by Jay Begler
“Sophie, this means that you actually have no residence of your own. God, you are a homeless person.”
“Yes, in a way, but a homeless person with one of the best addresses and furnished rooms in Manhattan.”
She took Goodwin’s hand, led him to the model dining room and said: “Now, I hope you like my menu. We have salmon quenelles with crème fraiche, beef Wellington, made with fois gras and truffles as the forcemeat, and a crème brûlée for dessert.”
He finished his champagne quickly having concluded that it would be prudent to leave immediately, to run for his life, but Goodwin appeared glued to the situation by the thought of sex with Sophie. She had put on a designer apron with a cute artistic rendering of a homeless person and the words: “I’d Rather Be Cooking in My Own Home.” His eyes were diverted from her apron and focused on the two large dishes held by Sophie, each bearing soft heaping mounds of a greenish-grey color. All Goodwin could think of was the early 70s science fiction movie entitled Soylent Green.
“What is this, Sophie?”
“It’s what I told you: salmon quenelles, beef Wellington, roasted potatoes, red cabbage, and crème brûlée. Oh, I forgot to tell you, all of the food was used for Cuisinart demonstrations in housewares. It’s all there. Try it, you’ll like it.”
The best that Goodwin could do was to smile weakly and say, “Very piquant.”
After throwing all the excess food, dishes, silverware, and glasses into a Bloomingdales dumpster, Sophie said, “No dirty dishes here. Bloomingdales wouldn’t stand for it.”
She led him by the hand into a furnished bedroom. The furniture in the room was oriental in its orientation and in, a way, evocative of that of a brothel. “This is a replica of Heidi Fleiss’ bedroom,” Sophie said proudly. “Bloomingdales,” she explained, “had exhausted theme ideas for the model rooms and decided to have a contest. Heidi’s room won hands down. Bloomingdales even put up a small plaque on the wall next to her bed to explain that Heidi was a famed madam in the nineties.”
“Sophie, I must tell you that I’m more than a little nervous about this. Technically, we are trespassers.”
“Don’t be nervous,” Sophie responded unbuttoning her blouse. “The floor is entirely empty and the night watchman doesn’t come up for a couple of hours. The dogs won’t be let loose for another hour and they like me. I feed them designer dog food. These Dobermans just go crazy for Chanel doggie biscuits. Here, a present, Calvin Klein silk pajamas, on sale 30 percent off until next Monday. I’ll wear the bottom and you wear the top or vice versa.”
Goodwin realized that the common sense thing to do at that point would have been to head for the exit, but as everyone knows that with all men, no exceptions, lust trumps rationality every time. Thus, while Goodwin was more than a tad apprehensive, he slipped between the silk sheets of a sexy looking art deco styled bed.
Making love to Sophie was an experience beyond his comprehension. Its nature was not only different in its degree of intensity from his experiences with Sheila, but also different in kind. Goodwin felt no need during this interlude for the PEP application. If anything, his road to orgasm was not going to be premature, but mature due to a combination of Goodwin’s age and, more importantly, his fear when he saw low shadows moving about briskly, presumably the Dobermans left to wander the floors of Bloomingdales to assure security. At the crescendo of his first of many orgasms he thought he heard the dogs baying at the moon, only to realize later when he was alone and replayed the episode that the sound emanated from him. Actually, the dogs were baying, too.
Sophie woke Goodwin about five am, gave him a Norelco razor from the appliance department, a Ralph Lauren shirt, socks, tie, and underwear and a note from the stationary department, “Thanks for a wonderful evening. I love you with all my heart.”
He replied with a perfunctory “Me, you,” but began to doubt if he really meant it.
Under ordinary circumstances, Goodwin would have been elated, but he was despondent. Sophie’s living arrangements troubled him greatly. There was little doubt that she was quite wonderful, but she was clearly short changed in the rationality department. His friends were absolutely right. His perception of her must have suffered under a cloud of rebounditis. It was clear to him in a very depressing way that his lovely soul mate was one of those single over 40 adults that Graves counted as a functioning psychotic. While the evening was extraordinary, it was also quite dangerous. Future involvement with Sophie would end in disaster. Goodwin knew that he had to cut the relationship off before his emotional connection to Sophie passed the fail-safe point and there was no turning back regardless of the consequences. Sophie, he told himself sadly and resolutely, had to be history. Bloomingdales could no longer be on his itinerary.
