To them, Stephanie was certifiably insane and not to be dealt with on any occasion, but to be avoided at all costs on all occasions.
It was her self-delusion and feeling she was better than the people around her that drove her to the plastic surgery practice in the first place. What better calling for one so beautiful, and in her opinion, altruistic, which could be no further from the truth than brains are from the Scarecrow in the Wizard of Oz.
She wanted to make her clients’ lives perfect by re-sculpting their bodies and faces, removing even the slightest imperfections so they could be perfect, like she was.
That's also the reason her gardener had to come three days a week to keep the lawn trimmed to her exact specifications. His job was to make sure that not a blade of grass grew over the sidewalk and not one rose, which lined her porch, had a blemished bloom. That's why her kitchen sink shone like the mirror used on the Hubble telescope – a perfect reflector. The sink would never have a drop of water on it for more than two minutes before she wiped it clean so it shown radiantly. You see, everything in Stephanie’s life should be orderly. Nothing should be out of place. Everything was always as it should be. That’s what her personal motto was ‘it’s as it should be.’
Boy was she a piece of work…but not many people knew it.
Her husband, John Polluck, did. He knew it all too well. Her obsessive-compulsive disorder drove him insane. But because of their lifestyle, the money she earned and the fact he didn't have to see her more than four or five hours a week, he put up with it.
“I guess it's better than being married to someone who was a hoarder,” he chided himself when Stephanie’s rages got to be too much to bear and her cleanliness became an abstraction. In hoarders’ homes, every square inch of space is covered with something and there are rows and rows of pathways through the clutter strewn around. These are only additional reminders of their self-focus. Hoarders don’t’ see the problem because if they saw it for what it was, it would destroy their self-image of always being in control, yet it is the opposite. It is a sign of being out of control.
Stephanie and John’s home was more like a museum than a home.
But obsessive-compulsive hoarding and obsessive cleaning are just two sides of the same coin, both signs of something gone wrong in the brain.
Stephanie managed to keep her obsessive-compulsive disorder under control without medication, by using a combination of meditation and acupuncture. But the day that she turned 30, her life started to unravel. She found she had little tolerance for anything that wasn’t in order. And on the eve of her 30th birthday, she began to question why she even married John Pollock -- who in her mind she had recently given the nickname Fred Flintstone -- because of his Neanderthal ways. His lack of cleanliness and inattention to detail, which were charming when they were dating, had lost their appeal after years of marriage, just as her obsessive-compulsive cleaning disorder had started to drive him mad as well.
John and Stephanie dated in college. He was an aspiring lawyer. She was a pre-med student. They were part of the in-crowd. Back in the late 70’s they had done their share of drugs and their share of other people. But they had a common connection: they loved money and the things it could buy.
Their wedding, as a result, was nothing less than spectacular. They had to prove to their friends that they were on their way up, so they invited over 400 guests. Because their friends knew, the couple was up and coming, they wanted to be seen at the wedding to potentially better their chances at having similar success. Word spread and in the end, over 500 guests actually came.
In fact, it was written up in the local paper as one of the most widely attended events of the year in Redondo Beach, California, one of the many cities in the Los Angeles basin and the not-so-glitzy stepchild of Hermosa Beach and Manhattan Beach. Hermosa Beach in the 70s was a biker haven. Manhattan Beach was and still is a somewhat upscale beachfront community.
Both Manhattan and Hermosa had charm.
Redondo was a wannabe city, which started out in the 1920s as a shining port in Los Angeles. It was the premiere city back then. But it slowly had fallen from favor over time. Its only claim to fame now is the Redondo Beach Pier, a place where scores of inner city dwellers flock like lemmings when the inland temperatures rise in the summer.
Those inner city visitors, although contributing to the city’s economy, take away from the destination vacation mystique those other South Bay Beach Cities have with their clean white beaches and million dollar homes lining the bluffs and the sand.
Stephanie’s mother moved from Europe as a child with her parents who left during World War II during the Nazi scourge. They settled in Shreveport, Louisiana. Her mother had never worked a day in her life because her husband took their wealth with them from Romania. Stephanie's father leveraged his fortune to become one of the original shareholders in Delta Airlines and had been retired for nearly 25 years when John met Stephanie. Although it was Stephanie’s beauty, which attracted John initially, it was the chance to be part of a huge inheritance that kept him around when Stephanie demonstrated her true narcissistic nature to him.
Stephanie’s parents’ marriage ceremony was more modest than hers was, as her Grandfather, Alex, was somewhat of a Scrooge.
Nevertheless, Stephanie Polluck had come from money.
And she not only liked it, but she was also obsessed with it.
John, on the other hand, came for more stark upbringings. He was the son of an Air Force officer. He had moved around his entire life and had become a chameleon of sorts. Given the fact that he had been in five elementary schools before he reached sixth grade, he had learned how to adapt. His adaptation and his ability to blend in with any and all was, in his mind, his great strength, and others would agree.
