Beyond my mother, Lois, and Tim Russert, the tape also contained a pile of messages from publishing houses and advertising honchos wanting to explore various commercial opportunities that might prove mutually beneficial. The most remunerative, though not necessarily the most appealing, was an offer to become the official spokeswoman for that exciting dietary breakthrough, kosher Baco Bits. I was honored by my selection, of course, and thought the exceptional minds who run this prestige outfit made a savvy choice. But that didn’t mean I intended to return the call. Or any of the other calls. I was a Personal Life Coach. More accurately, by that point, I suppose, a Personal Life Coach with Attitude. In any case, I still had no intention of boot-strapping my one catastrophic appearance on Filthy Rich! into drive-by guest gigs on Meet the Press and tons of shows lower on the food chain. Nor did I intend to exploit my accidental turn in the spotlight by pitching sacrilegious food products meant to enhance the salad-eating experience.
Oh, I almost forgot. There was also a message from Dolores. I must be blocking because at the time it was a very big deal. Instead of expressing anger at my standing her up at the yarn store, she sounded sympathetic. She said she “totally understood,” given how upset I must be. She also said I could call her any hour of the day if I wanted to talk to her about “the things that were troubling” me. She even suggested that I hop on an exercise bike and ride ten miles to reduce my stress and “restore that sense of calm equilibrium everybody needs to function properly.”
Hey, I thought, I’m the Personal Life Coach. She’s supposed to be the client. But thanks to the blowup on Filthy Rich! our roles were now reversed. Dolores was trying to coach me, using the same reliable lines of wisdom and encouragement I’d used on her maybe hundreds of times over.
I had to face facts. You can’t be an effective Personal Life Coach when your own life is so visibly pathetic that even your highly self-absorbed clients are moved to focus on some other person’s problems, not their own—and you are that other person. The distance and respect that are prerequisites for my profession were gone, just as good old Neil was gone.
Uh-oh, I said to myself, struggling not very successfully to fend off the sad feelings starting to wash over me, along with an overpowering, and not altogether pleasant, sense of déjà vu. For the second time in my life, I was entering the dicey economic and emotional terrain I call “Gap Country”: a period of professional uncertainty and turmoil that finds you clinging for comfort to the notion that if your career doesn’t start looking up, and soon, you could always find work at a nearby Gap clothing store. Indeed, the very ubiquity of the Gap’s outlets for vending its strangely appealing generic preppy wear, which just yesterday you condemned as urban blight, suddenly becomes your major source of security and hope.
My first experience in this scary realm dates back nearly eight years. I had just left Santa Monica Spaces, and it wasn’t yet clear whether I’d succeed in building a sufficiently large roster of well-paying clients to make a successful transition from closet consulting to my newly chosen profession of Personal Life Coach. The one thing that was certain from my standpoint was that I wasn’t going to go back to closets, or back to Brooklyn to take up the giant bug sprayer my sweet dad kept calling to say he had all filled and waiting for me. Becoming a Gap employee, or “Gapster,” as I prefer to call this exclusive club, was at least something different. On the bright side, moreover, it wasn’t lost on me that directing inquiring Gap customers to the location of the store’s sales racks can be considered a helping profession, in its way.
There were nearly two months when practically every waking hour I wasn’t seeing my few existing clients, or massaging the contacts I hoped would lead to new ones, was spent skulking amid the meticulously stacked piles of new clothing displayed on the selling floor of the Gap store nearest my home, boning up just in case. Originally I worried that my mediocre folding skills, which I never found to be a real impediment in redesigning people’s closets, might disqualify me for a job whose central responsibility involves arranging garments into incredibly neat stacks. But that was before I learned the secret behind the Gap’s superhuman stacking. That secret is the utilization of ingenious plastic forms, which make precision folding pretty foolproof even for people like me whose attempts to master hospital corners have always ended in humiliation. The feeling of relief when I spotted a young female employee casually using such a form to straighten a pile of children’s sweaters one night just before closing is indescribable.
