by J. J. Murray
Victoria smiled and touched his hand. “Could you make it two?”
“And two orders of caviar.” There goes another three hundred. So this is how the Russians are paying for the Winter Olympics.
“That’s so thoughtful of you, Matthew,” Victoria said. “Isn’t that thoughtful of him, Debbie?”
“It is truly thoughtful of you, Matthew,” Debbie said. “Thank you for being so thoughtful.”
Debbie is Victoria’s echo.
During dinner, Matthew blinked and squinted at his food because he wasn’t quite sure what was on his plate. I haven’t eaten food displayed like modern art in a long time. Wagyu beef, Osetra caviar, and some kind of wine to wash it down. Not bad. Yellow fin tuna and spicy chutney with a glass of Chablis. Lobster tail in Earl Grey-citrus sauce with some more expensive alcohol. Codfish with another glass of something mind-numbingly strong and mind-altering.
Matthew was losing feeling in his hands as squash, bass, cucumbers, yogurt, peanuts, and more wine landed and disappeared from the table.
Debbie is about to burst out of her dress. I hope I get some warning. I just bought this suit.
“You look amazing, Matthew,” Victoria said. “Do you work out?”
I walk the streets before sunrise mostly. “I stay in shape.”
Victoria’s phone buzzed. “Hello, Freddie. How are you? I’m at Le Bernardin, and it is so amazing . . .”
For the next half hour, Victoria and Debbie talked, texted, and surfed the Internet on their iPhones, pausing only to call the wine “amazing” or the yogurt “amazing” or the silverware “amazing” or the wait staff “amazing” or the weather “amazing” or the ice water “amazing” or the minimalist heels strangling Debbie’s feet “amazing.”
Birth is amazing, Matthew thought. Heroism is amazing. A city reborn after 9/11 is amazing. The bill I’m about to get is going to be “amazing.” Water? Silverware? The weather? Your shoes? No way.
“This is such an iconic place, isn’t it, Matthew?” Victoria asked once Freddie let her go the second time.
“Yes,” Matthew said. “Quite.”
“Oh, and so is your ginormous necklace, Victoria,” Debbie said.
“It’s so iconic.”
Victoria pulled the necklace from between her ginormous breasts. “Yes, it is ginormously iconic. Isn’t it, Matthew?”
Two grown people have used forms of the word “ginormous” within seconds of each other. Don’t the rich have to learn vocabulary words like the rest of us?
“Matthew, isn’t my necklace iconic?” Victoria asked again.
Matthew nodded. Not really. Joe DiMaggio was iconic. Robert De Niro is iconic. Saturday Night Live is iconic. Your necklace is not iconic!
Debbie pouted. “I miss Boops.”
Victoria pouted. “I miss Boopsie.”
These two have the attention spans of gnats. Boops? Boopsie? Please tell me these are animals and not other rich people.
Victoria touched Matthew’s hand for a split second before again gripping her wine glass. “We have matching miniature Pomeranians. Boops and Boopsie have been together since birth. I think they’re twins.”
“They were in a litter of three, Victoria,” Debbie said. “They’d be triplets, wouldn’t they, Matthew?”
“Yes. I think.” Does this means these two women live together? They share dogs. They couldn’t possibly share each other’s clothing.
“We should have brought them along,” Debbie said.
“We could have put them in our B Bags,” Victoria said. “They would have fit.”
What are they talking about? “Your . . . B Bags?”
Victoria held up a clutch purse. “Our Fendi B Bags. Don’t you think Boops and Boopsie would look amazing in our B Bags?”
Matthew nodded. I have died and gone to a part of hell Dante never envisioned, where ridiculously named dogs inhabit overpriced clutch purses.
“Debbie, did you hear about Millicent?” Victoria asked.
“No,” Debbie said. “What did Millicent do now?”
No. Gnats have longer attention spans than these two.
“She went to Bergdorf’s the other day and bought a Chado Ralph Rucci.” Victoria’s mouth dropped open. “At Bergdorf’s.”
“She didn’t,” Debbie said.
“She did,” Victoria said.
“Was it?” Debbie giggled. “No, don’t say it.”
“It was,” Victoria said.
