Isn't That Rich?: Life Among the 1 Percent

by Richard Kirshenbaum

  “We always go St. Barths for Christmas,” Jerome boasted. “I always take the [enormously expensive beachfront villa] at [fabled and expensive St. Barths hotel].”

  “Jerome always wants to rent a house,” the wife declared, her diamond pavé Rolex weighing down her anorexic wrist as she lifted one zucchini stick like a barbell. “I’m just stuffed,” she declared, excusing herself from having to eat anything else. “But I always tell him that the house renters are just cheapskates and to ante up for the beachfront hotel suite,” she exclaimed.

  “How ’bout you all? Where are you going?” Jerome asked.

  “Jamaica,” I said.

  “Jamaica???” He looked a bit horrified “How could you go there? I went once and I never went back. I didn’t feel safe.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because there are too many natives.”

  “As opposed to St. Barths where you only see transplanted French socials on quatre quatres?” I countered.

  “Yes, that’s why I like it,” the wife said. “I don’t have to feel bad or stay hidden behind walls.” She clutched her bag, as if someone from Jamaica were going to snatch it in a cloud of reefer madness.

  “I have been going to Jamaica for twenty years, and Dana and I have gone everywhere and we never had a problem. They have had issues with crime in certain areas, but overall, if you are cool with people, they are cool with you. The Jamaican people are the world’s nicest people. So lovely.”

  “We love going down the Martha Brae River on a bamboo raft. They chill Red Stripe in the water and it’s supercold,” Dana said, smiling at the memory.

  “We don’t drink beer. Only rosé champagne,” Jerome stated without humor.

  “And the food is the best. I love jerk anything,” Dana soldiered on.

  “Jerome can’t handle spice. He gets dyspepsia,” his wife revealed. A bit too much information, I thought while envisioning Jerome in the bathroom, agonizing over a jerk snapper.

  “Do you actually take your children?” Jerome asked incredulously.

  “My kids love it there. I took them to climb Dunn’s River Falls and it was out of Blue Lagoon.”

  “Well, we would never go there,” the wife said firmly.

  “Different strokes for different folks. I would never go to St. Barths over Christmas vacation.” I decided to engage.

  “Well, you would if you had our accommodations,” Jerome said defensively.

  I threw all caution to the wind, sensing a fight.

  “Actually, my friend is an investor in the hotel and we would very well get the accommodation if we wanted.” I raised an eyebrow at Dana, signaling it was time to get the check.

  As we swilled coffee and rose to our feet, we all knew that dinner was a one-time affair. While Jerome was helping his wife on with her chocolate sable chubby, I heard him say, “These people are crazy. Who in our crowd loves Jamaica?”

  There comes a certain point in your life when taste differentiates. You say potatoes and I say potatoes, but at the end of the day you’re either OK with consuming carbs or not. Sometimes in life, there are markers that exist as a filter, a way to sort things out. I have come to view Jamaica love as one such filter, a meter of connection, affiliation, and shared taste. To be truthful, if you prefer France over Italy or St. Barths over Jamaica, chances are we’re not going to be besties. Of course, there are a few exceptions to the rule. But for the most part, it ain’t going to happen, mon. You’re either a disciple of “the bong” and all that encompasses or you’re a slave to “the bling.”

  “We are definitely separated at birth,” one of my closest friends, Jay, declared over organic salmon at the Downtown restaurant we frequent weekly and that I choose not to reveal lest we lose our regular table (and secret dish). The eponymous übermenswear designer had just returned from a long weekend in Jamaica with his wife. We were bonding over our shared Jamaica experiences as only best friends in our circle could do.

  “I saw this awful New York couple going down on the same flight with me.” He described a highly annoying couple and their children, and their tedious, pretentious behavior.

  “I asked them if they made the wrong flight.” He laughed, suggesting to me he thought they may have missed their flight to Ibiza or St. Barths. We both laughed when I told him that given his colorful description, I actually knew who they were. I pulled up a random Google photo, to his delight—and horror.

  “I have to have a house there.” Jay declared, his serious collection of man bracelets sporting a few new green, black, and yellow woven wristbands. Jay and his wife love GoldenEye, but also favor the dramatic cliffs of Negril.

  “The energy in Jamaica is unlike that on any other island I have ever been to.” He shrugged. “You feel like when they speak you’re listening to music even when they’re not singing. There’s a constant smell of weed, the water, and Rastas. Overall, I see really happy people.”