He was affable when affability was called for.
He was studious when that was needed.
He could also be very crude when he would hang with his friends, some of whom were of less than sterling character. He was good-natured, and he never picked up his father’s militaristic traits.
He wasn’t demanding or intolerant like his father. Nor was he fastidious like his mother, a fact not lost on Stephanie. In fact, he was not like his parents at all.
He was a free spirit and did what he wanted when he wanted. He wouldn’t judge, nor be judged by the state of his room, house, or car, each of which was always in some state of disorder. They weren’t cluttered mind you. But they certainly weren’t up to his parent’s standards nor those of Stephanie.
In fact, when John was growing up, the state of his room was always a cause of disagreement with his father. At that time, in the 70s, some would call his room a mess. He called it “functional and lived-in.” His mother and father didn’t quite agree, but because of his cheerful demeanor and ability to keep a positive attitude, they overlooked this small shortcoming.
It was fine with him because he did have a free spirit and a brilliant mind and really didn’t like cleaning up his messes, choosing instead to spend his time reading or enjoying sports. His curiosity and intelligence drew him into the practice of law. You see, lawyers, in his mind, never actually dealt with absolutes. They always dealt with what might be or what could be. He had a sterling intellect, an IQ of over 160, and an inquisitive mind.
In fact, he thrived on dealing with uncertainty. It kept his mind busy and, being a problem solver by nature, gave him countless hours of satisfaction as he examined an issue from multiple sides until finally making a decision.
His intellect and good nature made him the perfect cocktail party guest. What he didn't know, he was able to fake because of his prolific reading. Or when he wasn't reading, he was listening to National Public Radio or talk radio to find out what the latest trends were. They stuck in his mind like glue and he could unglue the appropriate comment at the appropriate moment to impress his friends, especially if he had had too much to drink. It seemed to him his ability to unlock his own psyche was driven by alcohol.
It unleashed his inner intellect, or so he thought.
Regardless, the fact that he was entirely opposite of Stephanie was what attracted her to him and him to her. But both of them, being brought up in somewhat restrictive environments were exceedingly selfish.
They did share the trait of wanting the freedom to be who they were, not who their parents wanted them to be.
They both became selfish as a result.
That selfishness is what ultimately led them to where they were today.
Today they were going to buy a new 50-foot sailboat, even though neither one of them knew how to sail. They were going to take a sabbatical from their jobs and reconnect even if it was going to be difficult to do so.
They desperately needed to get their love rekindled or they both knew it was going to end. This was fine with Stephanie because in her mind John had crossed her more than enough times to be written off.
But John had a bigger dog in the hunt.
He wanted, no needed, the opportunity to collect on his personal investment in time and tolerance for having to put up with his wife for so many years by getting his share of Stephanie’s’ parents’ wealth. By the look of it, that money would be coming to him very soon given the fragile state of his in-laws. Both suffered from advanced Alzheimers, but not before appointing him as the executor of their estate, in spite of the fact Stephanie pitched a royal fit on hearing their decision. (Even Stephanie’s parents knew she was crazier than a three-balled tomcat on crack cocaine and had suffered for years while they dealt with Stephanie’s narcissistic rages throughout the years. Appointing John was sending a very clear message to their daughter that she needed to change, even if that message would be delivered from the grave.
So given this background, one can understand why John and Stephanie agreed to look for something they could share together and why they were driving to Portofino in Redondo Beach to see the yacht broker.
They wanted to rekindle the love they had when they were dating. Back then John, on a whim, would whisk Stephanie away on an adventure to go skiing up in Big Bear, or walk hand-in-hand on the beach in Malibu. After which, they would have a wonderful steak and lobster dinner at Moonshadows, followed by hours of love-making.
But that was then.
This was now.
They had been married for over ten years and the blush was off the rose, so to speak, and now they didn’t talk unless it was absolutely necessary. John was absorbed in his work at the law firm. To avoid her, he often either did not come home or came home so late she was asleep. On several occasions, he had to hear her complain that his work schedule caused her to cry herself to sleep. (“Boo hoo,” he thought when she was berating him.)
This was their last chance to survive as a couple.
Either they would do this or their marriage would end.
They pulled their car up in front of the Pacific Mystic yacht brokerage and got out of the car. It was a modest place; with a small neon sign in the window with only two words “Yacht Sales” flickering in sea-blue neon. The building was termite-ridden and run-down, clearly not a place you’d expect to purchase a $500,000 hole in the water.
With only two or three sales agents who worked part-time, it was more like a front for someone to launder money than a real business, especially with the economy the way it was. But the owner, John MacTavish, didn't really care. He had made his money in the 80’s. He now thought of the brokerage as a tax write-off rather than a source of income and a place where he could hang out and meet interesting people until he died. Mac was 72, and at the rate of his alcohol consumption, that wouldn’t be long.
