The Eloise Chronicles: Diary of the Live-in Help

N.B.

2009-10-10T11:40:00.003-04:00

Dear, dear readers:

The story in this blog has been completed
and there will be no more new posts.

But...
If you're longing to peruse the adventures of our
intrepid heroine, mouse over to the drop-down
menu on the right and begin...at the beginning:
Dec. 30th, 2007.

Yours ever,
A lady writer who has, for the moment at least,
laid down her pen...

D.S. al Fine

2009-01-06T15:17:00.000-05:00

to: ameryka@freecity.net
from: iamaseagull@aol.com

Om shanti…

I’m so sorry to hear about your second attack of giardia. India sounds like it's been...perspective-building. How was Dharamsala? It must have been so inspiring to hear the Dalai Lama… (Did you see Richard Gere? ;-) )

I am writing this backstage on the company computer at the playhouse; we are in tech for that job I auditioned for right after I returned from London. It is so wonderful to be in a play again, I can't really say enough about it without sounding corny, but I will say that it's a fine day when a theater job offers more stability (i.e., a contract, regular pay, etc.) than my "support job."

At the moment I am dressed as a Russian peasant – I’m wearing fake dirt on my face (since as we know peasants have dirt on their face when they get out of steerage) and my mic is taped to my forehead. Everyone is upstairs focusing the lights so that the drop doesn’t look like a shtetl when it’s supposed to look like Texas (yeah, this play is the true story of Jewish immigrants in Galveston… I swear my life is a lesson in cognitive dissonance).

So...you asked how everything finished up with what’s-her-nuts.

Well, I finally got paid in late October, and I was reimbursed for all my expenses in November; and I have finally, finally paid down my debt. I don't owe anything to anybody, not to Visa, not to my phone company, not to my voice teacher. And for that alone, I am grateful to Eloise.

I’ve suspended my other day job, teaching in that Pilates studio downtown -- the one that farmed me out to Eloise in the first place -- for the remainder of my contract at the theater. I continued to teach Eloise for a while when she came back from China, although it was tricky after rehearsals started. At first she wanted her Pilates like always at 7 am, but eventually she decided she preferred it at *6* am. This meant me waking up at 4:45 (5 if I skipped the shower ), and the days I did it I ended up having to go back to bed in the afternoon. I just couldn’t do everything else I needed to do if I was getting up that early. (Of course, I'd find a way to get out of bed early *happily* if it involved acting, but for Eloise...not so much.) That hour of the day is a valuable hour of sleep; so I asked for more money or at least for cab fare. But Virginie told me that Eloise said, "Either do it for the same money or find someone to replace you." (Notice how they think it is my job to replace myself. Nevertheless... she has been a "good" client -- as in, she's given me lots of employment, even if she is a terrible student -- so I didn't argue.) Eloise is back in Europe now for a bit, and when she comes back I’m giving at least half the sessions to my friend Vera, who's a great instructor and a more patient person than I.

Eloise now lives in that glass tower in the West Village — which is currently ruining my favorite neighborhood (all those old houses, cobblestones, quirk), because her building is a good 14 stories higher than all the buildings around her, so it pretty much blocks the river-light from the whole rest of the street. But I will say that teaching up there -- well, it is amazing to watch the sun rise over Manhattan, and over the water -- all the walls are windows so her views are panoramic -- which is I guess why one would pay $30 million (yup) for a triplex on the top three floors. Even if it is an over-designed glass box. And sloppily built -- you can see every nick in the floors, every smudge of badly-applied paint...but! she can look across the alley and see into her good friend C_____ K____'s living room (that's right, the fashion designer), which is really what's important, especially if you can block your neighbors' view of the water while you're doing it.

The one funny story is that Barney Cloverfiled was in an accident on his Vespa (well, I guess that's actually not funny at all). He hurt his ankle and his back. I read about it in the newspaper...and a few afternoons later, I got a call from Ivan in London. "Kyra, Mrs. Alcock has just phoned me from New York to ask you to be available to talk on the phone for the next twenty minutes. Mr. Cloverfield thinks he may wants a Pilates session, but he wants to speak to you first. He is going to call you shortly. Please stand by." And with that charming call-ahead, I actually sat by my phone (...pathetic...) and waited until it rang 40 minutes later. A voice on the other end said, "Is that Kyra? This is Barney Cloverfield. I got your number from a friend."

I wasn't in the mood. "Yes, Mrs. Alcock's butler said you were going to call." Was I meant to play like he hadn't pre-arranged the whole thing? He wants to be a puppet-master, he can be responsible for the strings he's pulling. "How can I help you?"

And he said, "Stupidly, I've hurt my back and my ankle, and my friend [!] seems to be under the impression that Pilates will help."

And I said, "It depends on how badly you've been hurt."

He wouldn't actually cop to his diagnosis. "Not bad. Not bad."

"Do you have chronic pain?"

"Well...I'm very tall, and besides this current stupidity sometimes my lower back hurts from sitting."

"OK...well, Pilates will definitely help you with that. We might have to wait a bit for the major injury to heal a little, but as long as nothing's torn or broken, and you're not in too much pain, we can probably start."

And he said, "I just don't understand how it works. How does it work? Why is it so special? What makes it different?"

And we were off. I spent 30 minutes on the phone with Barney Cloverfield during which he interviewed me on the minute details of Pilates, the history, the techniques, my background, the different methods of teacher-training, where I had gone to school, how it works for tall people, did I think I could help him, etc. At the end of it all, he said, "Thank you for your time. I will have my assistant call you to set up an appointment." Which she never did. So much the better...although every time I taught Eloise after that she'd ask me if Mr. Cloverfield had gotten in touch yet. I'd say no. Then she'd say, "He's so proud. It's hard for him to admit he needs help."

Anyway, Madame had calmed down a little bit after her return, even made occasional sweet gestures like — when she ordered her pear-carrot juice in the morning she'd have the chef make me a glass as well. Which didn't *reeeeeeally* make up for her inability to pay me in a timely fashion — in fact, at the moment, she still owes me $650 in back-pay — but at least the trip to the West Village was quicker than going to mid-town, and after her sessions I’d take myself out to breakfast at my favorite little coffee shop.

It did get a little weird when I started teaching an acting class once a week in a public school in Harlem. It was through this amazing company that sends artists into the schools a couple of afternoons a week. And it actually paid the same per hour as Eloise did (which makes me think either they pay too much, or Eloise was paying too little...). I would go from her gazillion dollar hideous glass box of an apatment (full of her hideous modern art, including Bad Spritzers silver boxes full of dung — yes, she bought them) up to a crumbling New York City school-building crammed with teachers yelling into megaphones and kids running all over the halls and classrooms on a sugar high. They were as difficult to teach as Eloise, but that’s beside the point: she has so much, and those kids have nothing. For all of her good intentions, all of her fine talk about philanthropy, and about the world-wide need for “culture” in order to promote world peace, her all her fine words are sadly toothless next to this Public School’s squalor. Talk about cognitive dissonance.

At any rate, I’m not teaching much of anything these days because, blissfully, I’ve booked this job. It is a huge relief to be acting again. I’m wearing the ugliest costume in the world, I look like a fat weirdo and I have this really thick accent, and have to sing some complicated, not-so-pretty music... but. It’s a play about hope, and about making your way when you’re a stranger in a strange land, and I’d rather tell this story than help Eloise — inside of whatever tiny purpose for which I was hired — make a muddle of world peace.

Anyway. They are calling me over the loudspeaker — have to get onstage now for the top of act two. I love and miss you.

Namaste yo mama,

KLoCho

<<"Inhale and think of heaven, exhale and think of your butt…">>

***

to: vera@pilates4ever.com
from: iamaseagull@aol.com

Hi Vera!

Hope all is well with you, and that things are going well at the studio.

I’m writing because I have a potentially lucrative gig for you. This is for Eloise Alcock, the woman I’ve been teaching all summer. She comes into the city for a week of every month (or so — it’s pretty irregular) and she likes to do Pilates daily when she's here. She has her own machine (and, I might add, a snazzy apartment in the West Village). The money is great — over the going rate and under the table. I have to warn you that it is very, very early, even for a morning person like yourself: she used to want me to come at 7 am, but recently she has decided she prefers 6, and I…can’t get up that early every day for a week and still do the rest of my life (which has a way of continuing whether Eloise is in town or not)... Anyway, I thought it would be manageable if you and I split the time (you do a week, I do a week; or we can trade days if that works better for you).