That good and prudent conclusion lasted until Sophie appeared within the frame of his office door several hours later. He hadn’t seen her at first. He was looking at the photograph taken the night before. Despite his conclusion about the instant demise of their relationship he was smiling fondly at it.
“Hi there, soldier. Want to go skating?”
“Sophie, what are you doing here?”
“It’s too nice to work. Sky is a perfect blue. The temperature is in the low 50s and I have two employee passes from Bloomies for Walman Rink.”
“But, what about your law firm? What you told me about you being a lawyer was true wasn’t it? He was praying for a yes.”
She laughed. “Absolutely. I just took today off. Bloomingdales is a place I just hang out in at night. It’s not a very long story. Come skating with me and I’ll explain.”
She was wearing a short red skating skirt, dark tights, and a white long-sleeved tee-shirt that accentuated her beautiful body. The thoughts that troubled him evaporated, at least for the moment. He replied: “But, I haven’t skated in years and besides I have nothing to wear and plenty to do today.”
“You mean that important velvet inventory in your Edison, New Jersey, plant. I read your appointment schedule, told your receptionist that I was affiliated with Bloomingdales, which is true in a very loose way, and she rearranged that exciting appointment for tomorrow. Here’s a matching Ralph Lauren outfit.”
“Did you shoplift these?”
“Borrowed. I just throw them into the return bin; they’re cleaned and resold. Not to worry. As for your not skating for many years, it’s just like making love. Once you do it, you never forget, except you don’t moan as much, unless skating turns you on or more realistically you twist your ankle.”
Despite a shaky start and wobbly ankles, Goodwin felt a sense of great exhilaration. And, why not? He was with an extraordinarily beautiful, funny, and bright woman with whom he was beginning to feel inexorably connected. His concerns about her, for the moment at least, were pushed aside. And, he was starting to skate rather well. His outwardly bound ankles and wobbly legs corrected themselves after two rotations around the rink. Sophie skated backwards, effortlessly, urging him on. She skated around him as he moved forward and on occasion did a little pirouette.
He was sweating when they sat on a bench and drank some hot chocolate. “You’re such a good skate!” she laughed. “You deserve a reward.” Sophie grabbed the back of his head, pulled him towards her, and kissed him passionately. It was the type of spontaneous public kiss he had seen other couples do, generally younger, and which he always envied. He thought, “It’s so nice to be in love.”
“Sophie, I know this is crazy. I’m a guy who always has his arms around his emotions most of the time, a guy totally in control most of the time, and a guy who is measured in all things. Then I meet you and 24 hours later I’m seriously considering the possibility that I may be falling in love with you.”
“Too many qualifiers, Philip; take out the ‘may.’ Commit to it.”
“Okay, Sophie, no qualifiers. When it comes to you I’m ruled by total emotion and not one scintilla of rational thought at this point. I love you. And it’s been less than 24 hours. Does this mak
e any sense to you?”
“Of course, silly boy. And it’s not crazy. Sometimes you just know. I know.”
“But this living in Bloomingdales, its nuts and it’s dangerous. It makes no sense. I know you’re not crazy, maybe just a little. You can live with me.” He paused and said surprising himself, “For the rest of your life.”
“I know, but I can’t, not just yet. I have to work it out.”
“Work what out? You’re a homeless person. Just move in with me. No strings.”
