool, so that it was obvious to anybody that saw us together that I was not hitting on her. I did that as a preventative measure to make sure it was easy for all to see I hadn't failed to woo her as much as not having had tried in the first place.
After the second lychee martini she told me it was too bad I couldn't leave and go somewhere else with her. I made sure she knew I didn't punch a clock and could leave whenever I liked. And away we went. Things we looking more optimistic than I had originally thought possible, but I was still playing it cool. However, my next move was sure to inspire envy as I crossed the bar to my partner and leaned to whisper in his ear of my early departure. He asked me if I was coming back that night. I could definitely say no because even if my next stop with Miss Lychee ended with a handshake, I was going straight home. For some much needed sleep as well as to aid the perception that my night was a success.
Back to the table, helped her into her coat and paraded out the door, stopping along the way for introductions and goodbye kisses to the fellas. Lots of twinkles in their eyes that night. We strolled arm in arm to the next spot. It was there that things turned a bit south. She started talking a lot about a guy that I knew -- one of the owners of the joint we were sitting in. He was there. Came over and chatted, bought us some Champagne. Nice guy. Good looking in a French sort of way -- longish hair, open-collared shirt. I got a straight razor shave and a haircut every Wednesday at a barber shop on St Marks Place by a barber called Danny. After the barbershop I went to see my friend David at a bar on First Avenue for the most perfect Bourbon Manhattan known to man. I wore ties. Always. So what could I say about this guy? We smoked different brands. I had nothing bad to say about him and it wasn't going to do me any good anyway. Besides it quickly became obvious she invited me to come along so she didn't show up at his bar by herself on a Saturday night. Something she had no problem doing at my place. I was ready to go, not so much so as to make an abrupt exit, but the writing was on the wall and my head needed to be on my pillow.
After not too long we left. She asked me to walk her home which was close by and on the way to my place. She invited me in. Things happened as they should for a romantic evening to progress. I was surprised, but I didn't show it. I had written the opportunity off and lost whatever energy I might have had, but this was the kind of thing that I couldn't pass up. I rallied and made like it was all part of the plan. I was as perfectly non-chalant as I imagined a man that routinely sleeps with super-models should be.
She slipped into something more comfortable while I made drinks. She played some music. We sat together on the sofa and sipped our drinks. We moved closer. And closer. We kissed a little. We put our drinks down. We kissed some more. We got really close. Something didn't feel right. I wished I wasn't so damn tired. She noticed my distraction, said something to me about it. What did she just say? I heard her, but I asked her to repeat herself. Maybe I was tired and I didn't her correctly. What's a matter, Frankie? That's not my name. You look like a Frankie, she cloyingly back-pedaled. I gave her an I'm not buying it look. That's what everybody calls you, she grasped at straws. No dice.
Had she been a random drunken girl in Kansas City and not a well known goddess in the big city, I probably would have let it slide.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Great story, Neal. I don't have anything that impressive from my NYC days, although I did love living there.

Well, I was there when 9/11 happened. But I suppose that wasn't impressive in a good way.

Maybe I should wear a suit and tie more often.