I wondered what the Depression-era cross section of Beekman ghosts thought about the re-creation of their time happening around us.
As the fashion mob wandered the grounds finding new shots, I thought about the hundreds of various tableaus the house had staged over the last two centuries. Brent and I would eventually take our place as nothing more than another scene in a very long play. I still wasn’t entirely certain how our scene would eventually play out. Would we be lifetime residents who’d be buried in the crypt? Or will local history remember us as the earnest city folk who dreamed of rebuilding the farm—but didn’t quite make it.
“Jump on the hay pile! Good! Good! Throw some hay at each other.”
The shouted instructions were coming from the other side of the barn. At first Brent, John, and I didn’t even notice them. Lost in our battle against the weeds, we’d tuned out the constant chorus of directives the photographer shouted at the models.
“Okay, now roll around in the hay pile a little!”
Both John and Brent looked at me. I could tell they were thinking exactly what I was thinking: We don’t have a hay pile. We listened a little more until curiosity finally got the better of us.
We cut through the barn to see what was happening on the other side. When we spotted the bunch in the distance, John busted out laughing
Out beyond the garden, the models were indeed rolling in what they believed to be a hay pile. Except it wasn’t. All winter long, when the goats are penned up in the barn due to the freezing weather, John layers fresh straw underneath them each day. By the year’s first thaw, the bedding is allowed to build up to almost four feet deep underneath the goats for two reasons: because it’s impossible to scoop out into the barnyard through the deep and drifting snow, and as the manure builds up in the straw beneath them, its decomposition helps keep the barn a few degrees warmer and more comfortable for the goats. When the snow finally melts, John uses the tractor to scoop up five months’ worth of collected straw and manure, and dumps it in a large pile in the barnyard, to be spread over the hayfields over the course of the summer.
“More rolling! Roll around more!” the photographer continued to shout, focusing his lens.
Our “Depression-era” models, in their $1,600 pants and $2,300 jackets, were rolling around in a two-story-tall pile of winter manure.
“Shouldn’t we tell them?” Brent asked.
“Nah.” I giggled. “Let’s wait to see if the shot makes it in the magazine.”
We watched them frolic unaware in the goat shit for a few more minutes before I turned to John.
“So…is this gay enough for you?”
He looked surprised that I’d heard about his complaint. But then he chuckled.
“Plenty,” he answered. “Gayer than a goat in clover.”
As the crew members were packing up their gear and loading up their vans to drive back into the city, I picked up my BlackBerry to find that I had missed twelve phone calls from the same 212 area code number. Three seconds into the first voice mail I realized what I’d done. Or rather, not done.
“Josh, hey, it’s Jess. Just checking in to go over those headlines before the call tonight.”
I didn’t bother listening to the next ten messages and skipped to the final one.
“Where the fuck are you? The call is in ten minutes, and you haven’t sent anything to anyone.”
Shit shit shit. I checked my watch. The client conference call had started five minutes ago. I frantically scrolled through my e-mails looking for the call-in conference number.
Right before I was patched into the conference, I took a deep breath and grabbed a pen and paper off of the counter next to me.
“Josh Kilmer-Purcell has joined the call,” said the robot operator.
“Oh good! You’re here,” I heard Jess say in her best calm account executive manner. “I was just telling everyone that you were probably having difficulty printing out the headlines.” Despite her professional demeanor, I knew that she was actually hoping that I’d died in a plane crash—on a competing airline, of course.
“Yes, exactly,” I said. “Boy, how does the toner always know to run out just before a big call,” I joked. Everyone on the line laughed politely. In advertising, everyone always laughs politely at the Creatives. They’re afraid not to be in on the joke—even when there’s not one.
“Let me take you quickly through—” Jess said. She was interrupted by:
HERE COMES THE BRIDE!!!
Jesus. Really? It was six in the evening. The sun hadn’t even gone down yet.
“What was that?” one of the lower-level clients asked.
“Sounded like an air raid siren,” someone on the call remarked.
“Or a broken car horn,” someone else suggested.
“Oh that’s just on my end,” I said. “I have the office window open. Lots of traffic on the street.”
“Let me take you quickly through the strategy,” Jess quickly repeated. She knew damn well what it was, and she didn’t want the client to find out.
At least by going over the strategy deck she’d bought me a little time. When she finally finished droning on about the habits of business travelers and the key insights into their behavior, I had half a dozen lines scribbled on the back of an Agway receipt.
“Okay,” I said. “Everyone ready for some thought-starters?” I’d learned to always call creative ideas “thought-starters.” That way no one had to feel pressured into approving them, and they could also take credit for “finishing” them down the line.
“Fire away,” said the main client impatiently.
I began reading the half dozen I had on my list:
BEEF UP YOUR PASSPORT WITHOUT LIGHTENING YOUR WALLET.
SEE MORE LONDON. SEE MORE FRANCE. PACK ENOUGH UNDERPANTS.
MORE ¡HOLA! FOR LESS MOOLA.
TO RUSSIA WITH LOVE. FROM RUSSIA WITH CHANGE.
