Save Karyn

by Karyn Bosnak

  I decided to run back to the office because it was closer, and went online to look at the details of my checking account. After logging in, a screen popped up that said I had negative $95 in my checking account. How could I have been overdrawn? I should have had the entire last paycheck of $1,700 in there. I clicked a button on the screen to get more details. I saw that my rent check for $1,800 had just cleared, and then the check that I wrote for the phone bill cleared, and then another rent check for—oh my gosh! The lost rent check suddenly was found. And cashed! I quickly logged off and called my landlord.

  “Hello, can I please speak to the accounts payable woman?” I asked the woman who answered the phone. I hoped that she was still there. A few seconds later she picked up.

  “Hi, this is Karyn in apartment Four-E. Do you remember me? You called me last week that you hadn’t yet received my rent check?” I asked.

  “Oh, I remember,” she said.

  “Well, I sent you over a new check and you cashed it, and then the old one must have found its way to you and you cashed that one too. How could you do that? I told you that it was lost in the mail, and now my checking account is overdrawn,” I said frantically.

  “Well, let me take a look,” she said. After a few minutes she figured out what had happened. “Yes, you are right. We cashed both checks.”

  “Yes, I know that. That’s why I’m calling you. But the second check that I sent to you was a replacement check, not an additional check. Common sense would tell you after cashing the replacement check not to cash the original one if it arrived.”

  “You know we have so many apartments that it’s hard to keep track. Maybe whoever cashed it thought that you were paying early for February.”

  “Early?” I said. “Look at my history. Do I ever pay early? I don’t think so.” This was the one time when I thought that actually paying my rent late might help me.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, “but if you didn’t want the original check cashed then you should have stopped payment on it.” Stop payment? Oops. I forgot to do that. She might have been right, but I wasn’t going to let her know that.

  “Don’t blame this on me,” I said. “You should have made a note or something to not cash it if it showed up. I now have absolutely no money and I have a date tonight. And I don’t get paid for another week.” I was near tears.

  “I’m sorry for the mix-up. Look at it this way, next month’s rent is already paid,” she said cheerfully.

  “That doesn’t help me right now at this moment,” I said. “Good-bye.”

  I hung up on her and decided to call my bank to see if there was anything they could do. Maybe they were planning on returning the check for insufficient funds. They did it to me once before, why wouldn’t they do it again? And this time I needed them to do it.

  I talked to an operator who told me that although I didn’t have enough money in my account to cover the check, they were going to honor it because the amount that I was short was less than $100. When the check for $1,800 was presented, I had $1,705 in my account, which made me $95 overdrawn. Had I had $1,699 or less in there, then they would have sent it back because I would have been at least $101 overdrawn. All these little bank rules that I didn’t know about never worked in my favor!

  I sat at my desk and didn’t know what I was going to do. It was now 6:15 P.M., and I had to be at the cleaners by 7:00 to pick up my clothes for that night. And I didn’t have any money. But I wasn’t too worried about that because I could always write a check and figure out how to cover it tomorrow.

  I was more worried because I didn’t have even one dollar in my pocket. And even though I was going on a date, I should still bring some money. This wasn’t like a one-on-one date either. Greg and his wife would be there, so it was more like I was just meeting this car salesman. What if he expected me to pay for my own dinner? I mean, it could happen. And how was I going to get home?

  I finally just broke down in tears. I was so irritated. I thought about going to the local Food Emporium to do my $25 float-a-check thing, but even that would give me just $25. And I didn’t really have time to do that anyway. Ann Marie and Jodi had already gone home, and I didn’t know anyone else well enough at work to borrow money from them. Just then, Gwen walked up to me.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “Yes, I’m just irritated. I have this date tonight and my landlord’s office deposited a check that they shouldn’t have and now I don’t have any money. I don’t even have a dollar,” I said, slobbering.

  “Oh, that sucks. I’ve been there. I know how you feel,” she said. “With this divorce and two kids, things have gotten quite tight.” She then picked up her purse and started going through it.

  “All I have is twenty dollars, but you can have it and pay me back whenever you can,” she said.

  “Really?” I asked, looking up at her.

