“This was fun, baby. Let’s do it again,” he said as he made his way toward the door. The hostess, as if to scold him, pointed him back to the table, where there was quite a mess, myself not included. He nodded and, like a scolded child, reached into his pocket, grabbed a few $100 bills and, to my immense relief and the eternal thanks of my checking account, tossed them on the table.
“That’s for the housekeeper,” he said loudly. Then he strutted out of the restaurant, in an effort to make himself look like a naughty rock star taking reluctant responsibility for a trashed hotel room.
I used to be a “go to” person, someone who people rely on to help them out of life’s sticky situations. In my former position, people were constantly coming to me, to resolve their travel issues, get them an interview with Charlie Rose or manage the expectations of jittery first time authors. I prided myself on being able to solve these problems with ease. I rarely even asked Saint Anthony for help when something went missing unless it was a total emergency. But times had changed. I had landed squarely in my discomfort zone as the asker, a role that required asking people for help, mostly people I hardly knew, for colossal favors. Paramount on that list was Mark Feist with his lofty bank account and connections, which, despite high hopes, had netted nothing from our meeting at Nobu. After suffering the humiliation of explaining and re-explaining the celebrity I looked like to his nonresponsive assistant, I pretty much realized that Mark helping anyone but Mark was a long shot. Sure, it would have been easier to simply stick my head in the sand (Jersey shore sand, in this case) and assume that Bruce would rise like a savior from the streets to save the day, just like he sang about in so many of his anthems. But my business side knew that I had to get practical and follow the money, regardless of how many times listening to “Born to Run” convinced me otherwise.
Dave, on the other hand was quite good at asking for help, specifically my help and often. In my fantasy life Bruce calls to say he is coming to the fundraiser, Mark Feist lines the streets of Hoboken with money, and Dave asks me to pose as his wife to secure a bank loan. This fantasy was much better than Dave’s actual ask, which in signature Dave fashion was vague yet somehow irresistible.
“Listen, I gotta a meeting at TD Bank North and, well, I was thinking it might look better if someone is with me, like a girl, they might even think we are married and cut us a break. Besides, all those suits make me nervous.”
With an unlikely combination of confusion and flattery, I happily accepted this open invitation. I was ready to redeem myself in everyone’s eyes, to prove that my life in the business world could be put to good use in the real world. Taking meetings is something I should be good at; I’d sat through enough of them in my publishing days. In those meetings, I was in my former and more comfortable role as favor granter, but my new role as favor asker was off to a shaky start. My meeting with Bruce rendered me mute and my Mark Feist meeting featured me crawling under the table at a five-star restaurant. But hope springs eternal.
We arrived at the bank for our scheduled meeting and were immediately met with a cheery hello from the bank greeter, who opened the glass double doors for us. Door greeters are everywhere lately, whether you are buying a new camisole at Victoria’s Secret or trying to procure large sums of money; these gatekeepers want to know what you are doing in their establishment. Their melodic inquiries are designed to be customer service-oriented, but instead alienate people who are just trying to enter the building.
“How can we help the two of you today?” a smartly suited twenty-something chirpily asked us. Dave stared at her blankly. Perhaps women wearing suits intimidated him as much as men wearing suits, or perhaps he saw his own reflection in the glass that surrounded him. All that pristine clean glass and banking efficiency. His reflection was all black and white, his skin somehow paler and his black attire somehow darker, kind of like a film negative. He looked out of place here.
Feeling his awkwardness, I overcompensated by being overly formal, letting the bank greeter know that we would like to see someone about a real estate matter. I even donned a slight British accent for which I make no excuse. We confused the bank greeter, the pale speechless rock star shunning the light and his uptight companion with Jane Austen affectation.
“Right…Why don’t you come down here, our mortgage broker is with someone now, but you can wait over here until he’s done.”