Recalling that sweet moment of revelation somehow supplied me with the courage to confront what needed doing if I were to have any chance of preserving my hardwon Life Coaching career. Yes, Marcy, I thought, in a pinch there’s always the Gap.
At precisely 9 A.M., still wearing Rosie’s sweatsuit and munching one of the talk-show queen’s Twinkies for breakfast, I began dialing my clients, including Dolores, to cancel all appointments for the next few weeks. By then, I figured, wiping away a tiny dollop of white Twinkie cream that had fallen onto the pink sweatshirt, either something good would happen to put my life back on track again, or my clients, who have a notably short attention span when it comes to other folks’ problems, would forget that their Life Coach was such a well-known mess.
I was waiting for the message tape to rewind, wondering how I was going to finance my self-imposed layoff, when my doorman Frank arrived with yet more floral and candy bribes from Leeza, Queen Latifah, and the gang. Easily the day’s most unusual offering came from Marcia Clark, the exassistant Los Angeles district attorney who parlayed her bungling of O. J. Simpson’s prosecution into a $4.2 million book deal, an image-enhancing beauty makeover, and a glitzy new career as a TV legal commentator and talk-show host: a pair of fine leather gloves from Bergdorf’s that recalled the most famous piece of evidence from the televised trial that launched her as a celebrity. Except for the absence of blood, of course. “I’ll be subbing for Geraldo next week,” she wrote on the card. “Would love you as a guest.”
The fresh supply of expensive loot confirmed that memories of my Filthy Rich! appearance had yet to fade.
Through no fault of my own, I’d become the starring player in a made-for-television melodrama whose ending was not yet in sight. Americans were still standing around office watercoolers and in supermarket checkout lines debating whether it’s ever okay to serve as your boyfriend’s Lifeline, and whether I acted hastily in tossing the ring at Neil instead of trying to patch things up by docilely apologizing for my costly confusion over Teri Garr’s curriculum vitae. In other words, celebrity, if I really wanted it, was still out there waiting for me.
When I tried to put everything in perspective—and apart from snacking and thinking about the Gap, it was mostly what I did—I just got more confused. Whoopi Goldberg was offering me my own box on Hollywood Squares. I was perfectly aware I’d done nothing to earn the honor other than to make a dangerous projectile of Neil’s crummy ring. But like I’ve said, I was getting less humble by the minute. I was feeling entitled. Hell, I figured, why shouldn’t Whoopi invite me? I can be more entertaining than Jim Nabors.
Yet that swagger notwithstanding, the odds that I would actually say yes to assuming one of the august squares remained slim, and not just because I wanted to avoid having to list “square” as my profession on the next Barnard alumnae questionnaire. Unlike Lucy Ricardo and most everyone else I know, I never really had show-biz aspirations. If you check out the high school play program my mother has squirreled away in her extensive Marcy Memorabilia Collection, you’ll see that my only real entertainment credit prior to Neil Night on Filthy Rich! was a small footnote thanking me and about ten other students listed in alphabetical order for our help painting sets for the junior-class production of Storybook Theater. Avidly following the travails of my favorite celebrities in the gossip pages, as I have for years, has provided me with a daily dose of vicarious excitement and glamour, but without instilling any real ambition to become one myself.
Moreov
er, there was the not-so-little matter of taste. I cringed at the thought that I—Marcy Lee Mallowitz—risked becoming forever identified as a prime example of the habitual elevation of unaccomplished nobodies a recent cover story in Newsweek dubbed “America’s Growing Pseudo-Celebrity Crisis.” I don’t disagree that there is such a crisis or that so-called reality shows like Filthy Rich! and The Plank are its epicenter. Only please do me a favor and keep my good name out of it.
Thus my decision to stay holed up in my apartment, dressed in yesterday’s sweats and popping fancy chocolates, was not part of some carefully calculated strategy to heighten the media’s interest in yours truly. But it seemed to have that effect, turning me into some sort of game show Greta Garbo.