  “Really, take it, please. And go. You are going to be late,” she said.

  “Oh, Gwen, thank you,” I said.

  “No problem. And stop crying or you’ll look like shit when you get there,” she said. I smiled and laughed a little, and wiped the tears off my face.

  I quickly got my stuff together and again left work. Since I only had $20 in my pocket, I thought it was best that I took the bus home. The dry cleaners was only one block from my apartment and closed in exactly forty minutes, so I should be able to make it there.

  Now Friday-night crosstown traffic is pretty bad, and when it rains it’s even worse. And the bus that I climbed on was at an absolute standstill. After ten minutes, I jumped off and decided to jog the rest of the way home. Fifteen minutes later, I finally got to the block of the dry cleaners. I looked at my watch, and it was 6:50 P.M. Phew! I’d made it!

  As I approached the door, I noticed that it looked awfully dark inside. They must be getting ready to close, I thought. As I got closer, I started to make out the outline of a metal gate that was pulled down over the windows and door. They can’t be closed! It’s not seven yet!

  I walked up to the door and cupped my hands around my eyes and pressed them to the glass to see if I could see anyone inside. There was nothing. No one was inside. Everything was still. I backed up and looked at the outside of the door and saw the sign that said they closed at 7 P.M. They’d closed early. Of all the nights!

  “Fuck!” I screamed and jumped up and down. What horrible customer service! Kings Dry Cleaners on 57th Street in Manhattan shouldn’t be in business! In addition to having the outfit that I was going to wear tonight inside, they had everything else I owned as well! I thought about my closet and knew I had nothing to wear. I had to be at Greg’s in exactly one hour. Then on a whim I decided to quickly run to Bloomingdale’s to buy something; it was only three blocks away and I was sure I would be able to make it back in time.

  I got to Bloomingdale’s at 7:05 P.M. and ran up the escalator to the second floor. In a mad panic, I grabbed a long black BCBG cardigan and a pair of tight black pants. I also grabbed a white T-shirt to go under the sweater that said “LIVE LOVE and be FABULOUS” in big gold letters on the front. I didn’t have a chance to try it on. But I was sure it would look cute. I hoped. But what if it didn’t?

  Just in case, I decided to get an alternative and return the one I didn’t wear. Across the aisle I saw the Theory section, and I grabbed a cute sheer black blouse with rhinestone buttons and a pair of gold velvet pants with a big rhinestone buckle that were hanging on one of the outer racks. I had been eyeing the pants for a while anyway. They were adorable!

  I took my items up to the counter and gave them to the girl to ring up. One of them had to work. The total came to $750 and I handed over my American Express card to pay. I had vowed to use it only for emergencies, and this was an emergency! I looked at my watch and it was 7:15. Now that’s power shopping!

  I ran toward the down escalator and realized that I didn’t have any shoes to wear with my outfits. Boots would look too bulky. A pair of gold lamé heels would be per
fect! So instead of leaving, I turned around and ran to the shoe section.

  After briefly scouring the section, I found the perfect pair of gold lamé pointy heels. They would add just the right amount of funk to either outfit. As quickly as I could, I grabbed the nearest shoe guy and asked him to bring me a size 6½. I wasn’t even going to try them on.

  I patiently waited for the shoe guy to bring me the shoes. And patiently waited. And patiently waited. Where was that shoe guy? Almost ten minutes later, he still had not returned. I was really antsy. Just then, another shoe guy walked by, so I asked him to bring me the shoes too. I was irritated and frantic and started to feel really hot. It was so warm in the store, and I still had my coat, hat and scarf on. Just then I saw the first shoe guy walk by. He didn’t have my shoes in his hands. I grabbed him by the arm.

  “Excuse me, sir?” I asked, irritated. “Where are my shoes? I asked you for them over ten minutes ago.” He just stared at me blankly. From the look in his eye, I could tell that he had forgotten all about me! Didn’t he know what kind of a hurry I was in? I felt like a crazy mad woman. I had to be at Greg’s apartment dressed and ready to go in exactly half an hour.

  “Oh,” he said, trying to cover up his mistake, “I had them and looked for you but couldn’t find you. You must have moved.”

