Chapter 5: Wealth-Management

from: iamaseagull@aol.com
to: jennifer@bff.org, talktthhand@juno.com, soundengineer@theatrco.org, youngcomposer@mymusic.com, pilatesqueen@pilatesqueen.com

Hi again. I'm hung over from drinking with the butlers.

(This is part one of a two-parter, but I know I'm going to be too sleepy to finish, yesterday was a bit of a doozy, the day that just...wouldn't...end....)

So, speaking of democratic households...I've discovered that everyone else on staaahff calls Eloise "Madame". Or "Mrs. Alcock".

Or Madame Alcock.

Myself, I just call her Eloise, both to her face and behind her back, which is what Prini told me to do; but this has been resulting in raised eyebrows from Gerry the sycophant massage therapist, which has led me to begin referring to her as Mrs. Alcock on walkie-talkie to the butlers… but only occasionally.

But she has never once corrected me in her sessions when I call her Eloise. We're all on a mutual first-name basis with the clients at my studio job in the city, and with every client at every studio I’ve ever worked at in my life, married ladies, rich or not, butcher, baker, candle-stick maker... when I taught her at the Hotel Beaux Arts, I called her Eloise. I'm assuming if she prefers Madame, she'll tell me…even if Gerry the Annoying and Joseph Brunelleschi* (the CEO of Eloise's holding company, the guy I told you about who wears the beautiful suits) have let me know in small ways that it doesn’t really follow protocol. And of course…this isn’t a democracy, as I’ve discovered.

I mean, fine, fine fine: we know I might be a little bit of a commie. It's just that...the amount of unnecessary stuff in this house is starting to make me nauseous. Dare I include myself in the Unnecessary Stuff category? Private Pilates instruction is, after all, a luxury item...especially when one has a tennis pro, golf lessons, a massage therapist and another personal trainer arriving any day now from France...

I know these emails are starting to sound like Robin Leach. Sorry, but there's more.

This comes on a day when I stumbled upon her storage closet. It is right next to my garret. Following my petite talking-to with Roger in the kitchen yesterday afternoon -- still smarting -- I went upstairs to my room to stew, and as I came up the landing I could hear two of the maids right outside my door, speaking Portuguese (I think); I rounded the corner and Luisa and Rosaura* (which is Conchita’s actual name [but not her "real" name]) were on their knees unpacking suitcases in a walk-in closet literally next door to my room, a door I hadn’t even noticed even though I apparently walk past it every morning to get to the bathroom (bad snoop, clearly). I asked Luisa -- since Rosaura really doesn’t speak English -- what they were doing, and she said, “Organizing....this is where Eloise keep her extra stuff.” The closet was stuffed with clothes, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to get a good look until the maids left. I hid in my room reading more William Makepeace in bed (so delicious…) until I heard them leave, then crept out and tried the knob to see if Luisa had locked it; happily, gleefully, I found it open...

Inside it was crammed (neatly): shelves and shelves of shoes and two racks of suits wrapped in plastic, possibly too warm (?) for the current clime. There were also plastic-wrapped dresses and some coats. Everything – EVERYTHING – was creamy beige. The shoes, spookily, were all the same: all the same pointy-toed high-end Spanish brand, covered in the same shade of champagne-y silk, some with scuff marks, but most of them barely-worn. Some had a stiletto heel, but most of them were flats. Forty-five pairs, maybe more, size 37s, all in a row. Who needs that many pairs of the same shoe? The same suit? Twenty trench coats? Ten blazers? And this was only the extra stuff that wouldn’t fit into the closets in her…boudoir.

I would have been upset by the sheer quantity if I weren’t so hypnotized by such a stunning lack of imagination on Eloise’s part. I suppose she subscribes to the “Find what works and stick to it” school of fashion. On the imaginary episode of The Fabulous Life of Eloise Alcock, they would have done a pop-up price-tag of $600 for each of those pairs of shoes. In front of me, stuffed onto shelves in one tiny
6' X 9' "storage" closet, was a down-payment’s worth on a Manhattan apartment…in shoes.

This is the special vertigo of an offended-but-can’t peel-my-eyes-away reality-TV audience member, except it’s somehow different being right next to it.

And then, in the evening, after Eloise's dinner and way after the sun had gone down, I hung out with Joseph (he prefers the title "wealth manager" over "CEO," barf) and the butlers in the Upstairs Kitchen. Joseph was drinking a glass of wine and pontificating about Eloise’s stuff (which he admires in a way that someone who is close to owning it might admire it). He calls himself a fine-goods aficionado, and it's completely off-putting, especially when he says things – without a trace of humor or irony -- like, "You can tell a lot about a person by the things they have and the clothes they wear -- you know, old money, new money, how much wealth..."

I sat there slouching at the kitchen table in my teaching clogs and yoga pants and hoped he couldn’t see the little hole that's appeared today in the armpit of my favorite t-shirt. I'd hate to think of the conclusions he's drawn about me (although, really, what’s the worst conclusion he could have drawn: Slovenly? Grew up in a middle class hovel in post-hippie Brooklyn? And did Eloise expect me to invest in some high-end lycra or butler-like Izods just for the occasion of teaching at La Jolie Plage?)