It would be great if I could send you to her; I know she’ll like you, and you’re so experienced -- she’ll appreciate that (this woman is obsessed with her teachers being “the best” — do with that what you will!! ☺). That said, her back is like a board and she won’t listen to a word you say, but if you ask nicely, maybe you’ll be able to get her to do Pilates without her Blackberry or television on, something I have failed to do. It may be frustrating, but it'll be relatively easy money.

Anyway, let me know.

Kyra L-C

to: iamaseagull@aol.com

from: vera@pilates4ever.com

Kyra!!

Thanks SO much for the gig — I think it actually went well. I can see what you mean about the whole situation, and I don’t know how you did that all summer, but I think she liked me. it was hard to tell. She’s not too friendly, is she. And you were totally right, she has no discipline or mind-body control, every time I gave her an adjustment she seemed insulted and pissed off, so I kept it really basic. She did try to put the television on at first, thanks for the warning, but when her blackberry rang, after she hung up, I just said, “Now, Eloise, Pilates is a mind-body method. You can’t concentrate properly if you’re paying attention to other things. There should be no disctractions from the television while you’re working out.” And she did say, “Kyra lets me,” but then she actually shut off the tv and put away the phone!

One thing I forgot to ask you — how do I get paid? Eloise ended the session really abruptly and was back on her phone before I could ask her for money, and the only other person in the apartment was her chef, who only spoke French.

Can you let me know? (Also — did you want a commission for this?)

Vera

to: vera@pilates4ever.com
from: iamaseagull@aol.com

Hey girl,

Well, you are a better woman than I — congrats on getting her to shut off her screens! Of course, the CNN was back on today when I taught her, and when I asked her to please turn it off, she said, “No, I need to see, this is really important, they’re having peace talks in the middle east, cleaning up the mess Clinton left.” (She's pissed at Bill, but I'm sure it's nothing personal. I wonder how her speech went over at the convention...)

Anyway, I'm digressing. Virginie will pay you. Keep a record of when you teach her, and of any cancelled appointments, and send an email to Virginie every month. You’ll be paid…sometimes slower than you’d like, but they’ve never stiffed me. And no, no commission. I’m not into that for a situation like this, it fell into my lap. And now I’m falling it into yours.

to: iamaseagull@aol.com
from: vera@pilates4ever.com

Hey K —

Thanks. Listen, any way to speed up that payment process? I have bills…

to: vera@pilates4ever.com
from: iamaseagull@aol.com

Vera —

Sorry, but nope, they’re European (well, Eloise is Canadian, but the offices are in London and Paris). I think part of it is that over there people get paid monthly instead of weekly or biweekly, so paying every six weeks — while still late — isn’t as late to them as it is to us. Plus the idea that people need regular money to live on doesn't really occur to Eloise. Sorry. I know it’s a pain, the irregularity, but…can you deal? If not, I can try to advance you part of what you're owed.

KLC

to: iamaseagull@aol.com
from: vera@pilates4ever.com

Hey, Kyra.

Listen, I think I really fucked up. I’ve tried to get through to you on your cell but your voicemail box is full and I really want to get this out. Please call me as soon as you can.

I’m sorry if this makes trouble for you with Eloise, but I don’t think I can do this job anymore.

Even though I appreciate the money, and I appreciate that you thought of me for it, Eloise’s behavior seems really, really disrespectful and I end up feeling just terrible when I leave. I hate being spoken to like this, like I’m a servant in her house, and she is pretty impossible to teach. Just wants lots of reps and hard springs, which — while I doubt this was your idea — is just not my idea of Pilates. I mean, I know it wasn’t your idea to teach her this way, she kept talking about her teacher in London. And she kept mentioning some guy named Didier (by the way, do you know anything about the whereabouts of a stick? She kept saying something about a wooden stick that Didier invented?)

Anyway, yesterday I showed up to teach her at six and she didn’t even let me up into the apartment. The doorman buzzed up and I could hear her say through the phone, “No, no Pilates today.” Virginie had canceled the previous day’s appointment the night before (still technically a late cancel). And the one before that, also the night before. And they still owe me money from last month. So today when I showed up, I just said to her, “Eloise, I need to talk to you about payments. You had three late-cancels this week,” and she just brushed me off and said to talk to Virginie, that she doesn’t deal with money, Virginie handles it. So I said I would certainly speak with Virginie; and I also said, “I’m sorry, but I just want to be really clear — I’m going to have to bill you for this week’s appointments.”

And she said, “I was sick, I shouldn’t have to pay.”

And I said, “I’m really sorry you were sick, but I need more notice than you gave me. Each of them was cancelled the night before.”

And she said, “Well, that should be enough time, how much time do you need to erase it from your calendar?”

And I said, “It’s not enough time, I’m sorry. I need 24-hours’ notice. It’s not a matter of erasing it from my calendar. It’s a matter of me having reserved the time for you.”

Then she said, “Well, I’ll pay you for yesterday because it was so sudden, but I don’t think I should have to pay for those other appointments. I had fever.”

And I apologized again and said “I should have been clearer, but I have an official 24-hour cancellation policy.”

And she said, “What policy? I don’t do policies.”

I said, “I think you’ll find that most teachers you’ll hire, especially the good ones, employ some kind of late cancel policy to protect their time from being disrespected.”

And she said, “How is it disrespect if I am sick? This may be fine for all the others, but not for me. Besides, Kyra doesn’t have a cancellation policy…”

And before I could even think about it, I said, “Yes she does!!!”

Because I know you wouldn’t teach her without one, you were the one who warned me that she cancels all the time and to bill Virginie for it. So I guess I should have known that Eloise doesn't pay attention to how much money she's spending, or wasting, and just gone through Virginie.

So I’m sorry if Eloise is grouchy with you next time.

And I’m sorry to leave you in the lurch, but it is just too early in the day to wake up for someone who doesn’t want to learn. Or respect my time. I hope you aren’t angry. The funny thing is I know I wouldn’t have been so strict with her on this point, if only she’d been a more cooperative student…which I feel sort of bad about. But not bad enough to not get paid. It’s about self-respect, at this point.

Anyway. I want to have a real conversation and catch up, outside of Pilates things. Please give me a call when you’ve gotten this.

Vera

to: iamaseagull@aol.com
From: eloise@emgbalifeandartholdingco.ltd.com

Kira

no longer requiring your services due to your late-cancel policy.
Eloise
<>

to: virginie@emgbalifeandartholdingco.ltd.com
Cc: Jonas@emgbalifeandartholdingco.ltd.com, pierre@emgbalifeandartholdingco.ltd.com, ivan@emgbalifeandartholdingco.ltd.com, plascina@emgbalifeandartholdingco.ltd.com, anna@ emgbalifeandartholdingco.ltd.com

Hello everyone,

I am forwarding you the above [rather short] email that just came to me from Eloise. I’m so sorry, but please don’t call me for any more appointments; Vera can't help you either. Apparently the idea of 24-hour cancellation policy is unacceptable to Eloise, but anyone else I could recommend for this position will have a similar policy. (And just so you know, the *really* good ones need 48 hours' notice...)

I’m sorry to be ending our work together in this abrupt manner, but as you can see this is Eloise’s doing. Thank you all so much for all your hard work. Good luck.

Kyra Lopez-Choi.

To: iamaseagull@aol.com
From: virginie@emgbalifeandartholdingco.ltd.com

Dear Kyra,

I am sure we all feel badly about the situation and this 24 hours cancellation policy is a standard in the profession.

Please send your invoice to Plascina in London and I am sure she will make sure that it is paid.
I wish you all the best.

Virginie

from: iamaseagull@aol.com

to:eloise@emgbalifeandartholdingco.ltd.com
cc:pierre@emgbalifeandartholdingco.ltd.com
virginie@emgbalifeandartholdingco.ltd.com
ivan@emgbalifeandartholdingco.ltd.com
anna@emgbalifeandartholdingco.ltd.com
jean-luc@emgbalifeandartholdingco.ltd.com
jonas@emgbalifeandartholdingco.ltd.com
subject: RE:

Dear Eloise,

I am sorry that you felt the need to terminate my services after working together for so long.