MUCHO SOMBREROS FOR MINI DINEROS.
NAAN-STOP BARGAINS TO INDIA.
There was a pause on the other end of the line. I couldn’t tell if the call had dropped due to the spotty reception at the farm, or if Jess had just cut off the entire call in a rage.
And then the main client spoke up.
“I love ’em. Pick whichever you want. Good work.”
“Thanks,” I said. “We had a bunch but really tried to winnow down to the most effective ones.”
As soon as I hung up I went to wash my hands. I felt like I was covered in more bullshit than the models.
Chapter Twenty-One
“You’re cute. Take this train often?”
Brent was waiting for me at our usual Friday meeting spot on the lower level of Penn Station. He was furiously tapping away at his BlackBerry. As soon as he spotted me he turned and headed toward the stairway that led down to our regular train.
“You in a bad mood?” I said, catching up to him.
“You’re late,” he said.
“The train’s still here.”
“We’ll never get seats together now.”
“With that reception, I don’t even want to sit in the same car.”
He ignored me, still tapping away as we boarded the Albany car. There were two adjacent seats left, but they were near the bathrooms, which I knew would piss him off even more, so to speak.
“You hungry?” I ask. “I’m going to go get a beer from the dining car.”
“Nope.”
He didn’t look up from his BlackBerry until we were almost at Poughkeepsie.
“So should we try this again?” I ask.
“Try what?”
“Starting the weekend.”
“Sure. Okay. How was your week?”
“I’ll start. My Thursday flight was three hours late, I missed a new business pitch, my assistant quit, and eighteen focus groups in six different cities all hate my new campaign equally.”
“Where were you Thursday?”
“I was in Cleveland from Tuesday through Thursday,” I said.
“You didn’t notice?”
Brent squints one eye, trying to remember.
“I knew you were gone. I just didn’t know where.”
“What would you have done if my plane had crashed?”
“I assume someone would have contacted me.”
“Hopefully my obituary wouldn’t have gone into your spam folder.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
I turned and looked at the landscape rushing by. The tracks run directly along the Hudson River all the way from Manhattan to Albany. William Beekman himself probably took this same trip several times—by boat, of course. It’s a stunning vista in May. It was the first trip of the year when all of the trees had fully leafed out. They were so fresh and new that it was almost startling. I took a deep breath and tried to restart our first real conversation of the weekend with a similarly fresh outlook.
“I can’t wait to get to the garden this week,” I said. “I can’t believe I’m channeling my dad, but I need to putter.”
“We also have to get that big West Coast wholesale order together,” Brent said.
“Right.”
“And do that blog about the new baby goats. I think you should put together a video for YouTube.”
“Sure.”
“And on Sunday we’re meeting with Doug and Garth.”
“Brunch?”
“No, I e-mailed them about creating a bunch of heirloom vegetable recipes for the restaurant. We’re going to brainstorm.”
“So when can I hang out in the garden?” I asked.
“There might not be time,” Brent said. “John might have to plant whatever you need done during the week.”
“But that’s pretty much all I’ve been looking forward to all week.”
Brent’s BlackBerry vibrated on the armrest between us. Saved by the buzz. Brent’s weekend chore lists were beginning to really bug me. It wasn’t that I wasn’t aware of how much we had to do. It was just that I didn’t want to be reminded of it in a “to-do” form. We’d had several arguments about this fact in the past few weeks, and each one ended with him reminding me that it was my decision to try to find a way to make a living off of the farm. Brent had an uncanny way of passing the buck for any problems back to me. I think they taught that in his MBA program.
“I think,” I said while Brent was sending off his latest volley of e-mails, “that I’ll take next Friday off so that I can spend a little time in the garden.”
He winced. “You can’t.”
“How could you possibly have something planned for me to do already? Two seconds ago I was free.”
“Next Friday night is Martha’s Peony Party.”
“A Peony Party? What the hell is a Peony Party?”
“It’s a celebration of the first blooming of her new peony patch at her Bedford farm.”
I’m torn. I really wanted to spend a little time in our new garden. But on the other hand, Martha’s throwing a party. A Peony Party. As far as deathbed regrets go, missing Martha Stewart’s Peony Party would certainly rank near the top, I’m certain. Besides, now that I’m consumed with making our own farm picture perfect, seeing Martha’s farm will no doubt inspire me even more.
“So what does one bring to a Peony Party?” I ask. “Probably not deli carnations, I bet.”
“Just be on your best behavior,” Brent says. “And no stories about your drag days.”
“So I can’t walk around with my fly unzipped claiming that I thought the invitation was for a Penis Party?”
Brent sighs.
“You’re such a Peony Party pooper,” I say.
“Don’t go stealing ideas!” Martha hollered playfully to Brent from across her Bedford lawn. “I don’t want to visit and find the exact same varieties on your farm!”
Brent and I looked up startled. No matter how playfully she meant her admonishment, when Martha Stewart yells “don’t” at you, you pretty much freeze in your tracks.
