When I first moved to New York City, I was jobless, but certainly not penniless. Awed by the shows and the clothes and other costly exotics, I pilfered my bank account with the arrogance of a Hilton. The woman who had worked and slaved for that money was dissolving three thousand miles away. I wasn’t her, and I didn’t need to count the statements. I bought dresses that can margin Vogue seamlessly. And books -
Well -
My shelving has more than doubled. The bindings are gilded in that New York sophistication that is actually but a homage to European palaces. They look well anyway, and dress the words with needless jewelry.
I’m getting to my first job. My arrogance again served me well, for I believed myself to be every interviewees dream. I speak well. My tongue was berated in my old world, it latched on newspapers and Allen Ginsberg with a smile for optimism. What was I doing? What was I doing?
Do you remember The Russian Tea Room? Ah, my first landing into the lewdness of cheap aristocrats. My words nailed the interview, but my face got me paid. Who would have known the desperation of those well-connected entrepreneurs.
As long as I reminded only a fantasy.
Then it was propositioned otherwise. While I know that propositions are hardly uncommon, my rage nailed my pink slip and I walked away, convinced that every egotistical geek that manages Opentable was a species to be pitied and never to be loved.
Several dates with said species confirmed that conviction.
I lived in Midtown.
The city is small. Truly, the city proper is not fifteen miles long. More than once I’ve passed someone that had touched me or needed the time before before returning to traffic’s kaleidoscope. So what of The Russian Tea Room?
Scandalous! I expected to never see its society again. The only time since I’ve ventured past its entrance was to Carnegie Hall huddled in a woolen coat and large, dark frames. They didn’t recognize me then, but would you know that the society abandoned the Tea Room for a more modern establishment on 49th?
Obviously, I didn’t. Our reunion was entirely accidental. They were entirely too happy to see me. Did our association truly classify as friendship? I can’t remember. And friendship -
Well -
That’s a hard card. I don’t give to a -ship of any kind readily. They must be mistaken. But who am I to pass up a free drink? Wine? Barone Fini? The liquid sitting in my glass could have paid my month’s rent.
Sitting next to me, this is the important part, was The King of Manhattan. You must have read about him. He’s the man with the impossibly large penthouse on 75th and Lexington and slew of artist studios (visited occasionally, forgotten, they hold paintings from charity galas… he hates them). He’s the man who hands the bum on the street a Ben Franklin without trepidation, if perhaps, without much heart either. You’ll meet up uproariously un-sober. He’s short and mighty and has an accent that could be from any land he chooses.
Naturally, he saw a woman. He doesn’t know I can’t afford what I wear. He doesn’t know I have long since ceased purchasing silk or leather. But I like to think that he didn’t consider the wrappings fully, because my tongue still is as affluent in the art of intellectual seduction as every -
When the moment chooses.
And would you know, he offered me his penthouse.
He’s a business man. I’ve said before: that species plays a game similar to the attraction of MGM Las Vegas. You either hit the jackpot, or you loss everything. That jackpot still leaves you empty. Is that money really yours? Is anything really ours without our sweat coating its edges?
That’s that world… one without sweat or -
Sincerity. I said sincerity that night as a retreating seduction. I don’t take penthouses or phone numbers from useless lords. But if you need one, you can find one, sitting past closing in high-end lounges throughout midtown.
But carefully: your powers could inspire a jackpot. And be ruined forever.
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