B as in Beauty

by Alberto Ferreras

  “Thanks.”

  I looked up to make sure that he’d actually said that, but the doors closed completely.

  “What the fuck?” I said to myself. “After that stupid scene he thanks me?” I shook my head, and left his building convinced that I would never come back to that place.

  Alberto was waiting outside in the car. He had bought fresh coffee and a croissant for me. He’s such a sweetheart.

  “How was it, Miss B?”

  “This guy is so weird!” I said.

  “There’s a lot of weird people out there,” he said, shrugging.

  I sat in the back of the car feeling cranky and confused. Maybe it was the fact that I had slept on a sofa and not in my bed, or that I only got three hours of sleep that night, or that stupid reaction of Simon when he found my head resting on his shoulder, but something was irritating me about that night. Didn’t know what it was, but something about this guy was pushing my buttons.

  “What the fuck?” I said to myself one more time as the limo rushed down the West Side Highway.

  CHAPTER 19

  That Monday morning—after the “What the fuck?”—I went home, changed clothes, and hopped on the subway to go to the office.

  “When you are hysterical, you are historical,” my AA-ex used to say. I wasn’t hysterical, but I was exceptionally angry—considering how trivial the “What the fuck?” incident was. According to my AA-ex’s theory, my anger had nothing to do with what Simon said, but with something older and deeper than that.

  As I sat there pondering my AA-ex’s theory, I noticed a couple sitting on the other side of the car. They were tenderly holding hands. It was eight-thirty in the morning—which in my opinion is the most unromantic time of the day—but they were all lovey-dovey, and I noticed that she was sporting a rather large engagement ring.

  That’s when I connected the dots that led from “what the fuck” to that diamond ring. I wanted that “Let’s hold hands and look into each other’s eyes at eight-thirty in the morning” thing. I was about to turn twenty-eight years old, my clock was starting to tick, and I was having serious New York City single-girl issues.

  I didn’t like this Simon guy, I swear. He was not my type at all: too tall, too skinny, and I’d noticed that hair grew on his back and spilled over the collar of his T-shirts—eeew! Trust me, I didn’t like him. But just suppose for a second that I did: he was single, straight, and fairly successful. Why couldn’t I corner this guy in his apartment and tell him, “Listen, Simon, enough with this couch-sitting bullshit. Let’s go have dinner at a swanky place in Tribeca, drink a nice bottle of wine, and get to know each other a little better”?

  If I wanted to get laid, it might work, but at this point in my life—when I needed something more meaningful than a one-night stand—I still couldn’t allow myself to make that move. Blame it on my upbringing, “society,” or whatever, but the way I see it, women are in a limbo where we are independent enough to be alone, but not liberated enough to aggressively pursue a husband. Men are still supposed to take the initiative. If you want to date a guy, he still has to ask you out. If you want to marry him, he still has to propose. Obviously, there are exceptions, but it’s not often that you see a girl kneeling in front of a guy and asking for his hand in marriage.

  And then, to make things more complicated, there are men who feel terribly uncomfortable making all the moves. I believe that these guys would be perfectly happy with women taking the initiative, but society would label them as emasculated or “pussy-whipped.” I’m convinced that singleness is a modern social problem because neither party knows who should take the initiative anymore. As a consequence, nobody is taking it. Men and women are running around desperately trying to find the love of their lives, and it just doesn’t show up. Why can’t we connect? Have we become too demanding? Too specific about that ideal love that we’re after? At the sight of the first defect, we run away, encouraged by friends who keep telling us, “You can find someone better than him.”

  After a long and deep analysis, I have decided that there’s only one thing to blame for the sentimental state of our nation: Chinese takeout. Yes, you heard correctly. Chinese takeout is keeping us single. Let me explain.

  My friend Fran’s grandparents met in New York City in 1905. They met on Tuesday, she cooked for him on Wednesday, and they got married on Thursday. Every time Fran’s grandfather talked about their short courtship, he explained the whole thing in one line: “She was Jewish, she was a hardworking woman, and she could cook.” That’s all he needed to know about her.