As for the 24-hour cancellation policy -- which both Vera and I employ, as do most (if not all) high-caliber professional trainers -- it has been in effect since the very first week we worked together; I notified you of it at your first session; Jean-Luc knew about it, as did Jonas, Anna, and Roger, and as do Virginie, Pierre, Ivan and Virginie’s assistant Justin.

The policy is there to protect the instructor's time: if you cancel on short notice, the understanding is that that instructor has sacrificed giving that hour to another potential client; as it is, 24 hours is often too little time to reschedule another person, meaning the teacher has lost their potential earnings for that hour.

This is no concern of yours, obviously, and whether or not you choose to continue with me is your business.

However, while it has been a pleasure to teach you, the fact remains that I teach Pilates to support myself. You are terminating my service with an outstanding balance of $650 for past sessions, as well as a $50 set of hand-weights that you requested I purchase on your behalf. Technically speaking, your session on October 12th was cancelled on 12 hours notice, and I did in fact give up another client for you on that day, but somehow I doubt that I'll be paid for that. You also owe Vera $150.

I know it isn't like you to leave loose strings. I have sent more detailed invoices to your assistants.

Thank you very much for a prompt response.

best,
Kyra

To: iamaseagull@aol.com
From: eloise@emgbalifeandartholdingco.ltd.com

I guess I did not know about the policy
I was the last one to know
At 6 30 in the morning I would not think you had
many other clients but I guess that is not the issue
I was sick for a full
Week and trying to get up in the morning with fever if I would have known I just would have cancelled the week
And called when I would have gotten better
done the reverse
I respect your policy
But when I see someone
5 times a week
I would expect a little flexibility
each our own way
I am sure that it is fine
For all the others
Hope u r well

<>

CODA: Tallying up the Bits

2009-01-05T13:46:00.013-05:00

to: virginie@emgbalifeandartholdingco.ltd.com
from: iamaseagull@aol.com

Dear Virginie,

I hope this message finds you well.

This email is very detailed so please read the whole thing. Please call me if you have any questions.

An unanticipated issue has crept up re: Mrs. Alcock’s trip to Barbados in August. I'm not sure if you know the details of our departure, but it was very hasty -- as I'm sure you can guess. Since there was no time to order a Pilates machine before we left in such a hurry (on a Sunday), a large part of my job in Barbados was talking on the phone to Anna in _____Hampton (she was the P.A. while you were on vacation), coordinating the purchase & delivery of a portable Pilates reformer. I also spent a lot of time speaking to the owner of the Pilates company we purchased from, located in Long Island City. And I spent a lot of time on the phone with Omega Jackson, the rooms manager at the Sandy Lane (the hotel where Mrs. Alcock stayed in Barbados) in order to arrange a private room for her to exercise in.

This added up to an extraordinary number of phone calls made and received while I was in the Caribbean -- and I ended up having to use my own cell phone, because the one Pierre gave me to use didn’t function.

A week ago, I got hit with an enormous bill from my cell phone company, charging me an astronomical "out of range" rate. I have an itemized bill that I’d like to fax to you; you’ll see there are a few lengthy incoming calls that were personal calls from my own friends, and obviously I don't expect to be reimbursed for those, but after subtracting my personal calls there is still $645 (USD) remaining that I do need to be reimbursed for, since these were calls made or taken entirely in the service of Mrs. Alcock. I ended up paying this bill on my credit card.

I can tell you that I had no idea my roaming charges would be so high; in fact there was nothing on my phone to indicate I was "roaming" (no little icon appeared), and my cell phone company got a piece of my mind when I got the bill. If it’s any help, I do know we wouldn’t necessarily have saved money by using the hotel phone to make those calls, since hotel charges are notoriously over-priced.

Please respond as soon as you can. I will fax you the itemized bill as soon as you send me the fax number for your office in Washington D.C.). I am really sorry about this, and I hesitated for a before letting you know this had happened; I cannot describe to you my own shock when I received the bill, but the company wouldn't budge when I asked them for a lower rate. I wish that I could just pay this and not have to ask you for a reimbursement, but I would not have gone to Barbados if I had thought it would cost me $645 in phone bills.

Speak to you soon,
Kyra

from: pierre@emgbalifeandartholdingco.ltd.com

to: iamaseagull@aol.com

Hello Kyra--

Below please find your tallied bits which we compiled based on your own accounting. Thank you for sending all those receipts and for doing your own addition. Looking forward to continuing to work with you in the fall.

Cheers.

Pierre

KYRA LOPEZ-CHOI EXPENSES AND FEES AUGUST AND SEPTEMBER 2005

Barbadian $'s/GBP £ = USD $

16-Aug B$127.90 = US$63.95 Goggles & Pilates ball
18-Aug B$15.00 = US$7.50 The RotDen, St James (subsistence)
15-Aug B$50.85 = US$25.43 SuperCentre (food/subsistence)
20-Aug B$38.54 = US$19.27 SuperCentre (food/subsistence)
15-Aug B$7.55 = US$3.78 Esso Tigermarket, Paynes Bay (water)
15-Aug B$50.00 = US$25.00 food - juice & fruit
19-Aug B$62.45 = US$31.23 SuperCentre (food/subsistence)
19-Aug B$6.99 = US$3.50 food
Aug-05 B$530.00 = US$265.00 taxis & buses, 14th-28th Aug., to and from Sandy Lane
Aug-05 B$192.00 =$96.00 tips as recorded
30--Aug £10.00 =$18.43 Journey's Friend, Kensington Hilton (food)
30-Aug £5.34 =$9.84 breakfast fruit
30-Aug £29.99 =$55.27 Carphone Warehouse (mobile phone)
30-Aug £8.49 $ =$15.65 Journey's Friend, Kensington Hilton (food)
2-Sep £60.00 =$110.58 taxi to Heathrow airport

PILATES INVOICE
2-Sep $1,000.00 pilates additional days in London Sept. 2005

LESS PAYMENTS RECEIVED
-$400.00 cash received from Pierre M_______
-£40.00 -$73.72 cash received from Ivan P_______

$1,276.69 BALANCE DUE TO KYRA LOPEZ-CHOI

Chapter 25: Post-Script

2009-01-04T23:18:00.017-05:00

To: ameryka@freecity.net
From: iamaseagull@aol.com
subj: post-Salzburg, post-London, post-Adventure

Hi lovey,

We seem to have switched places; I am back in New York, at last. I hope Prague is as beautiful as you remembered. Where are you living? And when will you be coming back home?

(BTW…Thanks for the language tips for Austria. I’m sorry to say that they did not come in handy, having had no occasion to yell “scheisse” out loud, and I just don’t believe that “dickmilk” is how they say “yogurt.” Sorry. ;-) But thanks anyway…)

So you asked how it all finished up, so here it all is. The best I can say is, not with a bang... but with my dignity restored. And I am out of debt as soon as Eloise signs the checks (that’s right, she hasn’t done it yet. And I don’t know when she will. So the story isn’t over, even though I’m back home).

Anyway, this is what happened last week.

We took off from Barbados in the evening. (If you’re curious, yes, I had on a skirt and a full face of makeup.) Omega Jackson had helped me hoist the folding reformer into the car and kissed my hand, and the car with the luggage whisked Gerry and me off to the Bajan airport; Madame Eloise followed in a separate vehicle.

Gerry the now-shiny-toothed ass-kisser carried Eloise’s “hand luggage.” We boarded the plane late; Eloise was nowhere to be seen. Gerry was in the middle of telling me the story of how his flat in London was burgled (I’ve heard it four times) when the flight attendant rescued me from death by boredom by introducing herself. “I’m Lori,” she started. “Um, I’m so sorry to interrupt, but – ah, could I talk to you for a minute?” She looked terrified and pulled me aside. “Have you been working for her for a long time?” she asked me.

“About nine months. What’s the problem?”

And Lori handed me printout that truly took the cake, maybe all the cake from the whole summer. It was written by Virginie.

