by Jay Begler
Just before he went to sleep, Goodwin caught a glimpse of himself on the evening news and was pleased to see that when he walked out of his house he had a certain swagger, an air of confidence, if not defiance. He liked that. The following morning, he ran in the park, ate a mound of real, not artificial no calorie pancakes, the only type allowed by Sheila and topped it off with real maple syrup, not Nocal syrup. There was, he thought, something wonderful and exhilarating about living in the City. As he sipped his coffee and looked out of the restaurant’s window at Central Park, he thought about Sheila’s previous humorless condition and said to himself, “You schmuck. How could you have ever stayed married to her for so long?” It was a happy scolding.
“Perhaps,” he thought to himself as he strolled to work,” it was best that I moved out. The house, symbolically at least, was my last physical connection with Sheila. Anyway, I have survived the worst. Things got to get better from here on in.”
“Oh Mr. Goodwin,” his receptionist said, “Please go directly to the board room. There’s a Board of Directors meeting in progress.” Almost immediately, he could feel a cocktail of pancakes and syrup come up in his throat. It did not taste as good the second time. Since he was the CEO and head of the Board of Directors, he knew exactly and depressingly what she meant. The Two Sheilas, as owners of 100 percent of Threads Inc. stock, had convened an emergency shareholders’ meeting. They sat at the head of the company’s long conference room table, below a portrait on velvet of their father. A team of attorneys, headed by Wang, stood behind them.
Before Goodwin even sat down, Wang spoke, “Mr. Goodwin, we represent The Sheila in corporate matters and pursuant to the bylaws of Threads Inc. have called a special shareholders meeting to elect new officers.”
Goodwin had a sense of unbridled panic and was trembling. He later said of the moment, “Now I know exactly how Marie Antoinette felt seconds before the blade came down, unless her mind was elsewhere, like wondering how the local bakeries were doing.”
“Any nominees?” Wang asked.
One Sheila responded, “Yes, I nominate both of us as Co-Presidents and CEOs.”
“I second the motion,” the other Sheila responded.
Within seconds the shareholders, in this case the Two Sheilas, ousted Goodwin as the company’s CEO and summarily fired him. Goodwin was out of work.
“I want you to know that I demand my full severance pay,” Goodwin said forcefully.
Wang was prepared for this demand, and holding up a sheath of papers that looked a bit old, but vaguely familiar to Goodwin said, “Well according to your original employment contract, the one you signed just prior to your wedding, without really reading it, very foolish I must say, and had notarized, you would be entitled to severance and a great deal more if you were ever terminated against your will unless, and I quote, “Philip Goodwin ever asks Sheila for a divorce or commences divorce proceedings against Sheila.’”
Goodwin could only respond with a weak, “But they were really going to file for divorce.”
Wang lost his patience and pointing his finger threateningly at Goodwin said with a raised voice: “But that’s not what it says in the agreement you signed. In particular, Mr. Goodwin, I call your attention to the last paragraph which you initialed: ‘I HAVE READ AND UNDERSTAND ALL THE TERMS AND CONDITIONS OF THIS AGREEMENT. I WAS GIVEN THE OPPORTUNITY TO RETAIN A LAWYER TO REVIEW THIS AGREEMENT, BUT DECLINED.’
On the day that Goodwin and Sheila were to be married, Sheila’s father, Boris, had called Goodwin into his study several hours before the wedding ceremony and said, “Son, now that you are going to be a member of our family, I’d like you to join the business. You’ll start with a salary of $80,000 a year; have a company car, a country club membership, and a $75,000 sign on bonus. I know you think this is abrupt, but I always make decisions on the spot. Believe me, my instincts are always correct. What do you say?”
Goodwin was not really was not surprised at the offer. After their engagement he and Sheila often discussed his working for the family business and running it one day. “Sure, great. Thank you very much. You won’t regret it.”