Anyway. For now, Joseph seems to have decided that I’m OK, because we’ve discussed *opera* (one of the fine-goods of which he is an aficionado) – he was actually delighted to discover that I’m a singer (and even rather supportive, he earnestly wished me luck with my career). Generally speaking he’s a happy, congenial guy, way too happy for the butlers; he’s definitely a little dopey and way too enamored of Eloise and her money. He gets more tan by the day and always wears his bespoke suits in spite of the heat (he’s “working,” after all)... when he isn’t on the beach reading Stephen King novels.

Manny the diabetic cook was in the kitchen with us complaining about his lack of counter space and devouring a hunk of dark chocolate, with little chocolate smears gathering around the corners of his mouth. (I peeked in the fridge – he has a stockpile of Valhrona chef’s chocolate, but it seems to exist more for Manny to snack on than for making fondant for Eloise’s desserts.) In fact, the kitchen is gorgeous; it looks like a Williams-Sonoma show room. It has this beautiful glossy green tile on the wall, the cabinets are perfect, there’s a six-burner Viking stove...etc, etc. But Manny is very tall, and everything clocks in at about waist-height for a person my size (ie normal, boring, middle class 5’4”). So he has to bend down in order to chop. And there really isn’t much counter space, except for the kitchen table, which is also quite short. He stood there with his arms folded across his chest, pouting as the butlers fussed over the most efficient place to store Eloise’s best china.

Even though we've been here for almost a week, the butlers still haven't had time to unpack everything, and the most ornate dishes were now out of their boxes and teetering on the kitchen table in these tall precarious stacks, two complete sets of dishes: saucers, servers, salad plates, bread plates, butter dishes, finger bowls, soup bowls, little appetizer plates, dessert plates, big plates, blah blah blah, (and this is not including the stuff in the china closet off the staff kitchen, which contains about five more sets, all different shades of whitish, and I’m not exaggerating).

I asked Roger if I could be of any assistance, and he said, “No dear, just don’t touch anything.” And then, more sharply: “Missssster Brunelleschi, the sooner you move your elbow, the sooner I can move these dishes, and the sooner I can have my icy gin and tonic in the guest house. Thank YOU!”

Joseph meekly moved his elbow and then moved over to another stack, picked up a small first-course plate and handed it to me, murmuring, “God, she has such exquisite taste, it’s just... impeccable.” I guess so; I grew up with the same plates and bowls my parents got for their wedding 35 years ago; everything sturdy, well-designed, brown stonewear that has lasted forever and makes me think of artists with charcoal under their fingernails and the Park Slope food coop. My parents only recently bought their first-ever new set of plates from an artist-ceramicist, a set of squarish, somehow-Japanese-seeming plates and soup bowls covered with mysterious jade-green glaze.

Now, aside from the fact that I know Eloise did not pick out any of her shit for herself, the plate Joseph Brunelleschi was reverently holding was an over-painted horror, bone-thin with navy blue trim and gold leaf edges, and some kind of intricate swirly design etched over it in red. Gorgeous, to be sure, and probably destined to be an heirloom someday, though this set has clearly never yet been used. Joseph, pseudo-casual-but-really-disgustingly-impressed, informed me that it was hand-painted and worth $500. Then he handed me the bigger, second-course plate underneath it announced that it was worth $1,000.

Which made me think of my unpaid phone bill, which made me incredibly, maybe disproportionately peeved about the money She still hasn’t paid me. Apparently an hour of my expertise and time is worth 15% of a dinner plate. Maybe I could just pay myself in plates...

...sneak them out of the kitchen, photograph them, sell them one at a time on eBay. Open a paypal account. Wire the money to AT&T. Something, anything, because even though I am fed and housed, my bank account contains $6.93, & I am sitting next to a $20,000 [breakable] stack of plates.

Virginie has been at pains to explain to me (because I did ask, of course) that they aren’t supposed to pay me out of petty cash. (Did I mention that the butlers’ nickname for Virginie is Swamped At The Office? As in, “Have you spoken to Swamped At The Office about making sure the Pilates equipment is thoroughly cleaned?” And she really is, or seems to think she is. Swamped. At the office. That’s what she ALWAYS says when I ask her anything, in her thick French accent, “Oohhhh, Kyra, I am so svamped at ze ofus.” Every time.) Anyway, to get paid, I am to email them an “invoice,” which I have done, and then Eloise’s office manager in London -- the unfortunately-named Plascina*, whom the butlers refer to as Placenta – looks it over, and then Eloise herself must approve the wire transfer. The butlers tell me this cycle can take anywhere from two weeks to two months, but not to worry – I will always be paid… eventually. This is not comforting when my several of my bills really needed to be paid last week.)

But much, much more importantly...
you could send an entire New York City public school to college for the
price of a stack of dishes. You could feed an entire African village.