  “No, I didn’t move, and you didn’t look for me. I have been standing in the same place since I asked you for them,” I said confrontationally. “I am in a hurry and I need them now!”

  “Well, I’ll go get another pair. What shoes were they again?” he asked. I thrust the display shoe that was still in my hand toward him. I wanted to hit him over the head with it but stopped myself. I was so irritated, but I decided it was better to have two shoe guys looking for them than one shoe guy. He looked at the shoe and turned to walk away. He had no business being a part of the Bloomingdale’s sales team. I’d have to make a note of his name and write a letter.

  As he walked away I started to murmur under my breath. “Hurry the fuck up this time, idiot,” I said quietly. I’m usually very nice to salespeople because I was once a salesperson, but this guy was an idiot and I was in a hurry. Just then he stopped in his tracks and turned around. Oh, crap, I think he heard me.

  “Excuse me?” he asked.

  “Excuse me what?” I said. I decided to pretend like I didn’t say anything.

  “I heard what you said, miss. Did you just tell me to hurry the fuck up, idiot?” he asked.

  “Well,” I said, stuttering, “you’re awfully slow.”

  “Miss, you’re going to have to leave. Please leave the shoe department right now.” Was he kicking me out of the shoe department? Was I really being asked to leave the shoe department of my favorite store?

  “No, I want my shoes,” I said. My heart started to beat fast. “You were supposed to get me my shoes and you screwed up.”

  “Please turn around and leave the department,” he said again, walking toward me. Oh my gosh, it was really happening. I was really getting kicked out of the shoe department. Doesn’t he know how much money I spend here? Just then, the other shoe guy walked up with my gold shoes in a size 6½. I grabbed them out of his hand.

  “I’ll leave after I pay for these,” I said to the first shoe guy. “And by the way, it took him less than five minutes to get these.” I turned around and brought my gold shoes to the nearest register. I tried not to look back while the girl rang me up because I didn’t want to be escorted out in the middle of my transaction. As soon as she was done, I grabbed the bag and made a mad dash out of the shoe department. It was 7:35. I could be home by 7:40, change, and still be at Greg’s by 8:00 if I hurried. He only lived two short blocks away.

  As I hurried home, I realized how obnoxious I’d acted in the shoe department. I kind of felt like a druggie looking for a fix, or like an alcoholic trying to lick the inside of an empty bottle to get the last drops. I literally was shaking while shopping. The more I thought about it, I was embarrassed that I’d yelled—especially sworn—at the man in the shoe department. But I was more embarrassed at my lack of self-control. I promised myself that I would only use my American Express card for emergencies, and let’s be honest—this was hardly one. But when I was shopping, the amount of money I owed completely did not matter. The only thing that mattered at that moment was making sure I had something to wear that night.

  THE CAR SALESMAN

  Despite my greatest effort, I showed up at Greg’s fifteen minutes late. He was waiting outside. Because I was in a hurry, I’d run out of the apartment unprepared and had forgotten my umbrella and had to walk there in the rain. I was a mess, but I tried not to let it get to me. I decided to wear the LIVE LOVE and be FABULOUS tee under the BCBG sweater with tight black pants. And my gold shoes looked just as lovely on as I’d imagined.

  On the way to the restaurant, I told Greg all about my lack of funds and the dry cleaner and Bloomingdale’s, and was worried that Dan might not pay for dinner. He told me not to worry, that he was sure Dan would pay.

  “Just butter him up and flirt endlessly during dinner,” he said, laughing. “Give him a little knee rub under the table.” I laughed back.

  When we got to the restaurant, Samantha and the car salesman were already waiting for us by the bar. Bond Street is a sushi restaurant and is the ultimate in New York chichi. The whole place is filled with model-type women and hot men. It was very cool. It was a scene. And I felt right at home in my new outfit.

  Dan seemed like a very nice guy. He was tall and a bit on the thick side, but I never let that bother me much. I kind of like chunky guys. They’re manly. Greg might have been joking in the car, but I decided to take his advice and flirted endlessly. I needed to make sure that I was in the clear when the bill came, so I laughed at all Dan’s jokes and affectionately touched his arm whenever I talked to him.