List of Protocols for Eloise Gewurztraminer Bourgeois Alcock:
for staff of Private Aviation

Mme. Alcock is an extremely high-profile client. Please keep in mind that she values her time and privacy and keep communication to a minimum. She will probably rest in the back of the plane for the duration of the flight. If it is nighttime, she is not to be disturbed except in cases of extreme emergency. If a meal is to be served, there should be wine and several options to choose from; she generally prefers classic French cuisine but butter should not be used in the preparation.

Please stock the following:
Cashmere blankets
A salmon option
Espresso
Dark chocolates
An assortment of dried fruits and nuts (NO CASHEWS)
Tisanes (fresh leaves only please NO TEA BAGS)
Lavender aromatherapy oil

Please keep in mind that discretion is paramount. Mrs. Alcock is very busy with her work and prefers to be addressed by her personal staff, so messages should be relayed through them. She doesn’t like to be looked at so please avoid eye contact.”

Thank you very much

Virginie Graziani, P.A.

There was really nothing to say. If this were a memo for someone truly important with who had real work to do, like the President of the United States, I could *maybe* understand the tone, if not the content. One could argue that Eloise owns art magazines and speaks at events about world peace and creativity, all of which (in theory) I think are important; but the fact is that the real work -- running her companies, or writing the speeches she reads out loud in front of a tele-prompter -- is farmed out to people she pays. She has no attention span, no ability to memorize, no knowledge about art or ability to absorb and contextualize the information she takes in from her own publications. There was nothing, nothing important that was going to be done on that plane, with or without poor Lori daring to inquire if Mrs. Alcock would prefer steak or chicken.

I rolled my eyes at Lori and told her to just do her best. I said that it was the most retarded thing I had ever heard. That I make eye-contact with Eloise all the time.

She was about to give me a hug when Eloise’s voice was heard at the bottom of the rolling staircase to the plane, “I don’t care, it’s not my problem, these bags should have been loaded long ago, we are very very late.” And she swooshed on.

I have no idea if it was because Barney Cloverfield had ended up leaving Barbados a day earlier than planned, but Eloise was cranky. She had Lori serve her dinner right away. Lori was nervous and asked (as per her asinine instruction manual) if Eloise would like salmon or beef, to which Eloise snapped, “Don’t you have grilled chicken salad? Didn’t you receive instructions to have options on board?” And Lori just yes ma’amed and somehow produced a grilled chicken salad.

It was a night flight and I was exhausted from running back and forth from the Sandy Lane to Treasure Beach, and all I wanted was to go to sleep. As covertly as possible, I asked Lori if there was any way to make my seat recline. Understandably, she looked down the plane at where Eloise sat picking at her salad. “I promise I’ll help you as soon as Mrs. Alcock is asleep behind that curtain,” she whispered, perhaps unaware that Eloise could potentially be up for hours. But there was nothing to be done, and Lori tiptoed down the aisle to ask Eloise if she wanted a glass of wine.

“This food is inedible,” I heard Eloise snap. “Really, there is no excuse for this.”

Lori took it back to the front of the plane. I thought I saw her lip wobble.

As soon as Alcock had disappeared behind the curtain, I grabbed a blanket and my earphones (in case Gerry was tempted to try to talk to me again) and fell asleep. I woke up a few hours later. My seat was still upright, so I crept up to the front of the plane again to find Lori, my new best friend, to ask for help. She tried to find the release to make the thing recline, but neither one of us could figure it out.

“WHAT IS GOING ON UP THERE??” Eloise hissed from behind her curtain. “This is ridiculous, Kyra, I need quiet if I’m to get any rest.”

Lori didn’t even look at me but scurried back to the front of the plane where she remained for the rest of the flight.

Gerry was asleep, having figured out how to recline his chair. Nevertheless, I knew I couldn’t sleep sitting up any more, so I climbed onto one of the couches in the middle of the plane. Eloise had spread out her stacks of papers on both couches. As stealthily as possible, I picked up a stack and moved it to the other couch so I could lie down. But somehow, even though I was as silent as I know how to be, Eloise heard that too and said “WHO IS MAKING ALL THAT NOISE??” I froze. Then I thought, well, she can send me home from London, and I moved the papers and laid myself down to sleep on a couch, completely ignoring her.

“This is unacceptable, Kyra, I have had to ask you twice to be quiet.” Let the record show that I had not uttered a word since Eloise had gotten on the plane. The amount of noise she was objecting to would not have awakened a napping baby. But her amazing radar had picked up some movement – some human being moving about, alive, while she was resting! Someone daring to attend to a need that wasn’t one of Eloise's! – and there I was, awake and vulnerable. I decided to give notice as soon as we landed in London, but by morning, when the plane had touched down in Salzburg, Eloise appeared to have forgotten the whole thing.

*

Salzburg was beautiful. Eloise was staying with a friend, Chad Roland*, the French gallery owner who represents Bad Spritzer* (the Israeli abstract sculptor whose work Eloise had flown here to see). M. Roland lives in the Villa E_____, near the H_______ Palace, on the outskirts of the city. Gerry and I were driven to a charming hotel that was some count’s former country house.

Disconcertingly, as soon as we got to the hotel, I realized that Eloise had neglected to give Gerry or me any Euros; and without money there would be no dinner, and without dinner I was sure to pass out. Of course I had what was left of the petty cash Pierre had given me, but I had converted everything into Bajan money in Barbados, and had had no time to convert it into Euros at the Sandy Lane because I had been too busy organizing Eloise’s things for departure. With some difficulty -- and sign language (because I speak no German) -- the hotel’s hausfrau directed me to a bank, a short walk down the road. It was about to close. They had an ATM, but when I put in my own card, I discovered that Eloise had not paid me (she was four weeks late); and since I have been diligently paying off my bills as money comes in, there was $19 in my account. So much for direct deposit.

I dug around in my pocket for the rest of my Bajan money. The bank clerk – who I’m sure just wanted to go home to have dinner -- had no idea what it was, and I had to wait an hour for him to find a supervisor who converted it first into pounds, then euros. I was grateful to them for staying open on my behalf, but I was also hungry and cranky enough to be annoyed at them: they were a bank, for god’s sake, couldn’t they just change my fucking money? (And then I realized that that was an Eloise-y thought and made myself stop.)

Upon returning to the hotel, who should I see but Gerry, happily eating dinner, on the hotel-restaurant’s porch. The sun was getting ready to go down, and the light was beautiful. There was a stream nearby and huge trees swaying in the breeze; and freshly-caught trout was on the menu. I looked sideways at Gerry. “Um, I’m sorry, Gerry, but did Eloise give you some money for us?” I asked, incredulous at how he had managed to find cash.

He didn’t look up at me. He has finally registered that I find him odious. “No, dear, I had Euros of my own.” I nodded and walked away despondently. From my window, I could see when he had finished, and when the coast was clear I went to the porch myself and ordered trout. It was the most delicious thing I had eaten since the truck lady in Barbados.

Eloise called my cell phone while I was still eating. She wanted a session before heading to Bad Spritzer’s art exhibit. To get to her villa near the palace I had to walk through a little forest next to the babbling brook. I arrived at a castle with a gate. A maid in a uniform led me into a flagstone-paved hallway. The floor was warped; this villa had been built in 1619. And the walls of the entryway were covered in unfortunate modern art, including a couple of huge photographs of naked young girls, with pre-Raphaelite hair and enormous boobs, playing flutes.

I found Eloise in a little room off the front hall. She appeared to have forgiven me for annoying her on the flight, even if I hadn’t forgiven her for snapping at me. We started the session and she was super-chatty, wanted me to go to Bad Spritzer’s art opening (“I can’t remember the name of the gallery, we’ll have to get it from Anna,” which meant a long-distance call on my cell...). Ten minutes into it, a beautiful European woman, pregnant, wandered into the room. “Ah! Jessamine,” cried Eloise.

A long conversation in French ensued. Jessamine*, it seemed, was the pregnant recently-ex girlfriend to Henri Bledel-Bentley*, a famous artist who had just a few days before committed suicide by throwing himself into the Seine. Jessamine was understandably inconsolable. It seems that the art world had been completely shocked by his death (even though the man had been severely depressed and also had a long history of doing heroin) and Eloise had asked Jessamine to meet her in Salzburg because she felt that Jessamine shouldn’t be alone in Paris, where she was subject to a feeding frenzy by the rapacious press. And Eloise’s buddy Bad Spritzer shared a gallery with the late Henri Bledel-Bentley, so Eloise had commandeered his bereft girlfriend.