  “It’s the one place I go to get my groove back,” I add.

  “I feel so chill there. Coming from a city where so few people have real style, everyone has style there no matter how much money they have.”

  “How many times do you go there a year?”

  “As many times as I can. It’s one hundred percent authentic. Other islands are totally manufactured, trying to appeal to tourists. Jamaica is not manufactured fun.”

  “What’s your favorite thing about it?”

  “The people. They appreciate life so much more than any other place I have ever been. They’re passionate and also ageless. It’s hard to tell how old they are.”

  “Without plastic surgery à la New York or LA. Why do you think that is?”

  “They’re different. They’re happy. They’re high on life.”

  There will always be couples who cannot agree on décor or vacation destinations. I have learned the outcome is never pretty.

  Dana and I were out with good friends at Orsay, enjoying the frites.

  “We would love to come with you to Jamaica,” the husband—a down-to-earth and good-natured fellow—said as I told them a vacation anecdote.

  “GoldenEye is a dream,” I said. “We just chill and read, and Dana loves to kayak in the lagoon.”

  “What about shopping?” the wife said. “Any luxury boutiques?”

  “They do have really nice local handmade batik cover-ups,” Dana offered. “And a bracelet with a marijuana plant on it.”

  “I can’t go anywhere where they don’t have great shopping. That’s why I love St. Barths. It has all the best brands,” the wife declared.

  “Honey, all you do is shop in the same stores in New York and Europe. Maybe it would be good to do something a bit different,” the husband chided her.

  “Why?” She looked at him like he needed to be checked into a mental institution.

  “I’m with Dana. I would like to have an active vacation,” he explained.

  “Well then, marry her! My exercise is using my black card,” she stated firmly.

  “You actually might like it. The water in the lagoon is aqua,” Dana explained. “My favorite thing is to take a shower au naturel under the palm tree.”

  “Wait. There are outdoor bathrooms?” The wife paled. “I like a clean, white marble, indoor bathroom.”

  “It’s really another way to enjoy the incredible nature,” Dana said. I looked at the wife and saw this wasn’t going to end well.

  “The best is you sleep under a net,” I said. “It’s very Jungle Book. But I will say, it’s not for everyone.”

  “Sounds amazing,” the husband said dreamily.

  “A net?????” the wife said in a shrill tone. “No marble bathroom? Why do they need a net?”

  “Because you’re in a natural environment.”

  “It says bugs to me. There is NO WAY I AM GOING there.” She was becoming apop
lectic at the thought.

  “Come on, honey. It sounds perfect,” the husband said more forcefully as he saw his dreams being dashed before his eyes.

  “And every morning, a rooster comes and wakes you up at six a.m. It’s like being on a farm near the sea.” Dana couldn’t help herself at this point.

  “A rooster? Are you kidding me?” The wife’s mouth was agape.

  “And only flats; you can’t rock your Louboutins on the coral stairs,” Dana explained.

  “This sounds like my worst nightmare,” the wife said.

  “We love it, but if it’s not for you, you can call [five-star hotel chain where every resort in every country is exactly the same]. We stay there sometimes too. Why rock the boat?” I offered to the husband, not wanting to be the source of a matrimonial dispute.

  “Whatever.” The husband sighed in a disappointed fashion. “We’ll just go to the [five-star chain]. I’ll play golf and drink tequila.”

  The Famous Basketball Star had flown into New York, and Carol, my assistant, had set up drinks with him and one of my lead investors at the taproom in one of New York’s most conservative Manhattan clubs. A tie and a blazer are necessary for admittance, and since the Basketball Star is a man of style, I thought he would enjoy a haunt where no jeans or sneakers are allowed. We settled into the paneled room, replete with hunting scenes, faded red leather, and wooden seating. Whiskey and martinis were served by older professional men in white dinner jackets and the meeting with Carl (not his real name), my Australian investor and finance partner, was warm and cordial. I knew he would be catching a train back to Westchester since he was just joining us for drinks. After tippling at the bar and Carl taking leave, I broached the subject of dinner. I hadn’t known where to take the Basketball Star to dinner and had Carol make a number of reservations. It wasn’t meant as a personality test, just as a few viable options he might enjoy, as he was in from out of town and I wanted him to be happy.