  I’m sure that the Jewish and the hardworking parts were important, but I guarantee you that the cooking closed the deal. Why? Because he knew that he would be eating her food for the rest of his life. In 1905, there was no McDonald’s, or Wendy’s, or Hunan Palace. Nowadays you don’t need anyone to go buy the chicken at the market, pluck the feathers, and feed logs to the fire. Now we all can live independently, and we have the luxury of choosing our better halves very carefully, and maybe that’s why we’re all so lonely. Fran’s grandparents—who took a chance based on necessity—stayed together for sixty-five years, until they both passed away.

  But here’s a second problem. Let’s suppose that you find a guy and get married. How do you make that relationship last? Life for a married man might be tough, but life for a married woman is hell. Women have to work and take care of the house and take care of the kids and stay young and stay thin and stay pretty. Nowadays we have to be housewives, mothers, professionals, and models: that’s four full-time jobs right there. Oh! And please try to save an hour a day for yoga, so you can alleviate some of the stress of this insane lifestyle. I see women walking in and out of the gym with a baby in one hand and a BlackBerry in the other one. I have yet to meet a man who can juggle all the responsibilities that we handle.

  After women’s lib, our duties increased while men’s decreased. Women have been Stepford-wifed into thinking that all we do is never enough: make more money at work, raise your kids to go to Harvard, keep the house looking like a Pottery Barn catalogue, be a gourmet cook, and make sure that you know how to walk around on those damned Manolo heels while you do all that, because you can’t afford to be a sloppy mom in your own home anymore.

  And while women drive themselves crazy with work and increasing responsibilities, we’re so stupid that—instead of complaining—we brag about our insanely busy routine, flaunting our madness like a badge of honor. We’re like slaves showing off our shackles. “Look,” we seem to say to each other proudly, “mine are heavier than yours.” It seems like if you’re not stressed out of your mind and ready to commit suicide, you’re not working hard enough.

  Anyway, where was I when I started talking about all this?

  Oh yes. I was in the subway, on my way to work, watching two people in love and wondering when I’d be a part of that type of couple.

  The morning of the “What the fuck?” moved painfully slowly, and by noon I received my daily phone call from Madame.

  “So you’re on for tonight, right?”

  “He wants to see me again?” I asked, surprised.

  “I told you, he reserved five nights in a row.”

  “But I don’t understand what this guy wants. He squeezes himself onto the sofa—between me and a pillow—but if I accidentally touch him, then he runs away as if I had some contagious disease!”

  “Do you want to cancel?” she asked impatiently.

  “No, I just want to understand?—”

  “Don’t bother trying to understand him. Trust me, it’s useless.”

  Before I could say, “But I need to understand these things because I’m a compulsive thinker,” Madame came up with an excuse to change the subject: “Want to come shopping with me on Wednesday, after work?”

  “Sure,” I said. Perhaps I could get her to answer my questions in person. We agreed to meet at a fancy department store on Fifth Avenue, and I went back to work.

  That night, I took a
shower and hopped into Alberto’s car to head down to Simon’s place, where Romina, his assistant, had a surprise for me.

  “I won’t be around tomorrow, so Simon asked me to give you the keys so you can let yourself in.”

  Okay, so I went from “what-the-fuck” to “let-me-give-you-a-copy-of-my-keys”? I’m telling you, he was totally unpredictable. At least he was consistent about that.

  While waiting for Simon, I set up the alarm clock, I put the pillow in place, and I measured the mysterious sixteen and a half inches that I had to leave for him. I had started carrying my own measuring tape in my purse to speed up the process.

  I sat in my spot and waited patiently. The coffee table was a little messy. It seemed like he had been going through his mail. He had a small trash can where he had thrown a bunch of ripped papers and junk mail. I knew that opening other people’s mail is a federal offense, but I hoped that going through someone’s garbage wasn’-t—because I just couldn’t help myself. I’m a Gemini—and we’re as curious as cats—so that bucket full of fascinating information about this guy was just too strong a temptation.