As if prearranged, the morning had brought a cleansing rainstorm to Bedford, so each blossom cradled hundreds of clear rain droplets—seemingly magnifying both their colors and fragrance. It wasn’t a peony “patch,” as Brent had described. It was a peony panoramic. It seemed almost as large as a football field, or at least that large to someone who had no idea how large a football field actually is.
The blossoms stretched out in neat rows, organized by variety. Each plant was staked perfectly. The mulch in between was immaculately mounded, without a single weed poking through. It didn’t seem physically possible. The entire farm looked like a painted movie set.
When Brent and I had finally reached the last row we came upon a label that read: PEONY MARTHA STEWART. She has her own peony named after her. Of course she did. And of course it was one of the most unique and beautiful ones in the entire collection.
We walked over to the catering station where Martha was chatting with a man on the board of directors for MSLO.
“So nice to see you,” Martha said, extending her hand to both Brent and me. I took it firmly and leaned in to kiss her on the cheek. For whatever reason, it’s always been my natural reaction to greet people—especially women—with a kiss. Martha accepted, perhaps a little awkwardly, but friendly nonetheless. She is a beautiful woman, and in person it was easy to see why she worked briefly as a model in her younger days. Her broad Eastern European face showed few signs of her sixty-eight years. The evening light made her look almost girlish.
“Do you guys have any peonies at your farm?” Martha asked, making polite cocktail party conversation. I thought of the smattering of peony bushes in our flower garden, which by most people’s standards seemed formal and gorgeous, but in comparison to the floral show in Bedford seemed straggly and self-loathing.
“Yes, a few,” Brent said.
“But nothing like this,” I added. “I’ve never seen a variegated peony before in real life.”
“There are some great examples here,” she went on. “It’s been a perfect year for them. Here, try a radish,” she added, gesturing toward an artfully arranged platter on the table.
“Oh, they look fantastic. Ours have just started coming in,” I said. “We grew some black Spanish radishes this year that really stand out. Very peppery.”
“I’ve never tried those,” Martha said.
“Oh, Brent will bring some into the office for you,” I said, secretly thrilled to have added something to Martha’s encyclopedic knowledge. “You know I just read that radishes weren’t initially grown for their roots at all.”
“Really? I’d never heard that.” Many people have found Martha easy to lampoon for her seemingly supercilious attitude in her writing and on television. But what few people realize is that unlike most “lifestyle experts,” Martha actually knows what she is talking about. She doesn’t rely on teams of writers and producers to make her look supremely knowledgeable. Sure, she has hundreds of creative folk working for her, but at the end of the day, she has a nearly photographic memory for all the facts she learns.
And she enjoys learning new things. She actively seeks out experiences to broaden her knowledge. I once heard an interviewer ask her how she would describe her “job.” “I’m a teacher,” she answered. It was an answer that surprised me in its simplicity at first, but later made perfect sense. And, like all expert teachers, she’s also an expert learner. She’s supremely curious. And while she and I might have had no other personality traits in common, we share an eagerness to soak up practical knowledge, no matter the source.
“Yes, originally radishes were grown for their seed pods,” I continued. “We let some of our radishes bolt last year, and used the pods in salads. They were fantastic. Hopefully there will be some ready by the time you visit.”
“I’d love to try them. I’m going give that a try myself this year,” she said. And I completely believed her.
As thrilling as it was to have a conversation with Martha, there was also the constant fear of saying something wrong—at least for me. I
have a habit of crossing lines of tact that, even as I approach middle age, are still completely invisible to me. So after having successfully exchanged several dozen words that didn’t seem to have jeopardized Brent’s job, I turned back toward the radish platter to let Martha continue her conversation with the business executive. I doubted he was similarly inspired by my radish pod stories.
Many more guests had arrived by then, and Brent and I walked up toward the main house to check out the banquet table set up there. On the way Brent stopped to chat with his colleagues. Many of them have worked with Martha for over a decade, and there seemed to be a sort of hierarchy of seniority that completely transcended titles. There also seemed to be a covert weariness and cynicism that came from working in Martha World as well.
Nearly every conversation that I dipped in and out of revolved around a work-related complaint or gossip. I wished I was better at remembering names, since I was sure that the person whom group B was calling “spiteful” and “conniving” was probably one of the people I just finished chatting with in group A—who was similarly griping about “backstabbing” and “favoritism.” About the only thing that every single group had in common was that no one was truly enjoying the beautiful summer evening. To some, the amazing ceviche salad served in individual scallop shells was too bland. To others, the sour cherry juleps were too weak. As someone who once made his living making parties fun and lively, I doubted that I could have turned a party like this around, even in my tallest wig and highest heels.
What surprised me was that no one seemed to want to have a better time. They were all seemingly content being discontent. In my partying days, if we didn’t like an event or venue, we would simply reapply our sparkliest lipsticks, double cinch our corsets, and get out there and try harder. We’d dance harder, drink more, and shoot off bon mots like automatic fire aimed at ennui.
The Bucolic Plague Page 16