  “I made a few reservations for dinner tonight,” I offered, downing the last remnants of my martini.

  “Any place is good with me,” he said congenially.

  “Since you’re in from LA, we have choices: I thought we can go to the Upper East bistro [tony and sceney restaurant where millionaires and billionaires and their consorts hang], or sushi at [sceney and pricey West Side famed sushi restaurant where reservations are scarce], or if you’re in the mood for a steak we can go to the [legendary and pricy Midtown steak house that caters to those who love a juicy strip and fried sides] or Miss Lily’s, a cool Jamaican joint that just opened on the Lower East Side.”

  “Let’s go to Miss Lily’s,” he said immediately, his eyes sparkling at the thought of spicy jerk and rice. “That’s the one for me!”

  “Perfect,” I said, admiring his decisive choice and phoning the car and driver to take us downtown.

  “Are you sure? It’s all the way downtown,” the Star offered graciously. “Is that OK for you?”

  “Really, it’s exactly where I want to go,” I said.

  Once settled into our back booth, my favorite table, the waitress read us a list of specials.

  “We’ll take the Ackee dip and plantains, the jerk wings, and the cod fritters. Don’t forget the Blackwell rum with pineapple juice,” I said as we surveyed the incredibly cool crowd, all taking in the authentic décor composed of a variety of album covers.

  As the food started arriving, we strayed from business to warm personal conversation. One knows when fast friends are in the making. I can’t say we wouldn’t have bonded over sirloin and onion rings, or cod with miso, but as far as I was concerned, the Red Stripe and jerk wings said it was the start of a beautiful bromance.

  I am on my way to the airport for an afternoon flight back to the city after the Wheels Up shoot. We are rounding hairpin turns. Driving on the other side of the road, British style, can be somewhat disconcerting for a New Yorker but I get used to it. We are making good time. We pass a sign reading 19 KILOMETERS TO RUNAWAY BAY.

  Runaway Bay sounds like the perfect description of what a Jamaican parish should be: no problems, mon, no shoes, maybe some jerk on the Bar B, perhaps a bit of chutney, bamie, and maybe some rice and bean. Mikey, my Rasta driver, has the kindest smile and the most colorful UFO-shaped knit cap. As we round the curves, he munches on some fresh sugar cane. The landscape, stunning; beauty in contrast to the poverty. At least it’s real, though, and has authenticity at every turn. As I look out the car window, I receive an e-mail from Chris who had journeyed to his thirty-five-hundred-acre farm, Pantrepant, in the center of Jamaica. (I call it the Jamaican Jurassic Park, with five-hundred-year-old banyan trees and gushing waterfalls.)

  When I get back from Pantrepant, I am going to sell you a house at GoldenEye. It will be good for your writing, he wrote to my delight.

  The idea of setting up my Microsoft Word where Fleming wrote all the Bond novels couldn’t be a more magical or inspiring thought. A morning swim, Blue Mountain coffee, sand between my toes, and writing sounds like the ultimate fantasy. Add to that the fact that Dana loves it as much as I do and serves as my kayaking muse.

  As the fall turns into winter, I think of the crowds soon to descend on places like Miami and St. Barths, where certain people I know are already making plans to send down their yachts well in advance (it’s first come first serve for a slip) and will pay whatever it takes to be front and center with those who need to be front and center. Sounds like forced fun to me. Champagne toasts, caviar dreams, megayachts, and jerks who can’t tolerate jerk spices; it couldn’t sound less appealing. Jamaica is indeed a filter, and I think I’m going to have a house here.

  And the best news of all is that Jerome and his wife won’t want to come.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  To my beautiful and wonderful children, Talia, Lucas, and Georgia. Thank you for enriching my life on a daily basis. I love you to “infinitry.”

  Special thanks:

  Thank you to Jared Kushner and my home at the New York Observer.

  A true visionary, Faye Penn “discovered” me and molded and championed my column, and I am forever grateful.

  To the Observer’s editor, Ken Kurson, I appreciate your keen eye and ardent support.

  To Michael Gross, a greatly admired author, I am thrilled, honored, and grateful for your incredible foreword. Thank you!

  To the legendary Liz Smith, thank you for your support and encouragement. I adore you.

  To my dear friend Mort Zuckerman, thank you for your kind words and, most importantly, your friendship.