Speaking of the ring, it wasn’t long after Frank brought up the gifts that he made a return trip, this time bearing a note hand-delivered by a man Frank described under my interrogation as a “tall, decent-looking sort, probably fortyish.”
“Dear Ms. Mallowitz,” said the note, which was typed on plain white paper, “You don’t know me, but I was at the show, and think your ex-boyfriend is a real jerk. I saw that junky ring he gave you sitting on the floor of the set as everyone was leaving, and I took the liberty of grabbing it and selling it for you on eBay. It went yesterday for $5,200. I have the check, and if you have a moment, I’d like to deliver it in person.” The letter was signed, “Your fan, Cliff Jentzen.”
I was touched that someone—a perfect stranger—would go to the trouble of selling the ring for me. I was also impressed by the financial result. Hey, I thought to myself, $5,200 is probably $5,000 more than Neil paid for it. Amazing thing, the power of television.
“He’s in the lobby, waiting,” Frank said. “I told him I could give you the check, but he said he’d rather wait and do it himself.”
“You left him alone there in the lobby?” I asked Frank.
“Yeah, he seems like a nice enough guy,” Frank said. “Decent-looking. I don’t think he’s the type to steal Social Security checks from the mailboxes when no one’s looking. No harm in you saying hello. I could send him up if you want.”
“Frank,” I said, “not so fast. We don’t know anything about this mystery benefactor of mine. Maybe he’s from the National Enquirer, and the eBay bit is just a ruse to get an interview or a photo of me looking like a slob. Or, he could be a more conventional weirdo who saw me on TV and developed a sick obsession. Or maybe he just wants to worm a big tip out of me. I can’t say he doesn’t deserve it. And then, of course, there’s always the possibility that this Cliff Jentzen, if that’s his real name, is as nice as you say.”
“Maybe,” Frank said. He was now my co-conspirator. If I met this guy in the lobby, the two of us strategized, I would be sacrificing any expectation of privacy, as a handful of reporters and lensmen were still camped outside the building hungry for breaking developments in the Marcy Lee Mallowitz story. I could also be sacrificing a lot of money, since once informed of the ring’s fate, Neil, the cheapskate, was certain to insist on being cut in. Knowing Neil, he would probably demand the whole wad. So my doorman and I devised Plan Two: I would meet this Jentzen fellow in the basement laundry room. The place has security cameras up the wazoo, we figured, so Frank would be able to keep an eye on things from the monitors in the lobby.
“If he’s bad news, I’ll signal for you to come running,” I said. “Just promise me, Frank, you won’t leave on a coffee break.”
We shook on it.
“Okay, then,” I said. “The laundry room in five minutes.”
Within seconds of laying that plan, the stomach butterflies from the other night came fluttering back with a vengeance. As I rode the elevator down to the basement, I felt as jittery as Marcia Brady at the very beginning of Episode Seventy-five. It was very perplexing. Marcia had good reason to be nervous: She was facing her first day of high school. What was my excuse?
The elevator doors opened, landing me in the middle of the musty basement storage area. On the left, just before the door to the laundry room, I was surprised to see Neil’s ugly black-leather “thinking chair.” He’d apparently parked it there for safekeeping on his hurried way out the door the other night. It had a white piece of paper Scotch-taped to the seat with his name on it, and a notation: “Save for Pickup.” On it, someone in the building—I assumed it was my doorman Frank—had scrawled “Good riddance, you bastard” in red Flair pen, and signed it with a reasonable approximation of a skull and crossbones.
I had a good mind to remove the note and ask this Jentzen guy with whom I was about to rendezvous to try making another sale for me on eBay.
* * *
What was the name of the restaurant opened by Jack Tripper on Three’s Company?
a. The Galloping Gourmet
b. Jack’s Eatery
c. The Regal Beagle
d. Jack’s Bistro
See correct answer on back….