“She didn’t,” Debbie said.
“She did,” Victoria said.
I am now in an existentialist, absurd play, Matthew thought. Where’s the dumb waiter?
“She bought it,” Victoria said, nodding up and down like a horse neighing, “off . . . the . . . rack!”
You like my suit? Matthew thought. I bought it off . . . the . . . rack.
“No,” Debbie said. “She didn’t.”
“She did,” Victoria said. “Can you believe it?”
Debbie fanned her face. “Amazing.”
I will probably regret wading into this absurdity. “Forgive me, but I’m lost. What’s a Chado Ralph Rucci?”
Victoria smiled at Debbie. “He doesn’t know.”
“No, he doesn’t,” Debbie said, smiling back.
“Matthew,” Victoria said, “a Chado Ralph Rucci is a dress.”
That’s a long name for a dress. “Is it expensive?”
“Is it expensive?” Victoria said. “Not really. Millicent said she paid six, but that sounds far too high for Bergdorf’s.”
“Oh, I agree, Victoria,” Debbie said. “She probably paid less than four. Off the rack.” Debbie giggled.
Matthew blinked. Millicent bought one dress for six thousand dollars, and these two think she’s lying. Who lies about dropping six grand on a dress with a first, middle, and last name? For six grand, it had better have a social security number and give you a tax break for living in your closet.
The waiter materialized beside Matthew. “Would you like some dessert, perhaps?”
Would you like to stop coming around and asking them if they’re still hungry, perhaps? Perhaps you think I can afford to feed these two all night.
“May we, Matthew?” Victoria asked.
“Sure, why not,” Matthew said.
“We’ll each have the gianduja,” Victoria said.
Matthew looked up at the waiter. “What’s that?” It sounds like a disease.
“Milk chocolate-hazelnut mousse with caramelized banana and burnt honey-pistachio ice cream,” the waiter said.
Whatever happened to a simple piece of apple pie with some ice cream on top? Matthew thought. Or a simple slice of chocolate cake?
“And you, sir?” the waiter asked.
“I’m fine.”
“Some cheese, perhaps?” the waiter asked.
“No, thank you.” Cheese on top of all this? Is he kidding? I have to go out in public!
“Perhaps another glass of wine?” the waiter asked.
I’d blow a .15 on the breathalyzer right now, chief. “No, thank you.”
“Some coffee, perhaps?” the waiter asked.
Perhaps you can leave me the hell alone! “No, thank you.”
And naturally, the women pronounced the caramelized bananas “amazing” and the pistachio ice cream “iconic.”
At meal’s end, Victoria and Debbie flirted with men around them, waving and naming names, while Matthew paid the bill.
It was only $1,600.
Plus tip.
Outside Le Bernardin on the most perfect sidewalk Matthew had ever seen, he decided they needed to walk to the theater. “The Sondheim Theatre isn’t that far from here,” he said. “It’s not too cold, is it?”
Victoria’s jaw dropped between her ginormous breasts. “You aren’t actually suggesting what I think you’re actually suggesting, Matthew.”
Um, actually, yes. “I was just going to say since we all ate so much, that we could walk,” Matthew said. “It’s only a few . . .”
Victoria and Debbie gave Matthew the most evil looks he had ever seen, demons possessing only their eyebrows, noses, and lips. It was as if he had just deposited half a ton of steaming diarrhea right there on the perfect sidewalk and expected them to wade through it in their irrational, impractical heels.
“No, you’re right,” Matthew said. “Ten blocks is much too far to walk. We’ll take a cab then?” Even though you two need to walk off those caramelized bananas so your dresses won’t explode during the show.
They took a cab to West 43rd where Matthew used most of his cash and had only a two-dollar tip for the driver. “I am so sorry,” he whispered to the driver.
“I understand completely,” the driver said. “That right there is a real dame. I’d save my money for her, too. But why’s the other one along for the ride?”
“I wish I knew,” Matthew whispered.
At the box office, Matthew received four tickets. I’ll bet Debbie was supposed to have a date. I can see why she didn’t, but Michael had to know about this “arrangement.”