  While checking some of the discarded items, I found a few surprises. This guy had been invited to every single high-profile event in New York: film festivals, charity dinners, fashion events. But all the cards were in the garbage.

  “Very interesting,” I said to myself. Here’s a super-famous guy who throws out every single perk that comes with fame. How come? Did he think he was better than all these people? Did he just not care for parties and cocktails? It was hard to guess his reasons for passing on all these exclusive invitations. But I guess it was also impossible to imagine someone like him feeling at ease in any social environment. He was one of the most antisocial guys I had ever met.

  Half of New York would give a limb to be included in the exclusive mailing lists that Simon was on but, clearly, Simon didn’t care about it. A part of me wondered if he was crazy, but another part of me thought, Good for him! After all these years in New York, I’m sick of people who would do anything to belong to the A-list.

  While going through his mail, I also discovered that he set aside some fund-raising mailings from Doctors Without Borders, National Public Radio, and a bunch of other charities and institutions that I happen to support myself. He threw out the party invites, but picked up the charity bills. Interesting.

  I heard the elevator coming up, and before Simon could open the gray door that led to the apartment, I managed to hide all evidence of my little garbage study. He was wearing the same raggedy jeans as the previous night, and a T-shirt with a caption that simply read “Fuck the Hamptons.”

  He seemed surprised when he noticed that I had arranged everything, including the sixteen and a half inches for the desired spot, but he didn’t say a word. I started to feel terribly guilty for going through his trash. This time I was the one avoiding eye contact.

  He looked much better that night. He looked rested, and he had shaved. For a second, I even found him vaguely attractive, but his stubborn silence still annoyed the hell out of me. Maybe all the sleeping he was doing around me was having a positive impact on his appearance, or maybe I was just getting used to his big nose, his thick glasses, and his bald spot.

  Once again, with a big sigh, he dived into a deep sleep in the narrow space between the pillow and me. But this night, while Simon slept like a baby, I was restless. It didn’t help that this time it was Simon who draped over me. Maybe I was tired, or stressed, or who knows, but I was antsy. I felt trapped and annoyed at having to sit there the whole night. At some point I tried to reach for the remote control of the TV, but he held on to me in his sleep, as if he was hanging on for dear life. It was virtually impossible to move without dragging the six-foot-plus photographer with me, so I decided just to stay there. Thank God I didn’t need to go to the bathroom.

  I tried to go back to my book, but I couldn’t concentrate. Without anything better to do, I reviewed the information that I had of Simon. Why was he always in a bad mood, when he had the most glamorous life in the world? Why did he jump back when that model held on to him? Why would he throw out invitations to the most exclusive parties in Manhattan? Why was he paying me to sit sixteen and a half inches away from a pillow? And why the hell would he push me away when he was awake but then hold on to me in his sleep?

  “What the fuck?” I mumbled pensively.

  I was exhausted for the lack of sleep. That was probably why my mind kept grinding the same thoughts over and over, so I closed my eyes and started doing a visualization. Visualization is a relaxation technique that I learned in a holistic weight loss center. You just close your eyes and meditate on your favorite place on earth. It never helped me to lose weight, but it always helped me to relax. So, taking a deep breath, I thought of my favorite place on earth: the top terrace of Hearst Castle, on the coast of California.

  Hearst Castle is the most wonderful place in the world. I’m not necessarily a big fan of William Randolph Hearst personally, but his former vacation house is just awesome. He built it on top of a hill overlooking the Pacific Ocean. The house is enormous, packed with antiques, and it was the coolest party scene of the twenties and thirties. Charlie Chaplin, Carole Lombard, Clark Gable, Johnny Weissmuller—everybody who was somebody in the arts, sports, science, or entertainment—was invited to spend as much time as they wanted at Hearst Castle.