We were seated outside a glass-cubed office, where the banker was talking to a smartly dressed woman who appeared to have been delivered some excellent news. They seemed to have had a very happy outcome and I was feeling momentarily at ease. As he ushered out his satisfied client with a “have a great one!” he waved us in. His initial excitement wavered slightly upon a head to toe inspection. In his line of work, sizing people up was a necessary skill. I thought he already thinks that we are out of place, but he had also been taught not to judge people solely on their appearances, so he steamrolled ahead with his pitch.
“Hello, I am Benjamin Huntley. Come on in, let’s get this show on the road.”
Dave shook his hand and managed to blurt out his name, before Benjamin Huntley interjected.
“And who is your better half?”
“Jessica De Salvo, an associate.” I suddenly donned the office-like behavior that is needed at a meeting like this.
“Nice to meet you, Benjamin.”
“Okay, first let’s set a few ground rules. You can call me Benji, you know, like the little doggy. Benjamin is okay, but a little too formal, but fine. And not Benj, never call me Benj. Benj, no good. Okay, let’s get started.”
Dave was fiddling with the long chain that was connected from his back pocket to front pocket and shifting his weight uncomfortably in his chair, his heavy Durango- booted leg crossed in front of him, hitting the shiny uncluttered desk of the young banker. Benji had taken notice of this, perhaps because Dave had about a foot on him in height or perhaps because Dave was making so much noise with this rattling and kicking that Benji was distracted. At one point, I took my hand and settled it on Dave’s leg to steady the rhythmic tapping that was increasing in volume.
My mind then drifted to that little dog, Benji, who was so popular in the 1970s. His cute puppy face was all over posters and lunchboxes and no doubt where his mother got the inspiration for his cutesy nickname.
“Okay, Dave and Jessica, first things first. Let me set you up with some coffee, water? Nothing? Come on, it’s the only thing that’s free in here.” He laughed loudly. Before we accept or refuse, he is up and out, bringing back with him two Styrofoam cups containing scalding hot black coffee, each with a stirrer.
“Okay, so what brings you to the bank today?”
Dave was struggling, overwhelmed, all those suits creeping in on him as he gulped down the first sip of that nuclear liquid.
“Benj, what I really want to say is…”
“I am going to have to stop you right there…. It’s Benji, not Benj. I am sorry, maybe I wasn’t clear. Okay, now that we have that cleared up.” Benji was at ease, again. “I want to buy the building I rent. It’s The Garage…uptown…it’s a club. Do you know it?”
“Okay, sounds easy enough. Let’s get started with your rank, file, and serial number. Do you have an account with us? Account number? Any other holdings? CDs? Money markets? Annuity? Credit line?”
He began to rapid-fire keystrokes into his monstrous computer. Perhaps the machine was equipped with some omniscient program that could tell if a loan applicant was really to be trusted, if their dream had enough merit, or if they were just not the type. After a flurry of data entry, he swiveled the monitor around and asked Dave if it “all checks out.” Dave nodded, sheepishly, retreating into his chair as if the proximity to the suited Benji might suddenly whip out a stake and drive it into his heart.
“And you don’t have any other holdings? Stocks? Bonds? Vanguard accounts?
“Well
now, let me tell you something about what we do. We take all this information and we powwow. We will run it up the flagpole, see if anyone salutes, we spitball it, hash it out, and see if that dog will hunt. Let me go kick this around with my manager. Okey-dokey, does anyone want more coffee? Great, make yourself at home, these things usually take a while.”
I was preparing a Tony Robbins-like speech in anticipation of filling the enormous void that Benji’s leaving would cause. But we both knew before Benji even leapt out of his chair that no amount of running it up the flagpole was going to make Dave the right kind of guy to get a huge sum of money from a guy like Benji. Guys like Benji just don’t hook up guys like Dave.