  To my Isn’t That Rich? team: my fabulous friend and editor Laura Yorke, and Carol Mann for your ongoing support. To the legendary Jane Friedman at Open Road, I am honored you are turning me into a “backlist author.” Many thanks to Jack Turner and Jay Peterson at Matador for believing in my work. I am thrilled to partner with the powerhouse Meryl Poster, director extraordinaire; Azazel Jacobs; and my agent at CAA, Eric Wattenberg, on the upcoming TV show. An all-star team!

  To the biggest supporters of Isn’t That Rich?: Liz Anklow, Sean Cassidy, David and Jamie Mitchell, Jordan and Stephanie Schur, Jay and Amy Kos, Patty and Danny Stegman, Susan Kirshenbaum and Rob Perry, Muffie Potter Aston and Sherrell Aston, Chris Blackwell, Andrew Zaro and Lois Robbins, Marisa Acocella Marchetto and Silvano Marchetto, Baron Davis, Marc Glimcher, Ron and Stephanie Kramer, Harriet and Steven Croman, Stefani Greenfield and Mitchell Silverman, Glenn Pagan and Meg Blakey, Emanuele and Joanna Della Valle, Adriana Trigiani and Tim Stephenson, Kenny and Shoshana Dichter, Lisa and Richard Frisch, Judy Licht and Jerry Della Femina, Donny Deutsch, Bippy and Jackie Siegal, Stuart Elliot, Lisa Lockwood, Lorinda Ash, Oberon Sinclair, David Lauren and Lauren Bush Lauren, Steven and Ilene Sands, Rabbi Adam and Sharon Mintz, Mark E. Pollack, Morgan Spurlock, Lottie Oakley, Joyce and Michael Ostin, Jennifer Miller and Mark Ehret, Steve and Agatha Luczo, Richard and Lisa Plepler,
Randy and Jan Slifka, Valerie Mnuchin and Bruce Moskowitz, Jill and Darius Bikoff, Leah Swarzman, Marc Schwartz and Suze Yalof Schwartz, Steven Swarzman, Julie and Billy Macklowe, Ali Cayne and Franklin Isaacson, Jon Landow and Joni Wilkins, Robert and Serena Perlman, Tim and Saffron Case, Harlan Peltz, Alison Brod, Jason and Ali Rosenfeld, Larry and Joan Altman, James Blank, Amy and John Kalikow, Daryl and Irwin Simon, Susie and Kevin Davis, Rona and Fred Davis, Alexis and Erik Ekstein, Vicky Benalloul, Richard Haines, Somers Farkas, Richard and Marcia Mishaan, Haley and Jason Binn, Charlie and Lauran Walk, Mark and Karen Hauser, Joe and Jessica Meli, Julie and Bruce Menin, Dustin Cohen, Liz Nickels, Susan Krakower, Chip and Susie Fisher, John Vassilaros and Alex Gersten-Vassilaros, Amanda Ross, Bernard Peillon, Bill Gentner, Joseph Klinkov, Rob Wiesenthal, Richard Johnson, Ginia Bellafante, managing partner at NSG/SWAT Matt Garcia, and my long-time assistant, Carol O’Connell.

  To my sources:

  To Our Lady of the East River, I am only sorry I cannot reveal your identity, because no one would suspect you’d do it, but I am so very thankful.

  To Southern Gentleman, I wish I could publish your name.

  To one of the most famous seventies and eighties sitcom stars, Eileen Graybar (not real name), thank you, and may you get your comeback role.

  And to all my sources who chose anonymity over speculation … I love and respect you, i.e., the Impossibly Blond and Glamorous Socialite, Best Man and Second Wife, the Social Powerhouse and Real Estate Mogul, the Silver Fox and L’actrice, Demoiselle, Brother from Another Mother, Blond Hollywood Wife, Hollywood Mogul, Fifth Avenue Heir, International Playboy Posse, Park Avenue Princess, British Socialite, Blond Millbrook Sportsman, Jonny Van der Klump, Queen of Couture, Principessa, Lily Whitebread, the Aging Platinum Benefactress, Cash and Charry, Resort Friend, and Hamptons Neighbor … to name a few. Life is richer with you all in it.

  To the Open Road team: thank you to Tina Pohlman, David Adams, Nicole Passage, Mauricio Díaz, Andy Ross, Rachel Krupitsky, and Mary McAveney.