It seemed like a political move on Eloise’s part, because these two women were not close, and Eloise needs as much art-world cred as she can find; but she was the kindest to this woman I’ve ever seen her be with anyone. I tried to find a graceful way to leave the room so they could talk by themselves, but Eloise said, “No, Kyra, it’s fine, don’t go anywhere.” As I listened, it became apparent that Eloise had sent Jessamine to a voyante, or psychic, for advice and solace following the suicide. The psychic had told pauvre Jessamine that her boyfriend was watching her from beyond the grave, and that he hadn’t meant to kill himself. Eloise said, isn’t that comforting, and Jessamine sighed a big French sigh.

And then it was time for her to dress and leave for the gallery. I flew me all that way for ten minutes of Pilates and an hour-long discussion about the Other Side. (We left Salzburg the following day; less than 24 hours, all told.)

I had the evening free, and couldn’t bear another night alone in a hotel, so I called a cab and went to the gallery in the middle of the city, by myself. Now, you and I have had this argument many times, I know conceptual art is legitimate and important, but I find it impossibly upsetting. The first piece I saw upon entering was an “installation” of three silver cubes, each about ten square inches. They were filled (according to the little card on the wall, handily printed in German, French and English) with cow-dung from a desert in Arizona. I wondered if it was legal to carry the dung of a mojave bovine through international customs. And I also wondered if it was really true that the boxes were full of shit; and if not, what Bad Spritzer was trying to give his audience by making them think that those boxes were full of shit; and whether it was true or not, I wondered what possible concept Bad Spritzer could be exploring that would warrant all of these fancy people buying fancy clothes and flying in on fancy planes to see something that looked like decorator touches from IKEA. Filled with the purported fecal matter of a desert cow.

(And if you tell me that since I wondered about all that stuff that means the art must be working, I will never, ever speak to you again. This does not count as a stimulated imagination. This is me in a kerfuffle over the injustice of misapplied attention on the part of art-buyers. Seriously, *this* guy has an audience?)

….and I also thought that if I were a bad-boy Israeli with lots of money, I too could buy a studio, hang out my shingle, call myself an “artist,” buy my way into lots of society parties with other rich people and make myself famous by schmoozing idiots like Eloise. It’s not art, it’s a PR campaign with manure.

I mean, let's say for argument's sake that the boxes really are full of shit and the shit really did come from Arizona. What poor minion did Bad Spritzer pay to fly out to the desert to smuggle dung back to Tel Aviv, so that Mr. Spritzer could put it in a silver box? Because there's no way that playboy with the loafers and the studied stubble and the shiny sunglasses did it himself. And I thought the whole point of "sculpting" was that you made the thing yourself. Otherwise isn’t it…architecture? And don't architects *need* other people to execute their design because buildings are huge and complicated, whereas three silver 10" boxes...are not?

I also thought of Alexander Calder drawing a picture of a sculpture and having someone else build it. I thought of Matthew Barney. In theory, I don't disrespect either one.

I thought most of all of my parents slaving away in their studios, completely unknown. Both of them employ meticulous, labor-intensive, time-consuming methods, and they do it by themselves.

It’s true my anger might be irrational; it's certainly illogical. I mean, let's say a playwright does "design" what happens onstage when he (or she) writes a play. Other people execute that design, and I seem not to have a problem with that. I sing songs other people have written. But it is a little different. In performance, the executors (the director and actors) get credit. I have no idea who actually painted the Sistine chapel.

If Eloise's life is her work of art, aren't I "helping" to create it in some small way? Isn't that where her butlers are taking their pride? They work for someone who backs world peace and culture. Does that make her any easier to take? (They could make the same money working for someone who deals guns...)

Anyway. I didn't see Eloise at the gallery, thank god. I spent fifteen minutes looking at more of the work, but everything pissed me off in equal measure, its lack of imagination making me depressed. The Mozart festival was going on, so I found my way back to the old center of town, ate a sausage and bought a ticket on my credit card (no comments) for the symphony, which was playing Ives, Schoenberg and (indeedy) Mozart. And then I fell asleep as soon as the lights went down, the most expensive nap in the history of mankind. Cabbed it back to the hotel. The next day we flew to London.

**

London was a comfort and I did in fact go to the theater every night. There’s not much to tell; I was really, really tired of being alone all the time. I had to buy a cell phone because my trusty brick, which had worked fine in Austria and Barbados, couldn’t get a signal in the U.K., and Madame had to be able to get in touch with me at a moment's notice. More credit card purchases, though I’m told I will be reimbursed. They put me up in a Hilton (terribly corporate after all that euro-rustic charm) a few blocks from Eloise.

Ivan (the mean second head butler), not Roger, was my point person. The night I arrived in London, he drew me a map of where Eloise’s house was, but I got lost anyway. Her appointment was for seven in the morning – vacation’s over. However, I was staying on Holland Park Avenue, which is parallel to but not the same as Holland Park Road or Holland Park Mews, and there are TWO Holland Park Roads, because Holland Park Road is basically a rectangle, with the house numbers going up on one side of the street, and down on the other, and I of course ended up going up and down the various Holland Parks looking for which house might be the one I was meant to find. I arrived 15 minutes late, and Ivan answered the door with a curt, “She’s not pleased.”

Eloise kept me waiting anyway, for twenty minutes. When she did emerge, it was to berate me for being late (“Really, Kyra, you and time…you don’t have that many responsibilities.” The sickening truth.). We did twenty minutes of Pilates. Her own machines are built by a Canadian company that seems more concerned with slick design than Mr. Pilates’ original intents, and they have many flaws. At the end of the session, she looked dissatisfied. “Have you found Didier’s stick?” I didn’t want to tell her I knew it was back in _____Hampton. I said nothing. She tsked again. “See if you can make one,” she said as she swept out of the room.

I don’t have to tell you that I did not spend my next two days in London locating a hardware store so I could buy a broom and have the broom portion sawn off. I blew off the assignment entirely. I didn’t even tell Ivan. In fact I went shopping in the Portobello Road flea market and bought a skirt for myself. I went to TopShop and bought shoes and a winter coat. I bought an expensive dinner and another theater ticket. I did not feel guilty. I was broke, and my credit card was seeming like my only means of self-expression, all alone as I was in London.

Eloise had forgotten about the stick the next day. (I knew she would.) She was in a snit about Clinton. She was instead ranting about how it was his terrible policies that had gotten us into trouble in Afghanistan. And how Israeli aggression had been allowed to go on for too long, that they should be helping the Palestinians build infrastructure. And how that was really Clinton’s fault too. And how Richard Gere was going to save Tibet and she was going to help him…

All of which sounded like standard Euro-leftist stuff. I might even agree with some of it. I just...hate it coming out of her mouth.

The next day she brought up China again. I have no idea why she's going, but as you know I long to travel, especially in Asia, and would so love to go to China. And of course the lack of funds is what has stopped me from going in the past... and here would be a free trip to China….

So after her session, which consisted largely of me waiting and then getting berated again for not knowing how to work the digital remote control in her personal gym (I mean….really, you’d think I’d have learned that this was part of my job, but isn’t that what the twenty other people who actually work in her house are for?) she said, “I am going to China for two weeks. Can you come with us?” And I found myself saying no. Not maybe, not I’ll think about it, just no.

No, I don’t want to go to China with Eloise. No, I don’t want to go to China without anyone on staff thinking to give me the correct money to live on. With no language or preparation. No, I don’t want to go to China and not be able to see any of it because I have to wait around in a hotel room for Eloise to call me. So I can teach her bad Pilates. No.

I would rather go back to New York and go on auditions and teach people who might want to learn. I would rather be in a play. I would rather play with my friends. I would rather be at home alone and enjoy my solitude without thinking about what thing I had done wrong by attending to my own needs. I would like to go to China when I can take myself there and enjoy it instead of hating myself. I would rather create my own life (or fuck it up, as the case may be) rather than be a detail in anyone else's, least of all the fabulous life of Eloise Gewurztraminer Bourgeois Alcock.