I could see that even more clearly, not because I am psychic, but because I could see the reflection of Benji and his manager in the window behind Dave. Dave might have seen it, too, had he not given up completely and tucked his head in his hands on his lap in some sort of crash position. If he had been on a flight, the oxygen mask surely would have dropped by now. Benji made a good show of it; he took Dave’s application to the manager. The manager looked at the application and then looked out at Dave. Then she looked back at Benji as if questioning his judgment. Benji shrugged his shoulders up and down as if to absolve him of any responsibility for the matter. The manager took one more look at Dave before the two bankers broke out in laughter. They paused for a moment, before Benji composed himself and returned to our glassed humiliation station to break the news. But I already knew that Dave’s dog did not hunt.
Running the world’s greatest wedding that the earth has ever seen and saving a landmark rock club from extinction can really take a lot out of a girl. And with all that on my plate, I had devoted too little time to building my new business. There is an adage that says if you want something done, give it to a busy person. I had always been that busy person, one that I now embraced in my two new roles as wedding planner and community activist, but those jobs were temporary; my business was my future. All that bartering for business may have gotten me an office space, but I was getting very concerned about how I was going to pay the bills. I was also quite sure that a bank loan was not in my future either, after Dave’s TD Bank North meeting went south. I needed to bring in some paying clients and quickly. Balancing all of my new roles was challenging. Especially since I was already backlogged on client requests.
Between talking with the wedding venue and managing the guest list for the fundraiser, I managed to squeeze in time for some of my original clients. I donned my superhero cape and resolved to solve everybody’s problems. This was a decent, even feasible, idea if I had not tried to jam all of it into one weekend, but I was so desperate to make money that I had to take the work when it was offered.
I stayed up late and created posts for Craigslist, but most of those responses turned out to be people looking for complicated money laundering schemes that involved banks in Africa or Guam. Those exchanges would begin by a professionally worded e-mail asking if my services were still available. I would answer yes until I gradually figured out that these first vague e-mails were designed to identify willing targets. These kinds of shorthand responses are common on Craigslist, which, for some reason, encourages people to ignore standard rules of etiquette and simply treat each other like prey. It is like the Wild West of communication, with no rules or boundaries. Appointments are made and broken, requests are offered and rescinded, salutations dropped; just about anything goes. I thought my successful eBay experience would translate to Craigslist. I had sold an entire collection of Lilly Pulitzer resort wear that I foolishly bought during an author tour in Miami. But that did not help when dealing with the exceedingly odd world of Craigslist. When receiving a vague message like, “I am eager to hire you for a big job if you provide services to my area,” I would respond immediately, politely and acknowledge my interest. The follow-up e-mail was the one that would confuse me. Something like, my assistant tells me that you are a professional working in the {insert city} area, I would like to retain your services, please provide an e-mail address and bank account number so that I can begin the wire transfer. I didn’t need too much more life experience to see that scam coming from a mile away.
The ads in the newspaper provided more legitimate leads. One of my first respondents was Grace, a holistic counselor intrigued by my “clever” ad. This was exactly the person I wanted to work for, someone who made my initial outlay of $145 to pay for the ad worthwhile and, of course, someone who thought I was clever. I was so happy to find a client that I was able to squeeze her in the next day. In an effort to appear busy, I placed her on hold for a minute before saying, “This might be a bit soon, but I had a cancellation tomorrow morning at 10. Are you free then, by chance?”
My tactic worked like a charm. I grabbed a handful of news releases to write on the train and headed into the city. As I left Hoboken, I received a call from the florist regarding the unavailability of peonies for Emily’s bridal bouquet. Sensing an impending crisis, I quickly texted the manic bride, and she texted me back in all caps. I NEED PINK PEONIES. ROSES ARE SO LAST YEAR. I called the florist back and asked her what the options were and she said simply and succinctly, “Dead peonies or live roses.” That was pretty clear. I texted Emily from Grace’s lobby and told her the bad news. I suggested a substitute like hydrangeas and, for the moment, she was momentarily silent, which concerned me. I knew a larger storm was brewing, but I had a client to service, so I would deal with that fallout later.