Boris walked to a table covered by numerous legal documents including a 50 page single-spaced agreement. “Okay. Here is your employment agreement. You may want to take it home and read or you can sign it right now. It’s just one less thing to think about before the ceremony. I’ve already signed. It’s all standard stuff. You know compensation, car, and raises.”
“Raises?” Goodwin asked in a state of euphoria.
“Oh yes. $100,000 in year two and then major bonuses. But maybe you should have your lawyer look it over.”
Goodwin didn’t have a lawyer, nor did he wish to retain one. He skimmed through the pages of the huge and rather incomprehensible document, pausing here and there on some complex language he did not understand and pretended during the exercise that it all made sense.” Looks fine to me,” he said after a few minutes and signed in the presence of a notary public.
With the rap of a gavel, Wang said, “I declare this meeting over and direct the security guards to escort Mr. Goodwin out of the building. Mr. Goodwin, tomorrow we will be asking for a protective order against you, in view of your threat to these lovely and innocent women, and we will be suing you for harassment. Meanwhile, if you ever come near this building again, we will have you arrested.”
It was only as he stood up that he noticed a camera that had apparently been shooting the whole event. “It’s a live feed to the Obrah/Vinfrey show and to the major networks,” one of the Sheilas said nonchalantly. “We are trying to expand it to a one hour special, ‘The Firing of Philip Goodwin.’”
Part Seven
The Low Lifes
The Solo District
The SoLo district of Manhattan was once called “Stuyvesant Town” It was never actually a town, however, but an enormous private residential development just north of 14th Street and east of Third Avenue. Erected in 1947, and comprised of 35 red brick, multi-story, apartment buildings clustered close to each other, the complex takes up about 80 acres. This makes it larger than the SoHo district in Manhattan and the DUMBO district in Brooklyn. It is estimated that about 25,000 residents live in its 8,000 plus apartments. Shops and restaurants surround and intertwine throughout the complex.
Occupied by solid middle class types for most of its existence, Stuyvesant Town had the reputation of a desirable place to live at reasonable rents. All of that changed quickly, however, with the publication of PPRs by address. A graph within the publication showed a disproportionately high number of Low Lifes living in the development. Just like spikes of certain diseases in a particular locale often can’t be explained, the large number of Low Lifes in Stuyvesant Town had no scientific basis. The best that experts, particularly those newly self-minted experts on Low Lifes who began to appear on talk shows, could come up with was the cluster of Low Lifes in Stuyvesant Town was a “sociological anomaly.”
Aghast residents were not particularly interested in causality, however. The impact of the revelation was immediate and severe. In a manner reminiscent of the “White Flights” of the 50s and 60s, streams of tenants began to abandon their units to the lands of higher ratings. Low Lifes, forced under varying degrees of pressure, to leave their residences and to find refuge elsewhere quickly filled the void left by fleeing residents.
When it became apparent that Stuyvesant Town had become a magnet for Low Lifes, its name was changed to the “SoLo District,” though it was often referred to by the press as the “SoLo Ghetto.” The renaming of the district provided sufficient impetus for the remaining residents to flee, many without taking their furniture or household items. While this displacement caused a great deal of suffering on both sides, there was one group who welcomed it: moving companies.
The reaction of those exiting Stuyvesant Town was reflective of an attitude across the country towards Low Lifes. Just why the enmity for the group arose so quickly and was so deep remains
the subject of countless books, articles, PhD theses and even a movie. In a well regarded book on the subject, “The Community of Hate,” the author observed, “Several factors coalesced to cause this dramatic shift in attitude and tolerance. Politicians, talking heads, and media types, all seeking to curry favor with the public, would routinely put down Low Lifes. Jokes and simple insults soon turned to vitriol when a rumor surfaced that all Low Lifes adhered to the teachings of a book called The Low Life Manifesto. The closest parallel to this is The Protocols of the Elders of Zion which was an anti-Semitic hoax first published in Russia in 1903. Supposedly, this alleged “Manifesto” advocated a host of depraved and unorthodox practices. While the book never existed and was debunked, the rumor about it persisted. All of this reinforced the public’s antipathy for Low Lifes and encouraged more of the same criticism from the media and politicians, which in turn deepened the public’s feelings of antipathy, and so on. The word “vicious” in vicious cycle” was particularly appropriate for this course of unfortunate events. Just like fans of a particular team feel a sense of community with other fans when rooting for their team, the broad populous experienced a sense of community when, in a way, it was rooting against Low Lifes. America at this moment in time appeared to have a new slogan: ‘United We Hate.’”