But she clearly needed an explanation, so I said, “I have an audition on September 8th,” which I had made up. Eloise raised an eyebrow. “So you don’t have a job, but you think you want to go back to try and get one? That doesn’t sound very bright, Kyra,” she said with a raised eyebrow. And I said, “Well, I'm sorry, and I appreciate the invitation, it's just -- you know, I'm -- but -- I’m an actress. That’s what I really do.”

And she said, “Oh! I didn’t know that.”

Now…I cannot tell you how many conversations I have had with Eloise about theater. About acting. About me going to drama school. About her daughter wanting to be a director. About Lou Roeberson. I genuinely think she forgot. I really, really think she has early-onset Alzheimers’. This experience is sort of like dating a severe alcoholic: you have these important foundational conversations and the next day they remember nothing…thank god I’m not dating her…oh, never mind, you know what I mean.

After Eloise’s last session, I had to go down to the kitchen to hand over the English cell phone (which I had paid for) to the butler Ivan – surely he would find a use for it before I would – and to say goodbye to Pierre. Pierre seemed a little sad without Roger; it turns out that Roger was, in fact, fired. But not for bitching about Madame behind her back or for getting into a fight with Didier; he apparently had been fudging on his “bits:” all the butlers get petty cash like I did, for tipping waiters and drivers and for picking up items Madame asks for en passante, and there’s a lot of that to track, they call it “tallying their bits” and it gets done whenever they return to London from wherever they’ve been. The problem is that one doesn’t always write down everything on the spot — like when one slips a twenty to a maitre d’ or tips a bellhop in a hurry — and as someone who finds itemizing for her tax returns odious, I understand that that is a huge chore. And like with tax returns, there’s a large margin for error, and although they strive for accuracy, it’s all on the honor system. Anyway, Plascina in the accounting office discovered that Roger had fudged some $30,000 worth of petty cash. And was totally unrepentant. I have no idea where he is now. Back on the QE2, I suppose.

I didn’t expect to see Jonas, but Pierre and Ivan and I were mid-gossip when he suddenly popped his head in and started to say something about Madame — and stopped when he saw me in the kitchen. “I almost didn’t recognize you,” he said. He seemed totally subdued, all trace of the flirt was gone. Gravely, he looked me up and down, like a doctor making a diagnosis. I was wearing makeup and new fancy jeans and felt so happy to be going home; Jonas has only seen me miserable and sleepy in sweats and zits.

“You clean up nicely, luv,” he said.

I smiled at him like a person. “Please don’t be so surprised. How was China?”

He shrugged. “Edwin’s bollocks. How was Barbados?”

“Madame’s bollocks. The apple didn’t fall far.”

“Ah, Madame’s all right. Her intentions are good.”

I sighed. “Yes, yes, they are. You really can’t fault her on content, it’s annoying, but it’s true. And she did go to Harvard, after all, so she must be smart. Somewhere underneath all that dyslexia…”

“What are you talking about, luv?”

“Madame. Harvard. It says in her press kit that she’s ‘Harvard trained.’ And her ex-husband is a Rhodes scholar. He wouldn’t have put up with her if she’d been as dumb as she seems.”

And Ivan started smirking and Jonas looked at me with those dimples starting to show -- and those sparkly, sparkly eyes -- and he said the most beautiful thing I had heard all summer: “Her ex-husband the fucking Rhodes scholar wouldn’t have cared if she couldn’t spell cat. She had a lot of money and access and in case you hadn’t noticed she is a very, very pretty blond with big tits, not that I should be talking that way about her. But I promise you Madame didn’t go to Harvard. She did some crap nine-week summer course for business executives sponsored by the Harvard Business School that’s nothing but a two-month cocktail party for other people like her. So they can all get pissed together and lick each other’s arses.” His walkie-talkie crackled. “Balls. Must go.” He kissed me on the cheek. “Wish I didn’t have to run. Here’s my card, stay in touch, have a safe flight back.” And he was gone, almost flustered, for once not making porny jokes about my bottom.

“He’s not the same since his woman left him,” muttered Ivan.

“Really?” I said. “What happened?”

“She got tired of being his mum.”

*

And… when I got back to my hotel and checked my email, I discovered that my agents had in fact emailed me, and I do have an audition, on September 10th. Which I am looking forward to. It’s a four-character play, a great part, I get to age twenty years and use a Russian dialect, the music is difficult and it’s at a small-but-classy theater in New England with an illustrious background. Wish me luck.

I flew back to New York in coach.

☺

The day after I landed back in NY, I called Virginie to arrange the retrieval of the rest of my belongings. My parents drove me to _________Hampton in their car, curious to see this crazy house where I’d spent my summer; Domingo was expecting me. I gave my folks a quick peek at Eloise’s side of the house – everything draped in white canvas, eerie – and my garret; and, underwhelmed by boring architecture, they went to sit on the beach while I gathered my stuff.

Curiously, though, none of my things were in the garret where I'd left it all. I checked all the nursery rooms, and, finding nothing, decided to head to the guest house, to my temporary second room in the back hall, the one I’d lived in prior to the arrival of the Principessa del’ [Major European Country].

On my way there, I wandered through the remnants of the vegetable garden and discovered that no one had picked the peaches off the peach tree in a while (oh, did I neglect to mention the single peach tree that bore the most delicious fruit and that I was forbidden to pick…?). I denuded the branches of as many as I could carry and bit into a juicy one, and went into the silent, empty guest house. I entered through the kitchen, where only a few weeks ago Pierre had scrambled to serve lunch for eighteen. I wandered through the living room, full of the overstuffed Pottery Barn couches, now covered in sheets, into through the front hall with the ming vases and the plaques with the Chinese mug-lids glued to them, through the library with the revolving bookshelf, into the secret back hallway, into my old chintz-covered domain.

I don’t know what I was expecting — I mean, I certainly didn’t think Luisa and Rosaura would have neatly packed my things into a suitcase and left it there for me — but I certainly didn’t expect to find that everything had been haphazardly stuffed into a corner on the floor of a linen closet. The books were mixed in with the shoes and the clothes, everything heaped in a messy, dusty tangle. For some reason, this practically made me cry, which may have been a disproportionate response, but I knelt down anyway and folded everything up with as much care as I thought Eloise would want her things to be treated. I was about to put everything I had left in the bathroom into plastic baggies, when I remembered something… and a mean little knot in my chest dissolved…

Down the stairs I skittered, into the guest house basement, past the screening room and the bar and the billiard room, into the exercise room. None of the Pilates equipment had been put away properly, so for form’s sake I fixed it. And I found Didier’s stupid stick, sitting in a corner. I was going to take it with me to mail to Eloise back in London, but then thought better of it. I would call Virginie and let her dispatch the order to Domingo.

And then I padded into the sauna room next door and peeked on the towel-shelf. There were the stacks of big fluffy robes…and way, way back into the back of the shelf, I stretched my hot little hand...

…and found the red makeup bag. And pulled it to me.

I was, frankly, amazed that no one had thought to pack it for Madame in Barbados. I unzipped it and there was the same treasure-trove of unopened, unused makeup. And the jar of La Prairie Crème de la Mer, which I knew would just spoil if left there all year until Madame’s return next summer. Edwin’s skin cream had long since been rubbed into my face, and my skin had been thirsty and acting up since leaving the Caribbean, so without one tiny bit of maybe I shouldn’t-ness, I broke the seal and spread a layer of the cool, smooth, buttery stuff into my cheekbones.

Also in the bag were some very good-quality makeup brushes that I thought would come in handy. And some concealer. A powder blush from a company I couldn’t afford. The eyeshadows and lip-glosses were all the wrong colors for me, and my goal was only to help myself to what I might need, not to rob her blind; but I knew I had in front of me at least $300 worth of cosmetics. While there really is no excuse for stealing, at this point in time she owed me four weeks of pay (even as I write this, she hasn’t paid it all) and so I decided to think of it as a sort of… collateral. It wasn’t jewelry, after all. And the little red bag was still plenty full. I re-zipped it and slid it to the back of the shelf where I’d found it.

