As soon as I get to my building, I head down to the basement to get the rest of my cold weather clothes from storage. An Indian summer has been visiting, so I haven’t been in a rush, but suddenly the bite of fall is upon us.
After retrieving two boxes marked, “Pumpkin Muffin Clothes”—I labeled them in anticipation of the season where I organically increase my carb intake—I head back to my apartment on the fourth floor.
I probably should have brought up one box at a time, but I really didn’t want to make another trip. As I stagger down the hallway, I hear, “Hey Lexi, need a hand?” Timothy Sanders, my neighbor and all-around stud muffin, asks.
“Hi Tim, that would be great.” I happily transfer half of my load into his very capable arms. “When did you get back into the city?”
“Last night. Sadly, Fire Island becomes nothing but a fond memory for another year.”
He sighs in such a way that I feel an overpowering urge to wrap up Fire Island in a big red bow and gift it to him. Tim is a handsomely preppy brunette who dresses impeccably. Simply put, he would complete me if he ever bothered to ask me out. And believe me, I release all my single girl pheromones into the ether when he’s around. So far, to no avail.
“Did you come back at all this summer?” I ask, already knowing the answer is no. I’ve been scoping out his unit with the dedication of a confirmed busybody.
“Nah, I worked remotely. It’s nice being home though. What have you been up to?” he asks.
“Same old, same old. Doing my darndest to turn Silver Spoons into the next Williams Sonoma.” My official job title of “Growth Manager” requires that I closely follow trends around the country looking for the next best fit to take our chain of kitchenware boutiques nationwide. I love my job for the most part, but I’ve gotten bored. When Emmeline, my good friend and fellow Silver Spoons employee, left several months ago, some of the joy went out of going to work. Actually, a lot. Her departure started a string of upsets we haven’t quite recovered from.
“I forgot you worked there. Listen, can I come in and see you sometime next week? Maybe you can show me around, if you’re available.” Do fish swim? Do Yankee fans flip you the bird if you accidentally cheer for the other team? I’m always available for the likes of Tim Sanders. Always.
I’ve suddenly developed lockjaw, and I forget to swallow an excess of saliva that fills my mouth. Tim is going to ask me out. Why else would he want me to show him around my work? Granted, it’s a weird kind of build up to courtship, but whatever gets the job done, right? After five long years my dreams are about to come true. OMG, that fortune teller was right! I’m thirty, a dog just jumped over me—I always thought that was some kind of metaphor, but I guess I was wrong—and now Tim is finally going to ask me out. My life is changing.
I inelegantly choke on my spit as I answer, “For you, anything. What day works best?”
“Don’t know yet. Let me call Tiffany and find out when she’s available.”
“Tiffany?” I ask, hoping that she’s his sister. I have no idea why he would need his sister to tag along.
“Oh, my gosh, that’s right, you wouldn’t know.” I await explanation as tingles of dread crawl across my scalp like a spider infestation. “Tiff and I got engaged last month. Can you believe it?”
Imagine how you’d feel if the Big Friendly Giant wasn’t truly friendly after all but was more of a Big Savage Giant. Visualize him shoving his meaty fist right through your solar plexus before ripping out your still beating heart. That’s how I feel; all the hope and anticipation that this time of year stirs within me, mixed with the unadulterated joy of seeing Tim again, has evaporated, leaving nothing but debilitating emptiness.
After several silent moments, where it doesn’t ever occur to me to congratulate him, I finally say, “I didn’t know you were seeing anyone.”
He looks surprised. “Really? That’s weird. We’ve been together for over a year.”
A whole year wasted, hungering for the unattainable. Three hundred and sixty-five days of my life I suddenly want back with the same yearning I used to feel for Christmas morning when my age was in single digits.
“Strange I haven’t seen her before. Why’s that?” I demand as though he’s making her up.
He shrugs, blissfully unaware of my breaking heart. “We decided to get married when I got the notice about the building going condo.”