Matthew allowed Debbie to enter their row first, followed closely by Victoria. Before Matthew could sit next to his alleged “date,” Victoria set both of their Fendi B Bags on the second seat, leaving Matthew alone on the aisle.
I am having a date with two clutch purses.
At least they’re not holding Pomeranians.
And I’m watching an all-white musical first performed for all-white audiences in 1930. And what’s the musical about? A wealthy New York socialite hooking up with a bootlegger. Maybe the fourth ticket was for their purses.
Can this date get any better?
Please?
By the fourth song (“Say It with Gin”), Matthew focused on Victoria’s legs and didn’t see a single hair on them. Not one. That can’t be possible. Does she wax? I can’t see her physically doing anything. She probably has her leg hairs removed individually at $100 an amazing and iconic pluck.
“Love for Sale,” the show’s only truly “iconic” song, sent Matthew into a deep depression. You said it, sister. That’s all this date is. He looked at Victoria and Debbie singing along with the prostitute on stage.
During the intermission, Victoria and Debbie three-way-called Freddie to tell Freddie how “amazing” and “iconic” and “wonderful” the show was. While Matthew wanted to tell Freddie the truth and was glad the women had discovered a new word (“wonderful”), he kept his silence, unhappy that his buzz was quickly wearing off.
During the second act, the utterly forgettable “Sing Sing for Sing Sing” made Victoria’s toes tap along all the way to the last song: “Take Me Back to Manhattan.”
Please, take me back to Brooklyn.
After the show, they took a cab to Azure, Victoria and Debbie’s building on East 91stt Street and First Avenue, a tower held together by thousands of windows. Victoria introduced Matthew to the doorman, who looked like a lost airline pilot, and the concierge, who looked like a lost Charlie Chaplin. When Debbie drifted to the elevator without so much as a “thanks,” Matthew wanted to scream.
But he didn’t. He was in Azure, home of million-dollar one-bedroom apartments, in a well-lit lobby with a still well-lit date.
Victoria seemed to be looking toward the elevator, too, as if she missed her friend already.
“Quite a lobby,” Matthew said absently.
“Isn’t it?” Victoria said. “Weil Studio did all the glass artwork on the walls. Isn’t it amazing?”
No. “It’s nice.”
“And we’re standing on tundra gray marble.” Victoria pointed at the floor for good measure.
I didn’t need you to point. I know where the floor is.
Victoria pointed at the wall. “That’s American walnut wood paneling.”
I still didn’t need you to point.
“Where do you live, Matthew?” Victoria asked.
Hey, she’s trying to engage me in conversation. I feel so privileged. “Williamsburg.”
“Virginia? Oh, I love the South.”
I can’t believe I wanted to touch this out-of-touch woman. “Williamsburg, Brooklyn. On Havemeyer Street.”
“Oh,” Victoria said.
I’ve heard that kind of “oh” before. Joy used to say “oh” like that when her stomach was giving her fits.
“I hear Williamsburg is becoming more and more iconic,” Victoria said.
If I had a dollar for every time she said—
“What are your common charges?” Victoria asked.
Ah, common charges, those uncommon monthly “charges” for the “right” to live in opulence, charges like insurance for common grounds, the pool, the clubhouse, landscaping, garbage removal, snow removal, the doorman’s jacket and white gloves, the concierge’s sneer . . .
“I don’t have any common charges,” Matthew said. I only have something called “rent.”
“Our common charges are over two thousand dollars a month,” Victoria said, smiling broadly.
And she said it with pride, and those common charges don’t include her lease payment, utilities, hair-plucking, dog walking . . .
“Wow, that’s . . . something,” Matthew said. “What floor do you live on, Victoria?”
Victoria widened her eyes. “We’re on the thirtieth floor.”
That must mean something mind-boggling and expensive. “Great views?”
“They are amazing,” Victoria said.
My fault. I set her up to fail with that question. “Are you going to ask me up to see these amazing views?” I spent on mint on you, so I deserve to see a million-dollar view, okay?
“Oh, Matthew,” Victoria said, smiling. “This is only our first date.”
And our last. “Of course. You’re right.”
“I have enjoyed our time together,” Victoria said.