Then I wrapped my loot in a hand towel (just in case), and went back upstairs, and packed everything into my bag; found Domingo and said goodbye, and joined my parents in the car.

We ate late summer peaches all the way back to Brooklyn.

**

SO. This job isn’t over until I get paid and pay off my debt, and while I know Eloise will be back from China pretty soon, I have no idea when she'll get around to signing checks. I’ll be teaching her in the mornings again when she’s in NYC. But I won’t be on-call, which will be a huge relief. She’ll be moving out of the Hotel des Beaux-Arts in midtown; she paid $30 million for a triplex in that brand new R______ M____ building, those glass towers going up in the West Village along the West Side Highway. Which is a shorter early-morning commute for yours truly. I’ll let you know how that goes…

In the meantime, I’m delighted to be home. My audition is in a few days. Wish me luck.

I hope the American ex-pat community is keeping you employed at the bookstore, and that your upcoming sojourn in India doesn’t tax your tummy too terribly. I miss you - please write as often as you can.

Much, much love.
KLC, Thief in the Night

Chapter 24: Exit, Chased by a Bear

2008-12-30T08:25:00.003-05:00

Chapter 23: endgame

2008-12-29T01:13:00.014-05:00

Chapter 22:...another happy day!

2008-12-27T21:47:00.012-05:00

There were these long sheds with huge tables where the fishermen were slicing up their catch, snapper and flying fish and marlin and barracuda. The fish tent was fascinating, but kind of bloody. There were also stands with grills where you could buy a plate of cooked fish (I had the flying fish, Eloise had the barracuda) with macaroni pie and rice and breadfruit [like a potato] for very little money, plus sweet rum punch. We all got a little tipsy, even Eloise -- and next thing you know she said to Gerry, "Don't you know anybody nice for Kyra here?"

And Gerry, lisping away, goes, "Why, yes, I know a wonderful guy, never married, 44, he lives in Tribeca with a poodle and a Porsche.” “Wonderful,” Eloise piped up. “See, it’s not so hard to meet people! Tell him to email me a picture!" Gerry pulled out his cell phone as if he was actually prepared to call my Tribeca-dwelling future husband right there from a Caribbean picnic table. He looked at me. "I should tell you he's quite Republican, but that is just a detail." I made a face, memories of my ______Hampton blind date (the Republican avid Fox-"news" watching dog-beater) still fresh. I said to Gerry, trying very hard to keep the edge off, “Do I look like someone who would date a Republican?” (I mean, do I?) But Eloise, punch-drunk, informed me I was being too picky.

So much for holding out until it feels right.

Then we located the dance floor. There was a big circle of people watching a few truly great dancers dodging and twisting to loud reggae, all of whom were gorgeous men, very tall, very stoned. Eloise and I both noticed that none of the women were dancing, they were indeed standing around the men -- just watching, the way Rhiannon back at my hotel said they would. We watched them watching the men, watched the men having an amazing time on the otherwise-empty dance floor; and then I saw Eloise start to do a sort of early-eighties hip roll, so I said, "Go join them, I dare you," and she gave me a smug little laugh and said, "You don't know me at all," and she pranced out onto the dance floor with her blond head and her tight white jeans glaring, boogying right up to the tallest man with the longest dreads, like Céline Dion in among the clutch of Peter Toshes.

And then I got so, so annoyed at myself for hesitating where she felt so bold. I judge her all the time for being a dingbat, but the fact is that she has more moxie than I do. It might be her money that gives her the illusion that she’s safe and protected and free to do as she pleases anywhere in the world; but I have equally irrational illusions about being in constant danger. So I joined her. The men were mildly surprised and amused but really too high to care.

But I stopped after a few minutes. Because we did seem to be violating some invisible protocol. It wasn’t just that literally no one else was dancing; no one was even inclined to dance, they all seemed content to watch, and no one in the “audience” was amused by the two white women who had thrust themselves onto the dance floor. Eloise remained oblivious and kept dancing… until one of the men got a little too close and started dancing a little too suggestively. She shimmied away from him and then stalked off the dance floor saying, “Come on.” Gerry and I had no choice but to scurry after her.

The cab driver had waited for us. Eloise charged the taxi to her room bill -- $140 American plus tip. Cheaper than a bikini.

**

Anyway. Before I sign off, I need your advice. Gerry has informed me, smarm practically dripping from his teeth, that I'm responsible for tipping the maids back in _______Hampton. I have no idea how I’ll even be able to give a tip to the maids (certified check??), but it’s awkward anyway: I'm staff just like they are -- except that I lived in that house all summer. (Unlike Gerry, who lived down the road and so owes no one a gratuity.) How much do you tip a servant? Is it like tipping a dresser backstage? Do they really expect this from me? Any advice? This is a real question, no one actually waited on me – I did my own laundry, changed my own sheets, etc. – so I have no idea what the protocol is.

Which seems to be my permanent condition.

Missing you all, praying for rain, waiting and waiting and waiting.

KLC

Chapter 21: Waiting for Eloise

2008-12-26T19:20:00.011-05:00

from: iamaseagull@aol.com

to: momlopez-choi@aol.com, poplopez-choi@aol.com, talktthhand@juno.com, soundengineer@theatrco.org, youngcomposer@mymusic.com, pilatesqueen@pilatesqueen.com, lop-cho@nyc.bb.ss.com, ameryka@freecity.net,
jennifer@bff.org

subj: an existential crisis

It's finally raining, so I'm finally writing, and I apologize for the long silence – if you were worried, I haven't drowned in the Caribbean or been stung by a scorpion or been hit by a fast-moving vehicle. My laptop can't pick up a signal, so here I am in the "Lounge" of my little pensione, the "ecologically friendly" (and blessedly un-upscale) Treasure Beach Hotel, typing on the ancient guest computer, which is so old that the cursor is green.

It seems that the job I have been hired to perform is that of a professional wait-er, interspersed with brief bouts of teaching: until today, it has been nothing but me waiting in the sunshiny weather for Eloise's summons from down the road at the swankier-than-thou 17-star hotel where she’s staying. I teach her every day, but I never know when she’s going to call; I am expected to just hang out at my hotel next to the phone -- and since the international cell phone Pierre gave me doesn't work – but mine, inexplicably, does – my own ancient Nokia brick has become my de facto walkie-talkie. But it's either that or wait inside by a land-line, and I’d rather wait down by the ocean…

(Unless, of course, it’s raining. And it is really, really raining, rather monsoon-like.)

This whole week has been unbelievably leisurely; I wake up late, charge breakfast to my bill, which Eloise will pay, and then (assuming it isn't raining) mosey down the 10 meters to the water where I sit on a plastic chaise and read, or sleep in the sun until the phone rings. Sometimes I'll get up and swim in the sparkly blue water, which feels like a delicious warm bath; but never for more than 20 minutes at a time, because it would be really bad for me to miss the phone. I can make no plans to (for example) go on a day trip to the jungle – Eloise could call at any time, and I never know when the mood will strike her for Pilates (she was so interested in keeping to a scheduled programme des sports back at the ranch, but now that she's "on vacation" she doesn't want to have to schedule a thing. Which I get, I really, really do).

It is certainly a relief to know that, *while* I’m waiting, at least I cannot be seen from the Big House like in ______Hampton, so no one is spying on me; and I don’t have to stay out of anyone’s sight. I don't have to teach Bertrand, there are no butlers commenting on my relative lassitude. And it’s been remarkably easy to avoid Gerry during the day: Eloise summons us at different times, and he never comes to the beach because he claims he is allergic to the sun (it didn’t bother him in _______Hampton…). If he does show up by the water, I put my book over my face and pretend to be asleep. So I don't really expect anyone to feel sorry for me. The beach could not be prettier or the water blue-er, the food free-er or the people lovelier, but….but you know, a leash is a leash is a leash. She has reserved the right to summon me, and I need to be ready to go at a moment's notice; without saying a word, this is what I have agreed to.

Nothing to be done.