Grace’s luxury apartment on Park Avenue was not exactly where I thought a holistic health counselor would live. Actually, up until that point, I had no idea that holistic health counselors even existed, much less had any preconceived notion of where they lived. Apparently, holistic health counselors make a ton of money. Maybe having your own business can be profitable, I thought.
My client greeted me at the door, barefoot in printed flowy pants and a tunic top. She looked like she had just come from an ashram rather than a luxury apartment that looked more like a modern furniture showroom. Chanting yoga studio music played softly in the background. I got the feeling that she had just finished her morning meditation, because the apartment was dark, lit only by candles, which surrounded her yoga mat. At the head of the yoga mat was a large statue of young Buddha. (Not the fat Chinese restaurant Buddha, but the boyish, hungry Buddha.)
Grace, as her name indicated, was totally gracious. When I put my hand out to shake hers, she grabbed me and hugged me instead.
“I am a bit of a hugger,” she shared.
She continued to talk, from the moment the door opened, across the threshold and down the hallway with a familiarity and ease that suggested we had been in the middle of a conversation that was continuing rather than meeting for the first time.
She motioned me to follow her through the spartanly decorated foyer, which had only a glass top table and no other clutter, no coat rack, nothing, just a simple Aztec bowl that housed her keys. The look of the apartment was in contrast to how she had adorned herself, in colorful prints and an armful of bangle bracelets, several anklets, and toe rings. She jingled her way into the living room, and told me an ancient proverb about entering into one’s house as strangers and then leaving as friends, although I think she might have combined a few proverbs to suit her needs. In any case, I only caught half of it, because as I was formulating my response she had already moved on to the next topic.
I noted the sterile white-and-silver chrome design theme, which carried through to every room of the house. A recent “stock up” trip to Whole Foods was evidenced on the kitchen island. She apologized for the mess as she waved at the two lone bags of groceries that had yet to be dispatched into a stainless steel refrigerator that was buffed to such a high shine that light bounced off of it and made the room seem as bright as the sun.
“Please sit.” She directed me to a heavily cushioned white couch, which was so thick that when I sat, my feet were elevated off the f
loor. It was early in the morning and I hoped she would offer coffee, which I needed since I had been in such a hurry to get to her apartment that I had skipped breakfast entirely.
“Tea? I just got this new chakra tea. You can pick which chakra you want,” she said as she fanned out my choices of teas, which corresponded to the chakras on my body.
“Oh, okay, sure, thanks,” I said, with a puzzled look. My knowledge of tea was limited to iced Lipton, or green, if I felt adventurous.
“You look confused. Let me pick one for you. How about ‘Sacral?’ That helps us be open to new experiences.”
“That sounds nice, thank you.”
“And would you like an agave nectar stick?”
“Absolutely.” And I did. I have always loved any food served on a stick—corn dogs, popsicles, lollipops. My track record here was good. When I sipped the tea, I was glad that I had taken a sweetening stick to doctor it. If this was how you open yourself up to new experiences, I was not sure that I had the taste buds to be that open. Happily, she had turned her back so she could not see me spit the tea back into the cup. It tasted more like liquid backyard.
“I really liked your ad,” Grace said between sips of tea. “A friend of mine who lives in Hoboken sent it to me and she thought that we would be a good fit.”
I was a bit distracted as she talked because she had given me a large pottery mug that was unwieldy to handle. Since it had no handle, the agave stick kept poking me in the eye every time I brought the mug to the vicinity of my mouth.
“Do you like the mugs? I bought those in the most adorable place in Queens, a West Indian store,” she called out from the kitchen.
From the look of the slanted mug that seemed the result of a beginner pottery class, I had expected her to say that she had received them as a gift from a toddler relative, but I guess you can find anything, even faux tribal goods, in Queens, if you know where to shop.
Best Friend for Hire Page 15