* * *
* * *
ANSWER
d. Jack’s Bistro
* * *
Eight
Quick, give me a five-letter word meaning “Dumped Female Lifeline.”
The answer, of course, is M-A-R-C-Y. Yes, me. Marcy Lee Mallowitz. If you got that right, give yourself a generous pat on the back; you’ve clearly been paying close attention. Moreover, you’ve correctly completed number 8 Down in The New York Times crossword puzzle that appeared the same day my mystery eBay hero turned up out of the blue. Lucky for me, I was unaware of this mocking reference at the time, as I probably would have been too depressed to leave my apartment and go meet him. I was feeling plenty down already without any crossword tsoris.
On a more philosophical, less purely egotistical level, my mention in the crossword amounted to jarring confirmation that my television travails had already become part of the cultural vocabulary. Much as I tried to resist, I was nevertheless getting thrust into Darvaland. Any day now, I expect to see an erudite New Yorker essay by Daniel Patrick Moynihan expounding on my unwarranted emergence in the spotlight—“Defining Celebrity Down.” Personally, I’m not sufficiently deep or insightful enough to know exactly what my rise to fame on the flimsy basis of one brief, embarrassing appearance on Filthy Rich! says about our society, me, or the clever wordsmiths who write the Times crossword. But I have a sinking feeling it isn’t good.
There is something strangely comforting about watching someone else’s laundry sloshing about in a sea of suds through the round glass window of a communal washing machine. You can enjoy the rhythm of the waves without worrying if those stain-zapping enzymes used to fortify Extra-Strength Tide with Bleach are dissolving the giant ketchup stain threatening to force your favorite blouse into retirement. At least that’s what I was thinking as I waited for my male visitor amid the half dozen coin machines in the basement of my building. This may be idiosyncratic on my part, but the spin cycle, I have found, can be almost hypnotic.
Just as I was nearing a trancelike state, I heard a man’s deep voice. “Marcy, Marcy Mallowitz, that you?”
Startled, I turned around.
“Cliff Jentzen,” the man said. “Sorry if I scared you.”
On quick inspection, he looked to be fortyish and quite “decent-looking,” much as my doorman Frank had described. He was clad in a worn pair of jeans with a subtle blue-plaid cotton shirt I was almost sure came from J. Crew. A slight paunch suggested exercise deprivation, but nothing a month’s worth of gym visits couldn’t significantly reverse. Between his friendly manner, cute cleft chin, and full head of slightly disheveled wavy brown hair, the overall vibes were positive. Make that very positive.
“Hi,” I said as we rather tentatively shook hands. “Welcome to my private office.” I withdrew my hand somewhat quickly, preferring to risk appearing a tad impolite than make a permanent bad impression with my sweaty palms. “It’s a little noisy,” I added, gesturing with my other moist hand to the surrounding machines, “but you can’t beat the location if you like doing
laundry as much as I do.”
“I’m not real big on laundry,” he said without missing a beat, “it’s the decor I can’t get enough of.” Not a Henny Youngman classic maybe, but as throwaway banter goes, not bad. Definitely a big improvement over Neil’s lame nitrous oxide jokes. In the three years I was with Neil, I couldn’t recall him ever saying anything funny. Not ha-ha funny. At least not on purpose.
Whoa, Marcy, I reminded myself. This guy’s here to deliver a check, not be checked out for a date. It’s just two days since Neil gave you the heave-ho. What would it do to your media profile if it got out you were back on the hunt already?
That was followed by a warring message from a small, decidedly unhip corner of my brain. Whaddaya talking, “media profile”? Two days ago, you didn’t even have one. Get back to business. You still don’t know if Cliff Jentzen is really a guardian angel who sold Neil’s junky ring on eBay for you, or some kind of reporter or even a pervert.
And, of course, one more important thought: Idiot, why are you still in your Rosie sweats?
“Well, here’s the check,” he said, handing over a small, folded blue piece of paper he excavated from one of the back pockets of his jeans.
Filthy Rich Page 7
