The Bag Lady Papers

by Alexandra Penney

  I could not look Matt in the eye. I tried small talk but we didn’t have that much common ground: he was a gay body builder and I was a heterosexual woman who had never been to a heavy-duty weight-lifting gym before. Finally, I said, “So what is it guys really want in bed?” I simply could not bring myself to say “sex.”

  And, without a moment’s hesitation, he started talking about what I politely wrote down as “oral.”

  The next several interviews followed the same pattern. It turned out that my gym buddies had absolutely no hesitation in talking about sex to a woman. In fact they liked to talk about it—a lot. And the straight men I interviewed were no different.

  The book was published in 1981 with a huge send-off party at the fabled ‘21’ Club in New York. I was given media training sessions so I wouldn’t lower my eyes if I had to utter the word “sex.” My coach drilled me on a mantra, “I like this interviewer, I like this interviewer,” so I would appear to be friendly and relaxed when, in reality, I didn’t give a damn about the interviewer because I was scared as hell.

  The coach decreed “clothing appropriate to an authoritative journalist who’d written a book.” This meant well-tailored jackets in bright colors that would catch the eye and signal an upbeat personality. My wardrobe in those days consisted of leftover fish market OshKosh’s, Levis, army camouflage pants, white shirts from college—all of which were my painting clothes—and the one gray suit I’d worn to the publisher’s meeting: I’d given away all my fashionable Glamour-era clothing to charity.

  A friend suggested her seamstress, who would make three jackets for me at a low price. I found some bright woolens on Orchard Street, where they sell deeply discounted fabric, and ended up with some blazers that I hoped said “authoritative.” I wore the brightest one for my first TV interview, with the intimidating Tom Snyder. Thank god it went smoothly.

  I had never informed my parents that I was writing the book. Of course I knew they’d find out at some point. On the morning after the Snyder show, my mother phoned me. “I saw you on television last night,” she said, and I could hear the icicles dripping through the telephone lines, “and your father and I are so disappointed that you have lost your dignity.”

  With those words she clicked off. Neither of my parents communicated with me again for well over four years.

  My son was now old enough to take the train by himself to Connecticut. He saw his grandparents on weekends when he wasn’t with his father or spending time with his friends. For my part, I was honestly relieved not to be in contact with them. In my view, parents are supposed to be supportive and to cheer a child on. Clarkson Potter was a distinguished publishing house, nothing to be ashamed of. Sex and love are part of life. Criticism and disdain are not constructive or nurturing and my parents’ comments were painful—once again, I thought, To hell with them.

  The book was a huge success, largely due to a reviewer at the Los Angeles Times whose comment, all these years later, I remember verbatim: “If you look on page 99, your life will be forever changed.” It was the beginning of a step-by-step technique on oral sex, aka the blow job.

  The book was translated into more than twenty languages. People magazine featured a spread of me at Lenny’s gym posing, with my biceps curled, on the backs of all the gorgeously muscled guys I had interviewed. I went on a twenty-city publicity tour. The book was on the New York Times best-seller list for close to a year! I finally finished my master’s degree from Hunter in studio art and art criticism and the big royalty checks let me paint full-time. I could pay half my son’s tuition and still have enough to buy myself rolls of high-quality canvas and the best oil paints. I deposited the checks into a savings account at my local bank. The risk of writing a sex book under my own name had paid off.

  “What are you doing with all the loot?” asked a friend. When I told him I kept my money in a savings account, he recommended his financial adviser. Apparently, “everyone” in publishing was using him.

  The financial adviser reassured me my money would be safe with him and would grow at five or six or more percent—which was a hell of a lot better than what it was making in the bank. I transferred all my earnings to him, except for what I needed to live on.

  It was a huge relief not to think about jobs or finances for a while, not to schlep hours to Queens to teach would-be models or to juggle three jobs at once. I could at last concentrate on painting. But almost immediately the publisher was demanding another book.

  “Do it,” I was urged by the same friend who set me up with the financial adviser. “You can make a lot of money on a follow-up. You’ll need it for your old age.”

  When I thought about his advice that evening, images of bag ladies raced darkly across my mind. I pictured a sad woman trudging through freezing sleet, wet snow, spending marrow-chilling nights in a small room where hard, glittering roaches slithered across bare filthy feet. Strangely, it was then that crushing images like those began regularly to invade my brain without warning—just as I began to finally make more money than what I needed to live on. I didn’t stop to figure out where they came from. I knew that I had better make money while I could. There’s no security in being an artist. I wrote another book, How to Make Love to Each Other. Luckily it was also a best seller.

  Now enough royalties were coming in that I needed an accountant. I found someone who was a lawyer as well: he asked to see all my statements from the financial adviser.

  “This man is an insurance agent,” he said, pointing to small type at the bottom of his statements.

  “Yes, I knew that, but I didn’t buy insurance from him,” I responded.

  “He’s put you into an insurance fund that is yielding about six percent, which is the good news. The bad news is, his commission is too high and he’s also getting a commission from the insurance company. He’s being paid twice and that’s not kosher in my book. Get out of there.”