All romantic angst is put on hold. “What building’s turning into condos?” It has to be Tiffany’s —I say her name in my head like it’s Hitler or Satan— because I never received a notice.
“Lexi, didn’t you get the letter from the management company alerting us that the owner is giving us the option to buy our apartments? Surely you’ve heard the rumors over the last few years.”
Of course, I’ve heard the rumors. My last three apartments were rumored to either be going co-op or condo and none of them ever never did. That’s par for the course when you live in the Big Apple. “I didn’t get the notice,” I tell him. “When is it happening?”
“Not for six months, but that’s going to fly by in the blink of an eye. You’re going to buy, aren’t you?”
“I don’t know.” My head is suddenly filled with sharp jabbing pains, like an acupuncturist is sticking needles directly into my brain. “How much are our units going for?” I ask even though I know it will be outside of my budget. I’ve managed to save seventy-two thousand dollars in the last nine years, but that won’t be anywhere near the twenty percent down payment I’ll need. Even if it was, there will be condo fees on top of a staggering mortgage payment.
“They’re offering current residents, who have lived here more than three years, a ten percent discount. We should be able to buy in for about five hundred thousand. Too good an offer to pass up, don’t you think?”
He must be high. How in the world does he imagine I’ll be able to afford such a hefty sum on my own? He needs to marry Tiffany to afford it. And while I’d make decent money if I lived in Tulsa or Des Moines, living in New York City, conscientiously tucking money aside for future homeownership, I barely get by.
My one-bedroom, one-bath apartment on the Upper West Side has a view of Central Park, if you’re not afraid to hang out the bathroom window and crane your neck so far to the left you look like you’re performing extreme yoga. A view of any kind of park pushes the price point up, even though the whole space is under five hundred square feet, and that includes the closets. It’s tiny, but it’s my home. The home I can no longer afford to live in.
Defeatedly, I answer, “I don’t have enough for the down payment.”
“That’s too bad,” he says sounding genuinely sorry. “You’ve been a great neighbor.”
Clearly, I’ve been the only one doing any pining in this relationship.
When we arrive at my door, I unlock it and lead the way in. Tim puts my box on the dining room table. “So about next week, I’ll let you know when Tiff and I can come in to register for our wedding. I really appreciate you helping us out.”
That’s why he wanted to come into my work? I mean, obviously in light of his engagement, but still, so disappointing. “I don’t know anything about the gift registry, but our sales staff will be more than happy to help you and Tiffany.” Satan.
“Oh, sure. Makes sense,” he says. “I’m really sorry to be the one to tell you about the building. If I were you, I’d call the management company asap to find out how much time you have before you need to move out. Maybe they’ll let you stay longer.”
I nod my head dumbly and show him to the door. My enthusiasm over Tim being home, the cooler weather arriving, my sweaters being unearthed, and the start of pumpkin muffin season has disappeared into a soulless abyss.
I’m thirty-years-old, a dog has recently jumped over me, and if I wasn’t enough, I now believe the old kook from Harlem, that my life is about to change in the most unexpected ways. It already has.
Chapter 2
My mom fills two wine glasses wi
th a hearty Beaujolais. “You’ll just have to move back home with us. Think about how much money you’ll save if you stay here for a couple of years.”
I look around my parent’s loft, my childhood home, and observe that nothing has changed. While the vast majority of SoHo has been renovated in the last several decades, adding marble and granite, expensive cabinetry, and gleaming fixtures, my parents place is an homage to the nineties. My dad’s art supplies fill the entire living area, with huge canvases resting against walls and furniture. Books and assorted clutter fill every surface. The kitchen? Good grief, the kitchen, it looks like something straight out of a flea market, but not in a chic, designer kind of way— more like a garage sale meets your grandmother’s castoffs.