  Toward the end of the evening, I began to get irritated that all of Dan’s stories had to do with Mercedes. It was Mercedes this and Mercedes that. But I continued laughing at all his stories because a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do. Just then, Dan told Samantha and me that he had a small gift for each of us. He then reached down in his coat and pulled out two black-and-gold Mercedes special editions of the new 2001 Zagat guide. It was here that he won my heart! A new Zagat guide! And a Mercedes one at that! As much as I was irritated that he kept dropping the Mercedes name during dinner, I had to admit that these were kind of cool.

  So I decided to give him a chance. And gave him a kiss on the cheek to say thank-you. After dinner when the check came, Greg and Dan split it down the middle and paid. Phew! I was in the clear! All of my heavy petting worked! As Greg was signing his credit card receipt, he looked over at me and gave me a wink.

  As we walked out of the restaurant, Greg and Samantha decided to call it an early night and went home. But Dan and I went out for a drink. He took me to a new place called Underbar, which was just opened by Cindy Crawford’s husband, Rande Gerber. There was a line to get in, but Dan was sure his Mercedes-Benz umbrella would assure us entry. I tried not to look as he blatantly shoved the logo into the doorman’s face. I was embarrassed. It was like he was screaming, “Look at me! I drive a Mercedes and I’m cool.” The sad thing was that it actually worked.

  Part of me was starting to hate this New York scene, but part of me still loved it. I mean, I hated the fact that something like a Mercedes-Benz logo on an umbrella meant that we were cooler than other people in line. How shallow. But just as I was thinking this, I looked down at my Prada purse and my BCBG outfit and realized that I was just as bad as Dan. Looking fashionable wasn’t just important to me, it had become a necessity. And just like Dan shoving his umbrella in the doorman’s face so he could see it, I was carrying my Prada purse with the logo proudly displayed so everyone could see too. It was as if I too was saying, “Look at me! I carry Prada and I’m cool.”

  But the truth is that people judge you by what you look like on the outside. And I’m not talking j
ust doormen here. But also coworkers, friends, dates—everyone. The way people dress says a lot about them. It makes an impression. And I always want the impression I make to be a good one. So I like to look good. I like to dress to impress.

  Once inside, we checked our coats and got a drink. As I looked around I started laughing. It was such a scene! One woman was completely decked out in head-to-toe, waaay over the top Versace. She even had a pair of sunglasses on. In a bar. At night. And the bar was called Underbar because it was underground—meaning there was no outside light coming in whatsoever! It wasn’t sunny. As I looked at her I had to laugh. I may be a slave to fashion, but at least I wasn’t that bad. She was a fashion victim. There’s a difference. God, please strike me down if I ever get like that.

  Dan and I chatted for a short while, and after one drink we shared a cab home. By the time we got to my apartment, the rain had stopped, so we decided to take a walk around the block. We ended up at Sutton Place Park, which was at the end of 57th Street on the river. We sat on the bench and looked at the 59th Street Bridge and felt groovy together. I think it was the same park where Woody Allen and Diane Keaton sat and looked at the bridge in Annie Hall. We talked for almost an hour.

  As Dan walked me back to my apartment, he asked to see me again. I said yes. And unlike the Pet Store Guy, I wasn’t planning on canceling. After a kiss good night, I said good-bye and went up to my apartment.

  That night as I lay in bed, Elvis sat on my lap and purred. I pulled out my brand-new Zagat guide, found Bond Street and circled it. Next to it I wrote, “Greg, Samantha, Mercedes Dan & me—a fashion slave maybe, but still FABULOUS nonetheless.”

  GUESS WHO’S HERE TODAY?

  Each year at the end of January, a big television convention occurs called NATPE, which stands for the National Association of Television Program Executives. Basically, it’s a weeklong schmoozefest where television executives try to convince television program directors from television stations around the world to buy their shows. Years ago, almost all the television deals were made during NATPE, but that wasn’t really the case anymore. But still, the stars and/or hosts of the shows go and everyone there tries their best to sell their programs.