I guess everyone has their precious thresholds for judgment & disgust. I am way, way over mine.

In high school my friend Laurie used to get disgusted at me in for wasting money on yet another fancy red lipstick or a hardcover novel. These days I get disgusted at her for spending money on 4 weekly packs of cigarettes. It’s like that scene in “A Tree Grows in Brooklyn” where Francie’s mother Katie lets Francie pour her coffee down the drain, and her sister is horrified; but Francie’s mom says that if that’s what it takes for Francie to feel rich, it’s a small price to pay. We all have our little luxuries.

I would really like to get off my high freakin’ horse.

It’s just… I just...don't *understand* luxury like THIS.

I understand luxury like…. I don't really know. What's luxury?

(For example, I understand people buying a $1- or $2- or even $4-million house. But not a $40-.)

Why should ANYone be ALLOWED to have that much? Couldn't we spread it around a little more? (There you have it. My inner communist, not so inner: remember my Wall Street ex-boyfriend Jay*? He would be disgusted by my disgust...back when we were still together when I asked him what he loved about his job, he said, "The accumulation of wealth." That was the beginning of the end of that one; now he lives in Hong Kong counting money for a bank.)

OK: These are luxuries I understand, even though I’m in debt:

Occasional front row theater tickets so I can see the faces.
Voice lessons that cost $125.
The occasional pair of designer jeans bought on sale.
I understand going into debt to buy books.
I understand buying organic groceries.
I understand good coffee, frequent takeout, and meals in new restaurants in the east village.
I can even stomach the girl next to me on the Jitney and her ugly, ugly handbag, because I’d probably buy one if I could afford one.

I’m sure all of that is ostentatious by someone else’s standards.

Certainly seven years spent at universities could look ostentatious, even if the universities were the large state schools I went to. (I did in fact go to private school at one point in my life. On scholarship. The wealthiest kids had the rattiest sweaters.) In the city, I’m very aware of my good fortune; and living in this house, I can’t believe I ever spent a moment feeling guilty about it. (From Joseph’s perspective, guilt is probably where I really reveal my humble origins.) But an education doesn’t seem like luxury to me, it seems like…a prerequisite. Maybe that’s how Eloise feels about her plates and shoes.

I'm starting to think…that you need to be cut off from the rest of the world to be comfortable with that much money. Truly she is of a different class of people, but it seems wrong to define it as “upper” class, more like “oblivious class”...this is a woman who doesn’t even have to look both ways before crossing a street, because someone else does it for her; she could probably get someone to wipe her ass for her for less money than she’s paying me to teach her to exercise. But Eloise is not actually an aristocrat. She’s a formerly-upper-middle class girl who acquired money (as opposed to earning it) with [not to be redundant] no conscience and no taste; and the turn in her "luck" that included a mother who made sure she attended a cotillion, where she obtained a rich husband whom she later divorced, and, having graduated to another social stratum, married an even-wealthier man (well, she IS very pretty and blond) and divorced him as well.

Verrrrry Becky Sharp.

Actually… Eloise is the descendant of an old, old French-Canadian family. But I like to imagine that her ancestors were more likely the descendants of French prostitutes sent over to give comfortable company to the Frenchmen-of-questionable-pedigree who had agreed to leave France to build colonies in the New World. (Certainly no better than a shtetl-dweller.) Not so nouveau for the Americas, but terribly arriviste for a European…(This is pure speculation, of course; I know nothing about the original Quebecois.)

I wonder how Mister Brunelleschi justifies that to his self, the self that would like to be working for an aristocrat since he isn't one...

(But…am I crazy? Isn’t it a little tacky to spend a trunk-load of cash on fake heirlooms?)

I’m sure she must give a lot to charity. I’m sure Joseph’s job includes finding her tax shelters that benefit the less-fortunate. In fact, it sticks in my craw that Eloise will probably give away more money to charity this year than I may ever see in my lifetime.

Actually, I don’t know that for sure. It could be just what the gossip columns imply, that she’s busy buying her way into society. When she talks about what she’s doing to foster world peace and global consciousness, so far the only organizations I’ve heard her mention are already-flush arts organizations. I just assume she gives a lot away for good causes (not that there’s anything wrong with art) since she fancies herself such a humanist.

Maybe tomorrow I’ll dig around the office for a press-release, I’d love to see a list of her charities…

Or maybe tomorrow I’ll go into town and buy myself some organic kale. I’m beginning to suffer from a lack of vegetables, Manny doesn’t believe in greens for staff meal, so while we are eating meat and potatoes, all the produce goes into Eloise’s menu. At lunch today the butlers were all saying how even working at the Duke of York's they ate the same food as the family. In any case, I can see I'm going to have to intervene on my own behalf, and bike into _______Hampton for $6.93 of organic roughage.

Or maybe tomorrow I'll finish this email -- I'm too sleepy to write more, we ended up drinking last night till pretty late -- me and the butling boys. And up early again in the morning...

Love,
the Poorest Player
(could I wallow in any more self-pity...? stop me, won't you?)
K.Lo-Cho