“I don’t mind strings if they’re strings that bind us. But, I’m not homeless. I have a home, in Bloomingdales. So, I can’t be homeless. What I am is a trespasser. Worse, I’m a habitual and compulsive trespasser. I know it sounds weird, but think of other compulsions, for example, a compulsive gambler, or a compulsive eater. Mine is just to trespass, somewhere. I can afford to live on my own. In fact, I actually have a small studio apartment, and I usually go there in the morning to shower and change my clothes. That sounds strange, I know. Up to a year ago, I had never even heard of a trespassing compulsion, let alone being controlled by it. But then, several associates where I worked bet me that I couldn’t hide in a department store and spend the night there. I took the bet, my $100 versus their $2000. So, I planned my stay quite carefully. I chose Bloomingdales, because the model rooms would be a perfect place to hide. I selected a Thursday evening to begin my stay, since the store closed late and there was less time for me to spend in hiding. Just before closing time, as the sales help was getting ready to leave, when they were all focusing upon themselves and not any customers, I stepped into a large armoire until everyone had left the store. I was alone in Bloomingdales except for the guards and Dobermans. Through some rather circuitous means, I learned the inspection routine of the guards. Interestingly, Dobermans can’t detect a human scent heavily doused with Chanel No 5.” She stopped and laughed slightly. “Remember that the next time you date a Doberman.”
“It was a terrifying experience, but it was also exhilarating. I actually provoked my friends to dare me to do it again, this time for a week. I thought that if they dared me I could believe that what I was doing was normal and that I was merely responding to a dare. Even then, however, I knew that the strange compulsion was overtaking me. The bet was double or nothing. They took the bet and I went back the following night and then the next night, and the night after that. Each night was more exciting than the previous one. It was a wonderful game. For the first time, I could really understand the nature of compulsions. I started spending evening after evening as a trespasser in Bloomingdales.”
“One night, when all of the security guards were on their break, I turned on a fabulous stereo in Bloomies newly created “Spanish Hideaway” room, a section of the store devoted to products from Spain. A slow Spanish waltz came on. I closed my eyes and began to dance. I was immersed in the music. I twirled two or three times. Suddenly I realized that I was not alone. Others, maybe six couples, were dancing next to me. It was an odd and rag-tag group. I was shocked and was tempted to scream, but an older woman, dressed like a flamenco dancer, twirled by put her hands to her lips, smiled and said softly: ‘Shh!”
“Up to that point, I thought I was the only one who had this compulsion. There were others just like me. I joined their group and we’ve been hiding out in spots ever since. Last week, we spent the evening on the stage of the Metropolitan Opera House. I know you can catalog all of the reasons that I should quit, and I want to. But the compulsion or obsession is almost overwhelming. And, if you haven’t been there, it’s impossible to comprehend.”
“Look, Sophie, I’ll get you the best psychiatrists money can buy. I love you. But I can’t have a relationship with someone who lives in Bloomingdales’ furnished rooms.”
“How about Ethan Allan’s,” she responded trying to lighten the mood. “I’ll try, but have to do something with my group tonight; sort of the ultimate challenge for our group. You don’t want to know. I’ll call you first thing in the morning.”
“I don’t want to spend even one night without you.”
“I know. Just tonight. Then we’ll spend every night together. And if you see me in Bloomingdales’ furnished rooms it will only be as a customer.”
“You’ve made me a very happy camper.”
“Me, too.”
The following morning Goodwin saw Sophie, but not in the way he had hoped. She and several others, characterized by one police officer as “sick kooks,” were the subject of major news stories. Police found Sophie and her cronies occupying several of the bedrooms of Gracie Mansion, the Mayor’s residence. She might have not been caught had the Mayor not returned unexpectedly from a vacation.
A few days later Goodwin read that Sophie was released on her own recognizance, but she never contacted him. Despite his misgivings he returned to Bloomingdales several nights later, but Sophie could not be found. The area theretofore devoted to the model rooms had been walled off after it was reported that these rooms were “home base” for the trespassers. Bloomingdales posted a large sign on the wall that read, “Closed For Renovations.”
At Gramercy Tavern, he was told by the bartender that no one at the restaurant had seen Sophie since the night she was with him. The nightclub in Greenwich Village had closed down to make way for a 21st century post-modern glass apartment house designed by a famous architect who promised that it would be “iconic.” The receptionist at her law firm said that Sophie resigned, even though the Judge before whom she appeared only gave her a reprimand. She heard that Sophie was so ashamed by what had happened to her that she left the country. The woman had no idea if Sophie would ever return.