Goodwin was on a bus enroute to SoLo. From his vantage point, he could see the mass of red brick buildings ahead. In a state of shock, depression, and total panic, he had difficulty accepting what had happened to him a few hours earlier. After being ousted as the CEO of the company he had made highly successful, Goodwin stood in front of his former office building and tried, with little success, to calm himself.
He had about $400 in his wallet and some credit cards. Almost immediately he realized what was going to happen next and ran full tilt to an ATM machine to avoid its consequences, but it was too late. The computerized message on the screen read “Account Closed.” Goodwin’s credit cards, all being corporate cards, had been revoked. All of his checking accounts, which were run through the business, were closed.
Before he turned away from the ATM screen a horrible realization washed over Goodwin causing him to whisper, “Oh no.” For the first time in his life, he experienced an emotion completely new to him, a deep and overwhelming sense of dread. His hands were shaking so violently that he had difficulty pushing the speed dial on his cell phone. Though it was not particularly warm, sweat seemed to emanate from every pore in his body.
“Paramount Investments” the receptionist said. “How may I direct your call?”
“Malcolm Tenzer,” Even these words were tinged with anxiety.
“Who may I say is calling?”
“Philip Goodwin.”
“What is this in reference to?”
Goodwin felt that the woman was speaking very slowly, though this was a misperception stemming from uncontrollable anxiety. He wanted to scream, “Put the fucking call through,” but held fast trying hard to keep his panic in check. “This is Philip Goodwin. He is my investment banker and this is an emergency, please put me through immediately.”
“One moment please.” The moment seemed to last a century and a half. Tenzer was an able and cheery man, who always greeted Goodwin with an upbeat, “doctor,” a term he used for everyone and one that seemed to amuse people. This time he answered in a subdued, flat, and what seemed to Goodwin a tone of voice reserved for delivering bad news.
“Philip.”
Goodwin interrupted and as if to speed up what he wanted to accomplish spoke quickly. “My accounts? Are they still in place? If so I need you to transfer half of everything, stocks, bonds, and cash to a new account in my name only. Use your discretion on how you execute. I’ll come up and sign the necessary papers. But make the transfer immediately. I’m only a couple of blocks from your office.”
Tenzer’s silence told Goodwin what he feared. Plaintively, almost whining, almost begging, Goodwin pleaded “And please don’t tell me you can’t do it.”
“I’m sorry, Philip, but Sheila transferred everything to her, to their, account this morning.”
“Malcolm, how could you? You know what’s been going on between the Two Sheilas and me. You’ve handled my money for 20 years. I’ve followed you from brokerage firm to brokerage firm. I’ve been a loyal friend, not to mention your most important and biggest account. How could you have betrayed me like this?”
“I’m so sorry, Philip, but it wasn’t done through me. Apparently, the Two Sheilas found another financial advisor in our company. We have several thousand. They picked someone I don’t even know, authorized the transfer, completed all the necessary transfer forms and that was that. My guess is that they knew I’d resist and contact you immediately.”
“Do you realize that I’m essentially penniless?”
“Well, half of those assets belong to you under the law. But I guess that will have to be resolved in court.”
“Yes, but that will take two or three years. What do I do now?”
“I don’t really know. The sad fact is that I’m packing up. Since you were my major client and I’ve lost your account, I’ve been fired. I’m done. I guess your wives screwed me, too. I’m asking myself the same question as you. What do I do now?”