  Little did I ever suspect that this two-bit fraud was a harbinger of much worse things to come.

  I asked around and did a ton of homework before transferring my money into one of the most respected investment advisory services in the country. They had a huge research department and a long and distinguished track record in the financial world. They managed the accounts of people who understand money—bankers, venture capitalists, billionaires, trust funders, and their ilk. The manager of my account, Rob, was a very smart guy who sat with me for several hours assessing my financial needs, what kind of risk I could tolerate—almost none—what I could expect to earn in the next ten years—who knows?—and what kind of budget I adhered to—budget? I never had enough money to formulate a budget.

  Rob explained that I should understand where my money was invested and how the system worked. My money, he assured me, would be placed in different “instruments”—in other words, it was diversified. I liked him. I trusted him. More important, I trusted the firm that he represented.

  At the time, the firm was bullish on Japan and maintained its upbeat attitude until the economy there tanked. And tanked some more. Finally, although I was “diversified,” when they pulled out of that mess I had lost about thirty percent of my sex book earnings.

  I withdrew what was left and redeposited it in my simple old bank savings account.

  CHAPTER 15

  What Money Can and Can’t Buy

  MF + 7 WEEKS

  This morning my usual four o’clock wake-up finds me compulsively adding up all the cash I have on hand and reviewing the new AMF budget numbers Tommy helped me draw up. There’s not much to work with. My newly developed mental discipline of “no future think” kicks in and I drag myself out of bed to make a cup of coffee.

  What can money buy? Coffee! I pour some no-fat cream into the molto-cheap but maximo-delicious espresso that I have substituted for my old-life Dean & DeLuca gourmet blend. Money bought this coffee—but less money than a few months ago—and this pretty porcelain mug. What can’t money buy? is the next logical question.


  I sit down at the computer and take two minutes to list what I think money can and cannot buy. There is something therapeutic about the exercise. I e-mail three friends whom I know wake up early and ask them to send me their inventories.

  Alex shoots me back an answer by 6:45 a.m. as the sun’s rays sneak onto the keyboard of my laptop.

  Here’s her response:

  Am racing off to the gym but you asked for off-the-top:

  Above all: Money is Freedom!!! Independence!!

  It can make you feel better. Inspires hope that things’ll get better. Sometimes it brings peace of mind. It allows you to give more to charity. Help a friend (tho often bad idea). Provides roof overhead/won’t starve. Sometimes buys influence. It lets you afford health insurance.

  It can’t buy health. Terminal cancer doesn’t accept donations. Can’t buy taste—you could hire all stylists/decorators or whatever and you would remain tasteless.

  Money cannot ever turn back clock. Cannot buy wisdom even if you hired all tutors on earth. Can’t make someone love you—no matter how hard you try. Can’t buy talent. Can’t buy appreciation for culture. Can’t buy class. Can’t buy trust. And at the risk of widely overstating the obvious, having makes you feel a hell of a lot better than not having.

  I’m enjoying my second coffee as my friend Patricia Marx’s e-mail whistles through the ether. She’s an acclaimed humor writer, and I love her words:

  If you have money, you can make mistakes and not regret them.

  You can make people like you by being generous, which you can do without money, too, but it takes more energy.

  In many ways, money buys time, but I bet in the end it doesn’t because you have more money-related things to take care of.

  Money makes you look better, for sure—clothes, cosmetics, surgical and other kinds of upkeep.

  Money and health is a tricky one. It probably doesn’t buy you health but if you get sick, you get sick more comfortably and not as unpleasantly.

  Money doesn’t buy you friends, but it buys you people who’ll pretend to be your friends, which might be not so bad.

  Money does not buy you good taste or style or brains or talent. I’ll do more later, but I’ll tell you this now: I’d like enough money to have disdain for it. Xoxxoooxo

  A few hours later, another missive arrives from Patty:

  Another thing money buys: good lighting, which makes you and your surroundings look better.

  Also: help from people you don’t have to feel indebted to because you’ve paid them for their services.

  I’m trying to think of what money doesn’t buy, and it’s a much harder question. However sappy, it’s probably true that it doesn’t assure you happiness, but it makes unhappiness more pleasant.

  Here’s the super-quickie from my good friend Richard.

  MONEY CAN STILL BUY

  Love-in-the-afternoon (or on your lunch break)

  Membership at the Ausable Club on Saranac Lake

  A one-of-a-kind white vicuna suit from Kiton

  Your name on the front of the NY Public Library

  A week for you and your family at the Villa d’Este on Lake Como

  MONEY CAN’T BUY

  Love

  Status

  Job security

  Height

  I call Paul, who refuses to do e-mail, and pose the question. He’s an artist and has never had a huge amount of money, but phones me back in a few minutes with his ideas.

  “I was thinking a lot about your question and it’s an interesting one for me because I’m not very interested in money,” he says. “But this is what I think money can’t buy.”