Lambertos Blake, or Bertie as he’s known to his friends and family, is an artist of some repute. He’s had fits and bursts of success during his thirty-five-year long career that has cemented his name as one of the longest standing artists of his time. My dad is currently experiencing a drought though, declaring that the oppressiveness of the world’s political climate is interfering with his creative mojo. Historically, these periods have always been followed by a burst of genius that leads to a record-breaking commission. He makes himself and everyone around him miserable while he waits.
“Where would you like me to sleep? Perhaps on the window ledge?” I ask, while pointing to one of the best features in the apartment. Giant ten-foot windows fill the majority of the east facing wall, making this an ideal artists lair.
“No one likes a smart ass, dear,” my mom says while cutting up a plate of figs.
Regina Cohen is a professor of women’s studies at NYU. My friends used to wonder why she didn’t take my dad’s name when they got married, until I informed them that my parents never got married. Regina felt strongly, and still does, that she is queen of her own destiny and that marriage is nothing more than letting our patriarchal forefathers enslave her. She wanted no part of it, even though she and my dad have been a devoted couple for thirty-five years.
Her fierce belief that women have been screwed over since Eve radiates from her like a furnace. Her mass of curly brown hair often bounces in a righteous indignation that can easily be perceived as hostile to those who don’t know her. Though enormously passionate about her beliefs, she’s remarkably kind to the majority of people, you just have to hang out with her long enough to get past her intimidating exterior. It’s not a challenge everyone is up to.
I answer, “Have you seen the state of my room lately?” My dad has been using it as a storage room for half-finished paintings and supplies. “It smells like turpentine. I’d probably develop a brain tumor if I slept in there.”
“Psh,” she says. “Bertie would be so happy to have you home that he’d clear it out for you.”
“Mom, I love you guys with my whole heart. But two days back here would have me jumping out the nearest window.” With a Vanna White like flourish, I showcase the alarming selection of exits at my disposal.
She rolls her gray wolf-like eyes at me and declares, “Beggars can’t be choosers.”
“I’m not a beggar, yet,” I inform her. “I’m going to start looking around for something else. Maybe I can find a widow on Fifth Avenue to rent out her maid’s quarters to me for a song.”
“I’d rather you move into a youth hostel. Those snooty Park Avenue types wouldn’t treat you well at all.”
“Why do say that?” I ask, fully aware that I’m poking the bear.
“Because they didn’t earn their money, they inherited it. They have no idea what it takes to hold down a job and raise a family with the sweat from their own brow. They’re nothing but entitled …”
I interrupt, “Lords of the manner pulling the strings of the puppet peasantry.”
My mom squints her eyes like she’s trying to decipher whose side I’m on. She ultimately decides that no offense was meant, and continues, “I do not like entitled people.”
“I was just teasing you, Mom.” Not that I wouldn’t rent the maid quarters in one of those penthouses. I would, but I don’t realistically expect those folks are looking for tenants.
“You disappoint me, Lexi,” she says.
“Why, because I don’t have a chip on my shoulder? Because I don’t hate rich people on principal?”
She shakes her head, “Don’t make light of the struggles that came before you, Alexis. Women who refused to be cast in the shadows of history are the reason we have the degree of equality we have today. Those who hunt out the wealthiest mate they can to bring forth new generations of privilege do not have my respect.”
“The sisterhood was tough, so I could be soft, huh?” I ask with a hint of attitude. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate what’s been done, Mom, it’s just that I have a lot of other things on my plate right now. You know, like impending homelessness.”
Regina changes the subject as she knows this could explode into something. “Where do you want to order dinner from?” She pulls out a bunch of menus from the kitchen drawer.
“I want Kung Pao something. Chicken, shrimp, goat, I don’t care.” My current mood calls for something spicy to help burn through the cloud of frustration that’s filling my head.
“Excellent, I’ll have the Sichuan Beef, Bertie will have the Cashew Chicken. We can share.”