  Hearst hired a female architect named Julia Morgan to build it. Morgan was one of the first female engineers in America, and the first woman ever accepted to study architecture at the Ecole des Beaux-Arts in Paris. Hearst—who had a very eclectic and eccentric taste—would buy European antiques and expect Julia to build the house around them. Most people make the furniture for the house; Hearst wanted to make the house for the furniture, and Julia Morgan managed to accomplish this Herculean task. In some cases she had to rebuild entire rooms so they could fit a fireplace from a Scottish castle, or the engraved wood ceilings from a Spanish monastery. She built a couple of swimming pools, one indoors—the Roman Pool—and one outdoors—the Neptune Pool. I don’t exaggerate when I tell you that I would gladly give all my savings for the privilege of swimming in the Neptune Pool.

  Some art critics think that Hearst Castle is just the corny mansion of a millionaire who bought antiques at wholesale prices, packing his house with disjointed pieces of art from all periods, but I don’t care what they say. This place—unlike most museums—was a home, a home that was thoroughly enjoyed. The whole house is soaked in a very special energy. And to top it all, it has an amazing view of the Pacific Ocean.

  Felicia—my voice teacher from my third semester in college, when I briefly considered acting—told me that it has been scientifically proved that the sound of an instrument that has been played well is better than the sound of one that has been played poorly. In other words, the violin that Itzhak Perlman plays sounds better than others simply because a great musician has been playing it all along. The good sound purifies the object. Maybe something like that happened to Hearst Castle. All the smart, beautiful, and talented people that stayed there purified the atmosphere of the house. I wonder if love can do that for your body too. Maybe love makes you purer and prettier. Maybe love makes you better.

  My mind kept jumping from the view from Hearst Castle, to Felicia, to Simon snoozing on his couch. Then I thought about Simon’s grip. There was something in the way he unconsciously held on to me that made me feel—I don’t know—wanted, needed. My other customers had made me feel desired, but, as flattering as that was, I had a much more intense and warm feeling spending the night with Simon.

  But I was probably doing way too much thinking. My AA-ex used to say. “Don’t go into your head alone. It can be a dangerous neighborhood.” And I’m pretty sure it’s even worse when you’ve had three hours of sleep in two days. The next day I had to prepare for the UK Charms meeting, and I couldn’t afford to be braindead for that.

  I finally fell asleep, and, though I couldn’
t remember what I dreamt of, I know that it was a very peaceful dream.

  CHAPTER 20

  The following morning, there was a tense calm at the office in preparation for the Chicago Boss’s visit on Friday. I had met him only once, and I thought that he was a pretty cool guy. So cool that I couldn’t understand how he could allow a harpy like Bonnie to run the New York office.

  What I liked about the Chicago Boss was that he had created the company from the ground up. He was your quintessential maverick. Smart, creative, and talented, he refused to wear suits, picked up his own phone, and until very recently had still directed some of our commercials. He was a black innercity kid who didn’t finish high school. He started working when he was young, and worked his way up to the top. Unfortunately, as the company got bigger and bigger—and finally went public—a board of directors was instated, and bureaucracy stepped in. The Chicago Boss built an empire by breaking the rules, but now his empire had more rules than dinnertime at Buckingham Palace. As a consequence, the energy that had made him a success was nowhere to be found in his own company. It’s pretty sad, but not uncommon.

  Bonnie was the direct result of this type of corporate mentality. As much as I disliked her, I have to acknowledge that her managing strategy was very smart and effective. I believe Machiavelli called it “divide and conquer.” Her trick was to build an invisible wall around the Chicago Boss, so he couldn’t befriend or communicate with any New York employee who could hint to him of her evil ways. That’s why she insisted—wait, let me rephrase that—that’s why she demanded that everything had to be run through her. You were not allowed to talk to him on the phone—even if he called you. It happened once to Gregory, one of our producers. Bonnie went berserk at him because the Chicago Boss called him directly, as if Gregory had provoked the phone call. What the hell was he supposed to do? Tell the president of the company, “Please don’t call me, or the bitch that I have for a boss will fire me”? As you see, there was no way around her.