  Love

  Creativity

  Talent

  Taste

  Peace of mind

  Real friends

  True admiration

  Generosity of spirit

  Sincerity

  Nurture

  Fast reflexes

  Sound footing

  And sweet dreams

  He stops. I wait a second for what money can buy.

  “I really love what you just said,” I say, and I mean it. I’m very curious as to how he will respond to the second part of my question.

  “Money can’t buy much,” he shoots back immediately when I ask him.

  Headaches about money

  Porn tapes

  And paint

  “That’s about it,” he responds after he’s listed those three. The answers are so provocative that I write Carol, a friend in London, for her thoughts. Here’s what she e-mails back:

  Money cannot make the old young nor the dumb smart nor the short tall nor the black white (or vice versa) nor the disabled whole.

  Money cannot make the mad sane nor the wicked good.

  Money cannot buy intelligence, genius, or talent (although it can buy competence).

  Money cannot buy eternal life.

  Money cannot buy you a good, kind, sensitive, empathetic character, nor a joyous personality.

  Money cannot buy you a sense of humor or irony.

  Money cannot buy you a passionate love of art or nature or the capacity to passionately love another.

  Money can buy you everything else.

  My friends’ answers are sincere and many are clever. My own unedited lists surge out of my unconscious. Sorry, no cheekiness or wit here: I’m too agonized about money these days to make any fun of it. But, come to think of it, maybe the only way to deal with lucre in these economically insane days is to be impudent about it.

  MONEY CAN’T BUY

  Time

  Love

  Health

  Energy

  Talent

  Call from my child or my niece

  Letter from my grandchild

  Freedom

  An independent mind

  Self-reliance

  Real hugs

  Loving kisses

  A good spirit

  Decency

  A generous heart

  Faith

  Hope

  Spunk

  Courage

  Leadership

  Can-do attitude

  Sincere empathy

  Integrity

  Reputation

  Peace of mind

  Equilibrium

  Contentment

  Body type

  An ocean

  A star

  MONEY CAN BUY

  The happiness that comes from travel

  Experiences/adventures

  Donations to help cure diseases

  Fragrance of freesia

  Laughter (at a comedy show or movie)

  Moonlight

  Sunlight

  Good teeth

  A new hip

  Louboutins

  Coffee

  Chai tea at Starbucks

  Manicures

  Antique French plates

  A great watch

  Excitement/adrenaline high

  Best medical care

  A new heart/liver/kidney

  Shelter

  Blue eyes (colored contact lenses)

  Food

  Music

  Clothing

  Views

  Air-conditioning

  Heat

  A pear tree

  Plastic surgery

  Hot water

  Cameras

  Studio

  Mosquito netting

  Car

  Dining out

  Picnics

  Theater tickets

  Popcorn

  Television

  Computer

  Internet access

  Christmas trees

  Tax attorney

  Assisted living

  Wine

  Good soap

  Art

  Death (from a Kevorkian-type doctor)

  CHAPTER 16

  How to Heal a Broken Heart

  It was 1983 and our neighborhood had been officially christened SoHo. Busloads of tourists careened down the cobblestone stre
ets snapping photos of artists and local denizens as if they were some species of exotic turtles. Harriet’s store downstairs was doing a land-office business and my sales help on Saturdays was needed more than ever. Across from my small space on West Broadway was Mr. Kochendorfer’s knife-sharpening business. His father sat on a chair outside the front door carefully surveying the scene from a black peeling-leather office chair that rolled around on rusty casters. On one side of him was an enormous, cavernous building with greasy yellowing tile walls, a garage for garbage trucks. Its huge doors crashed down with colossal kabaaaangs after the hump-backed garbage trucks rumbled grumpily out onto the street at three a.m. every day.

  On the other side of Mr. Kochendorfer was a well-architected nineteenth-century building. It wasn’t a cast-iron beauty like many in the neighborhood, but it had an appealing facade, huge windows, and very high ceilings. I could see into it from my place and it seemed the perfect abode for a painter and her son. I daydreamed about buying a loft in that building, and even received a generous offer for a loan from my old landlord and friend, Arthur, for a down payment, but I didn’t want to be indebted to anyone.

  I wrote yet a third book on love and relationships and it, too, did well financially. Despite my losses in the Japanese market, my savings from book advances and royalties were more substantial than I could have predicted possible a couple years ago. I stayed in our small space and life went on smoothly and uneventfully with unimportant ups and downs. My son was applying to colleges and I finished the third book, went on some unremarkable blind dates, wrote a few articles on art criticism, did freelance writing, and reaped good fees from start-up-magazine consulting. I spent a long, food-oriented summer in Tuscany with a girlfriend who had rented a villa there and enjoyed several vacation trips to France and Spain. At home, I grew somewhat discouraged about finding a gallery but I kept on making art. It was the only work I really loved—then and now.

  I had a new circle of friends—artists, dancers, writers, poets, shopkeepers, knife-grinders. Often in the evenings I heard a pebble strike my window, thrown from the street below.