Apparently, I like to fight with my mom, and because I’m feeling a myriad of aggressive emotions, I say, “I’m not sharing.”
She comes around the counter and stands right in front of me. Putting her hands on my shoulders, she says, “Lexi, you’re going to be fine. You’ve moved before, you’ll probably move again. You have to trust in your strength, keep your chin up, and plow through. I promise you’ll be better off than you are now.”
I don’t want to believe her, but that’s the super annoying thing about my mom, she’s usually right. Not that I’ll ever say that to her face. “I’ve been thinking about finally taking my accrued vacation time at work. If I don’t use it by the end of December, I’ll lose it.”
“How much time do you have?” she asks.
“Five weeks. Maybe I need to get out of dodge for a while to help clear my head.”
“You mean, leave New York City? Why don’t you just stay and do all the things you want to do but never have time for?”
“Like what?” I ask. “I grew up here. I’ve pretty much done it all.”
She releases a bark of laughter. “You haven’t even begun.” Then she asks, “Where would you like to go?”
“I want to visit Emmie in Missouri. I miss her and the baby so much, I think spending time with a friend will be good for me.”
My mom nods her head once, but she looks concerned. “Missouri, huh? I’ve never been there. I can’t imagine there’s much to see.” My parents have been all over the world for art shows and lectures, but they know very little about small town America. As a result, I don’t either, but it’s time for me to find out.
Chapter 3
Jameson Diamante, my boss, calls me into his office as soon as I get to work the next morning. He’s good looking in the same way a friend’s dad was good looking when you were in high school. You know, elegantly graying hair with crinkly laugh lines that hint at unknown adventures. You could appreciate his handsomeness without ever feeling anything remotely like attraction.
Unfortunately, Jameson is oblivious that his appeal doesn’t transcend generations and he spends copious amount of time flirting with his staff, of which a solid ninety percent are women who are much younger than him and not at all interested in his overtures.
He stands when I walk through the door and gestures gallantly for me to take a seat next to him on the loveseat situated in a small seating area adjacent to his deck. “Alexis, how are you this fine day?”
“I’m doing well, Jameson. I’m glad you wanted to see me. As you know, I made an appointment to speak with you, as well.”
“Me first!” he declares excitedly while clapping his hands together.
“I have the happy news of telling you that you’re being promoted to the position of East Coast relocation scout.” The clueless look on my face prompts him to explain, “You’ll be in charge of relocating our existing stores to different addresses, should it be beneficial to do so.”
Huh. That doesn’t sound like much of a promotion. I point out, “I’m currently in charge of finding new locations nationwide. How is regional relocation scout more prestigious than that?”
Jameson walks to the door, which I left open when I came in. He closes it. Then he sits next to me and very inappropriately places his hand on my knee. He leans in and says, “Confidentially, we’ve decided to stop branching out so aggressively.”
“Why? I ask, even though there’s only one reason a company ever cuts back on expansion – financial difficulties.
“We feel that it’s in the best interest of the brand to slow things down and make sure the existing stores are performing optimally before we continue with our growth plan.”
“Is there a raise involved?” I ask. I mean, he did say it was a promotion.
My boss clears his throat and refuses to meet my gaze while he adjusts a pile of magazines sitting on the side table next to him. “Not as such. But the good news is, it’s only a slight decrease in salary.”
“Decrease?” I demand. “Jameson, my apartment building is going condo. If I’m going to buy in, I need more money, not less.” Not that it’s even within the realm of possibility that they’ll give me the amount I need to stay in my current digs.
“Ah, yes, but the promotion isn’t the only good news I have for you.” What? Are they going to buy my apartment for me as a signing bonus or something? It’s all I can do not to let the sarcasm shoot out of me like a bottle rocket.
“The position is based out of our Atlanta store. Your cost of living will be much lower down there, so even with the decrease in pay, you’ll be able to live a lot better than you do here in Manhattan. Isn’t that exciting?”
The Event Page 21