If I were to add it all up, we spent no more than, well, the length of this conversation actually together. “I had a nice time, too.”
Victoria smiled. “I am so glad Michael gave you my number. I don’t have many men interested in going out with me.”
And your friend and your iPhone, and your Fendi B Bag, and Freddie, and . . .
Victoria blinked at him.
Oh. I think I’m supposed to compliment her now. “I don’t see why, Victoria. You are truly amazing. I’m glad Michael gave me your number, too.”
Victoria looked at the tundra gray marble. “Well . . .”
Do I go in for a kiss? I have spent a rent payment on one date. She owes me some kind of affection, not that I will ever call on her again. The view on the thirtieth floor can’t be that amazing, and if I ever want to see the view, I can Google it and save another two grand by not taking you, Debbie, Boops, and Boopsie out to eat.
“Quite an iconic building,” Matthew said.
“Oh, it is,” Victoria said. “Completely iconic.”
She either ignores or cannot hear sarcasm. “I had an amazing time, Victoria.” She had to hear the sarcasm that time. That was sarcasm basted in sarcasm and drowned with sarcastic Chablis and caramelized, sarcastic bananas.
“Oh, so did I, Matthew,” Victoria said. “I had a truly amazing evening.”
Not . . . a . . . clue.
Matthew took a brisk step forward and kissed her cheek. Ow. What kind of armor does she have on her face? I thought her cheeks were soft. I nearly bounced off. My lips are bruised.
Victoria immediately checked herself in a compact mirror snatched out of her B Bag.
Oh for God’s sake! You’re just going upstairs!
Victoria snapped the compact shut. “I have to go help Debbie with Boops and Boopsie. They are so much like children. They are such a handful. I am sure they missed me.”
“Oh, most definitely,” Matthew said. “Pomeranians are iconic.”
“Yes.” Victoria smiled, all fifty of her teeth visible. “Yes, they are. I am so glad I have finally met a man who realizes that.” She stepped close and kissed Matthew on the lips.
&
nbsp; Ow. She has seriously hard lips, too. What did she fill them with? Cement?
“You really are an amazing man, Matthew,” Victoria said.
I need to get out of this amazing, iconic place right now before I start looking for Pomeranians to stomp. My lips need an icepack. “Enjoy the rest of your evening, Victoria.”
“Oh, I will,” Victoria said. “Bye, Matthew. Give my regards to Michael, and feel free to call on me anytime.”
Free? There isn’t anything free about you, woman. Even kissing you has a price. “Sure.”
As Matthew walked slowly down First Avenue toward the Williamsburg Bridge, he loosened his tie and his thoughts. Do I want to call on her again? A phone call to her I can afford. Would I ever want to take her out again? No. That would be a ginormous mistake. Victoria asked me only two questions all night: one about my appearance, not my substance, and one about where I lived. I’m glad she didn’t ask me what kind of lawyer I was or grill me any more about my “space” on Havemeyer.
Victoria looked at everything and everyone but me. She talked more to Debbie and Freddie than she did to me. I was a means to an end. I wasn’t even arm candy. I sat next to two Fendi B Bags at a Broadway show. The kiss I gave her she immediately wiped off. The kiss she gave me hurt.
Maybe she really is a bronze sculpture, nice to look at but a pain to move.
I was broke before the date, and now I’m broken. I can’t even afford coffee and pastries with Angela this morning. I can’t afford bus fare, subway fare, or cab fare. I’m free but broken.
He sighed.
It’s kind of liberating, in a way. I have nowhere to go but up.
Unless I get mugged.
I hope I don’t get mugged. I don’t want my mugger to laugh at me. I don’t want to say, “Sorry, dude, but I’m flat broke. You can have the suit, even though I did buy it off . . . the . . . rack.”
He eventually turned off First Avenue onto Delancey Street and crossed the pedestrian walkway of the Williamsburg Bridge, twenty minutes later settling into his easy chair and burping Chablis.
My body doesn’t like the finer things of life anymore. I’d like to meet the discoverer of caviar, because whoever it was watched a fish squirt out some eggs and decided they’d be good to eat on a cracker.
He watched a few snow flurries fly by his window at three AM.