As he went through his daily routine at work, every time the phone rang or the door of his office opened unexpectedly Goodwin half expected and hoped it was Sophie, only to be disappointed, but not surprised, that the caller or entrant was someone else. His only tangible reminder of Sophie was the photograph from the Forties.
For weeks following Sophie’s disappearance, Goodwin was a bundle of nerves. He couldn’t sleep, didn’t care about eating, and often just stared out into space. For a short while, he saw a therapist who did in fact help and told Goodwin that he was suffering from PTRSS, “Post Traumatic Romance Stress Syndrome.”
At his lowest point, he wondered if he was going to be like Florentino Ariza in Marquez’ great novel and would have to wait a half a century before reuniting with Sophie. That thought provoked a disturbing scenario: He is now over 100 years old and Sophie is 94. He is ready to give up when he sees her photo on Facebook with the notation “one mutual friend who is still alive.” They meet. He is shocked to learn that for the last ten years Sophie has been living in the same independent living facility as he and just one floor above him. This tragic failure to meet, he learns, is due to their different meal schedules. Once alone, they make love. He says, “Was it as good for you as me? She replies “Was what good?” and he says, “I can’t remember.”
After a number of months, Goodwin appeared to gain control of his emotions. He and his three cronies were having lunch on the large outdoor dining patio of their country club. It was one of those perfect days: deep blue sky, virtually no humidity, low 70s, and just a wisp of cool wind.
Goodwin called these kinds of days “optimistic days.” He had developed a whole repertoire of names for days. Thus, if the day were overcast with high humidity, he would call it a “pessimistic day.” A day where the weather changed drastically was “a schizophrenic day.” A day filled with fog was “a dementia day” because you’re always in a fog. The typecasting of days into different psychological states became very popular at the club. People would often ask Goodwin “What kind of day today?” hoping to provoke a clever response.
On this optimistic day, the mood of the foursome was subdued, but upbeat. Goodwin was regaling them with his tale of Sophie, a story which provoked shaking heads, smiles, observations and some laughter, even from Goodwin, a sure sign that he appeared to be comi
ng out of his loss of Sophie funk.
“So tell me, Philip,” Kass asked, “what did you learn from your little adventure with Sophie?
“I guess that over time bad experiences sometimes become good experiences if you learn from them.” Goodwin, who was both introspective and sensible, had actually thought about this question and had sought to take something positive away from his brief episode with Sophie.
He added, “Well, one good thing is that I realize that there are probably many wonderful single and hopefully sane women with whom I could have a serious relationship. The inconvenience caused by Sheila’s departure, is just that, an inconvenience and nothing more. Long term I know I would be far better off and happier without her. In fairness, Sheila is better off without me.”
“Anything else?” Graves asked.
“I guess it’s this: living well might not the best revenge for me, but choosing well just might be.” Then, holding up the photo of him and Sophie, he said, “And, at least I have a memento of me and Sophie.” Still disbelieving that this was indeed Goodwin, his trio of friends said in unison and sarcastically, “Yeah. Right.”
In that mellow moment, Goodwin couldn’t imagine that the next time he saw Sophie, months later, it would be on a talk show where she would reveal the existence of a video, secured from Bloomingdales’ security camera, of their passionate encounter in Heidi Fleiss’ bedroom.
Part Three
The Host-Pital
Medical Economics Dictionary
host·pital
n. A facility that provides entertainment, lodging, meals, and other guest services (“host”) as well as medical, surgical, or psychiatric care (“pital”) Synonym: Meditainment Center
The Fashionable Policeman
Five months had passed since Sheila had left Goodwin. For the most part, his life had normalized. He returned to Harborside, played golf with friends, and even went on a date with a woman who his friends assured him had the necessary three s’ for a “man in his position.” She was sensible, sane, and safe and, Goodwin added, though he never called her a second time, a lovely woman.