When Goodwin arrived back at the Plaza he found his bags, packed and stacked in the hall next to his room. Several attempts to use his key card to regain entry failed. The Plaza had changed his door’s key code. An elegant embossed note was taped to one of Goodwin’s bags.
The Plaza
My Dear Mr. Goodwin,
The Plaza prides itself on the accommodations it provides for its guests and nothing would please us more than to have you continue your stay on with us. Unfortunately, the hotel has been advised that your corporate credit cards have been revoked. Ordinarily, we would be pleased to honor any personal cards you may have, but have just learned that you are a Low Life. For the comfort and safety of our guests and understanding their sensibilities, we have adopted a strict policy against permitting Low Lifes to stay in our hotel. If you ever achieve a PPR of 11 or over please do not hesitate to contact us, though rooms for those below 15 are limited.
Cordially,
The Management
PS: Ask about our New Year’s Eve Specials-Note, however that we are not currently accepting reservations for people with PPRS below 16.
By the time Goodwin had finished reading the note, a bellboy had his bags in hand. It was Andre the orderly from the Meditainment Center. Goodwin was surprised to see him and, momentarily forgetting his predicament, asked, “Andre, what are you doing here?”
“Unfortunately, I was fired. My supervisor heard me telling a visitor that a patient was en route to a hospice, and I was fired on the spot. I should have used “comfort zone.”
With Goodwin’s bags in hand, Andre escorted him to an elevator that opened to the narrow alleyway he had used when he first arrived. Andre said, “Thank you for staying at the Plaza, Mr. Goodwin. We hope to see you again. Just between you and me, I think that this Low Life stuff is a lot of crap.” Goodwin thanked Andre but neglected to tip him. He thought he heard a disappointed Andre say under his breath as he walked away, “Lousy Low Life.”
Within a period of less than an hour, Goodwin went from an affluent entrepreneur to a homeless person with two bags in hand and with no place to go. In a way, he was like Sophie, but he didn’t have the courage to inhabit a furnished room in a department store. Though wearing a bespoke suit, he felt like one of those ragged people who he encountered from time to time when they approached him for a handout and to whom Goodwin, to his credit, always gave some money, an act that generally provoked a reproachful grunt from Sheila. He wondered if others would now be as charitable to him.
Goodwin called Peter Kass and heard a recorded message from Kass’ wife: “If you are attempting to reach Peter Kass, he no longer lives here. If you wish to reach him, please call him on his cell phone, 561-456-9090.
Kass picked up on the
first ring. “Peter Kass.”
“Peter, what’s going on? I just received this weird message from your wife.”
“To use the vernacular, Donald, Charlie, and me have been screwed by your dear wives.”
“My wives?”
“Your wives. As you know, we’ve always stood by you against all this bullshit. So two weeks ago we go on one of these stupid talk shows to defend you and to set the record straight. The host asks, “How could you defend anyone who is a five?” At that point, Charlie loses it and yells, ‘If Philip Goodwin is a five then we are fives, too.’ The TV host asks if we agree and Donald and I respond, ‘Hell yes!’ So the Two Sheilas who have a Twitter following of about 40 million, bigger than virtually anyone with a Twitter account, immediately send out a Tweet which asks everyone to send ratings in for us that are fives or lower in all categories. Two days later, we are fives, Low Lifes. That’s how fast it happened. We get thrown out of Harborside and people start picketing our houses wanting us to leave the neighborhood. Our wives divorce us on the ground that we are Low Lifes and, on advice of counsel, transfer all of our money to their accounts.”
Naturally, the first thing we do is call our lawyers. And guess what? They won’t represent us because they have a policy against representing Low Lifes. Two weeks before this happened they were kissing our asses. So right now we each have about $10,000. That will last a while, but I don’t know what will happen after that.”
“Holy shit, I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault. I think everyone has simply gone crazy. So, what’s up with you?