Mac wasn’t a good businessperson, but he still made enough money to keep the brokerage afloat even though the Portofino had raised his rent over 80% in the previous 5 years. He also had enough to live on as a result of an insurance settlement he received when a drunk driver ran his wife off the road and killed her in early 1992. The $5 million life insurance settlement would have allowed him not to work another day in his life, but he wouldn’t know what to do with himself if he didn’t work so he continued.
Stephanie and John walked up to the Portofino Inn, which stood out on a spit of land that stuck out at the end of the Redondo Beach Harbor. They approached the small office and notice a wall near the office had an enclosed bulletin board. In it were several Xerox pictures of boats for sale. The Xerox images were curled and faded by exposure to the mid-day sun. That should have been their first clue. It looked like a bulletin board in an old folks home with cleverly worded “for sale” items strewn about hanging on rusted thumbtacks.
"Are you sure you really want to do this John?" Stephanie asked looking at the bulletin board. She was having second thoughts.
"Absolutely," John replied as he looked at the listings of the boats being offered for sale.
“But you don’t have any boating experience. Neither do I.” Stephanie argued.
“It really doesn't matter. Sailing, motoring, -- what's the difference? We would be out on the ocean. We would be alone. We would get a chance to reconnect. We would have to depend upon each another. You could learn to cook. I could learn to…. I don't know, maybe even fish. I catch the fish. You prepare it.”
“But you don't even like fish.”
“I know, but maybe I could learn how to like it. It’s supposed to be better than red meat, and I could probably stand to lose a few pounds. Anyway, it's our last chance at our marriage. You know that.” He looked longingly at her. In his heart, he was almost committed to making this work. Part of him knew it was their last chance to connect. The other part of him wanted to get her out on the boat so she could have an “accident” and he could be free from her forever.
He reached over, grabbed her hand and looked into her eyes. At that moment, he saw a glimpse of the coquette he had married. Although she had a few crow's feet surrounded her beautiful blue eyes, he still liked her face. It was the other parts of her personality he couldn’t stand. “Reconnect my ass. I want to be rid of her,” he told himself.
She looked back lovingly at first. He was a handsome man as well.
She studied his graying temples and his winning smile. She knew she had loved him too. But that was in the past. Now she looked at him and noticed his nose hairs, which needed trimming. He was also growing ear hair. How gross. She was such a perfectionist. His imperfections drove her more insane than she already was. In that one brief instant, she knew he had to be replaced by a younger, less-used model. The thought crystallized a plan. She could use the boat as a lure to attract younger men and be finished with him.
She turned to John. “You know you’re right. We do need to get alone together. I’m in for buying a boat if you are.”
They entered the sales office.
Mac got up from his chair, finished the last bite of his tuna fish sandwich and immediately introduced himself, wiping the mayo from the corners of his mouth with his sleeve.
“So, you must be John and Stephanie. I’m glad you called.” Mac said sizing them up to see if they might be a good match for what he had to sell. (Basically Mac was doing what he did with all new clients…trying to find out whether or not they had enough money to buy what they said they wanted or whether they wanted to buy at all.)
His ability to categorize people after only meeting them for a short while had been honed over the past thirty years. This saved him countless hours during the sales process. Early in his career, he would show any client any boat, which was very inefficient. Now he narrowed the process quickly. If they weren’t interested or couldn’t afford what they were looking for, he would brush them off. If, on the other hand, they could be up-sold, which would be much better for him, he would do that too.
Mac looked at John's attire first, which gave him a good indication of his potential client’s overall financial status.
John was dressed in designer jeans, had on a pullover Polo shirt and Sperry Top-siders. His hair was a little bit over his ears, but he was well kept (except f
or his nose hairs). His fingernails were clean, and his hands were very soft. This indicated to Mac that John was not a sailor, nor was he an outdoorsman by his pale skin, which likely hadn’t seen the sun in years. The six-carat heart-shaped diamond on Stephanie’s hand was an additional clue as to their wealth. He turned his attention to the parking lot and noticed a brand new Maserati Quattroporte GTS.
“Is that your car?” he asked.
“Yes,” John answered with pride. “It had a list price of over $140k and has a maximum speed of over 190 miles per hour. I got it for $120K.” John boasted, setting himself up as a shrewd negotiator.
Seeing the car gave him all the information Mac needed.
They were obvious candidates for upselling.
They had money.
They didn’t know boats.
And they were in his yacht brokerage.
How perfect was that?
He turned his attention to Stephanie. She was a very attractive brunette, 5 foot 6, 105 pounds, and obviously well taken care of. He noticed the original Gucci handbag she clutched. Her French nails were perfect. Her hair was perfect. She was gorgeous. Also, her triceps had little to no overhang of flab and seemed to be sculpted from hours at the gym. She probably had the upper body strength needed to be a sailor. He wasn’t so sure John did.
By their questions, Mac knew the couple was nautically naive. He would adjust his approach accordingly. All he needed to do was guide them through the buying process. This was a couple who knew nothing about sailing. They were into comfort.
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