*

Actually, pre-breakfast, my first duty of the day, every day, is to spend an hour on the phone with Anna back in ______Hampton (which I do from my third-floor balcony overlooking the beach…). We have been trying to complete our order (one portable folding Pilates reformer) with the Pilates-machine company in Long Island City. There have been complications. I call the factory; I call Anna; she calls the factory; she calls me back. Etc. So we speak several times a day; sometimes she just calls me when she's bored, and I have sometimes reciprocated while I wait on the beach for Eloise's call. The Pilates machine guys have indeed built the thing in record time, but the shipping takes awhile, and apparently the latest is that I will have to go back to the airport to pick up the machine and get it through customs myself, and then take it back to the hotel. Folding Pilates table, weighing 90 lbs., $4,000, a week of frantic phone calls. It will arrive on Monday, five days after our arrival; and we will be preparing for a Wednesday departure.

Whatever; mine is not to wonder why we bothered. But I do wonder. Often. Because I have nothing to do, but wait and read and wonder why she wanted me to come all this way.

I know there are personal trainers and massage therapists at her hotel.

We are a mile down the road from Eloise's hotel, the palatial Sandy Lane, located on Sandy Lane Way (I initially thought that was sort of like shopping on Madison Avenue Street, but then I learned that Sandy Lane is the name of the hotelier, it's not a porn star or a street address). The Sandy Lane Hotel is famed for its golf course, which is ostensibly why we are here: so Eloise can work on her golf swing.

**

It takes me twenty minutes to walk from here to her hotel, but walking is actually a little treacherous, because there is very little here in the way of sidewalk; and the people drive like Italians on a cliff-side highway. Barbados' economy is supported by tourism, and its oceanfront perimeter is lined with hotels, so the road has been built to make it easy for cars to pull in and out of sea-side hotel parking lots. I do walk when I'm feeling venturesome, but I will confess that having cars swerve thisclose to my person is unnerving, so more often than not this week… I've been putting Pierre's wad of petty cash to good use by taking cabs to work. I've tried to make myself feel guilty, but frankly I just DON'T FEEL BAD about spending it. I can't save it and pocket it; a) that would be stealing, and b) everything, from tips to bottles of water, must be accounted for in a detailed report that I'll submit to Virginie at the end of the trip. It costs about $15 ($7 in American money) to take the cab that one single mile down the road, which I realize is a criminal expense. I justify it by telling myself that, not only is it safer, but this way Eloise doesn't have to wait as long for me to show up. And I'm stimulating the local economy. And I’ve become a lavish tipper. The waiters at my hotel love me.

But my first day, determined to be frugal, and to get some exercise, I did walk. The route took me past the famed Sandy Lane golf course, which is protected from the road with a big black fence, kind of like a graveyard. I marched past it to the security gate at the hotel parking lot and told the guy I was there for Eloise Alcock. He wouldn't let me in, because it was so obvious I was not a guest. And I hadn't arrived in a vehicle; there are so few pedestrians that if you're walking you're already exhibiting suspicious behavior. Also I wasn't wearing, you know, a white golf outfit, I was wearing the same sun-faded sweats I’ve been wearing in ______Hampton all summer, having lacked the time or money (or, you know, the inclination) to shop for more “appropriate attire” before we left. I’m sure to the security guy I looked like a vagrant. We had to call up to Eloise's room; she sounded extremely irritated.

Now, I’m annoyed by this detail, but the hotel she is staying at is really amazing. It looks like…a James Bond movie. The lobby is marble, and has a balcony overlooking the sea. The people staying here are like Sasquatch: obviously I’d heard they existed, but I never really believed… The men really do wear white linen and slipper-like shoes with no socks. Everyone is very, very tan (the denizens of Treasure Beach are all notably pasty by comparison, probably because when they are not on vacation, which is most of the year, they work. Indoors. Wearing clothes. Unlike *these* strange creatures, who seem to be perpetually en vacances). The women wear huge gold jewelry, huge sunglasses, tiny bathing suits. Everything about them is brazenly, unabashedly luxe. I can't tell where anyone's from, no one sounds German or Italian or English, but strangely pan-Euro. Maybe they're all from Monaco. I have gathered (from Anna and Gerry) that a room for a single night at the Sandy Lane is $1,000 (that’s for a small room, and Eloise, bien sur, is staying in a large suite); a single round of golf is $700. Eloise plays daily.

My point-person at the hotel is a lovely, polite, tall man with the sweetest Caribbean accent, named Omega Jackson*, one of the hotel managers. We liked each other immediately. He grew up in St. Lucia, and it was he who patiently explained to me that someone from Barbados, contrary to what Gerry had told me, does not call himself a “Barbadian,” but a Bajan. (So ashamed I didn’t know that, more ashamed that I relied on *anything* Gerry has ever said…)

Omega also patiently explained that, while Anna had called ahead and told him to expect me, and that even though the Sandy Lane hotel has Pilates machines in the gym (a-ha!!!!!), I am not permitted to teach Eloise on them. I am not to go into the fitness area. Understandable, I suppose, because they want guests to make use of the hotel's own instructors. And also because I do not have a work permit. Nor am I a guest, which means that technically I am not allowed on the premises. He apologized so beautifully, but told me that as far as he is concerned, I am a “friend” of Madame’s, not her employee. I am welcome to teach Madame in her room.

I told Eloise all of this and she scoffed, "Kyra, you cannot take no for an answer," and she marched me over to the spa area. (The spa area has a huge fake grotto and a waterfall spilling into a giant fava-bean-shaped pool. Why, why, why would you go to the Caribbean to swim in a pool? I will never, never, never understand rich people.) Anyway, we located an empty workout room with a shiny hard floor and a mirror, and we rolled out the yoga mat, and I started to give Eloise a mat session, when suddenly…

…the door flew open to reveal a pissed-off British woman with fat calves wearing a bad skirt-suit. "I'm Shannon. I'm the spa-director," she said through lots of teeth. She clomped over and shook my hand.

"Nice to meet you, Shannon, I'm Ky—"

She continued, "Didn't Omega tell you explicitly that you were not to be in the spa?"

Eloise pretended this wasn't going on. I took a huge lungful of air and said, "He did tell me that, and I'm terribly sorry for the misunderstanding." I looked at Eloise. "We can do this just as easily in your room."

"See that you do," said the suit, and off she marched.

"You really should have fixed this with Anna before I arrived," Eloise chided me as we wended our way to her room, "Otherwise, what's the point of your being here?"

My question exactly, what am I DOING here? I know it's a waste of her money to have flown me all the way out here just to teach her mat sessions. Obviously money is no object for her, but she could have saved the cost of a hotel room, flights to and from, meals, $600 petty cash and a cell phone -- not to mention the fancy $4,000 machine she expressly bought for the purpose of having me teach her on it – and I know she doesn’t really like me (and HOW could she like Gerry?) so it wasn’t like she was treating her favorite staff members. Did no one think to call the Sandy Lane to find out if they had machines and instructors of their own? Why didn't I? I was ready to cry from futility. It was on the tip of my tongue to say, "Well, I'm sure their own Pilates instructors are just great, why don't you send me home?" but I didn't. I could see there was no point in explaining that frankly Anna and I had been so concerned with ordering her fancy fucking machine that it never occurred to us to solve the problem of where we were going to work out, because it never occurred to either of us that Eloise wouldn't have wanted her lessons in the privacy of her own room, just like she did back in New York at the Hotel des Beaux Arts*, which seems like a thousand years ago now.

But we did end up back in her suite, which was indeed enormous and quiet and cool, with a television bigger than my entire apartment back home. It was much more comfortable than the spa, but I soon discovered why she didn’t want me teaching in the room: "You'll just have to work something out with the hotel staff, for when Mr. Cloverfield arrives," casually letting me know her man-friend the Famous Talk-Show host was going to be joining us in a few days. "He won't want us working out in his space."

I skipped over the heinous anti-feminism inherent in referring to a room she had paid for as "his space" and instead asked her, "Will he want Pilates lessons?"

*

That first day, I found some weights and stretchy bands and an air pump in her exercise duffel bag that Roger must have packed. I blew up a big exercise ball, and we began again. The session was an utter disaster; the large television came with yet another dazzling remote-control, and she told me to put in a DVD of her boyfriend’s talk show so “we” could watch while doing Pilates. Utterly flummoxed by how the thing worked (I swear it was broken), Eloise grabbed it from me (“Really, Kyra, your job isn’t very hard, I’d have thought you’d be able to do this,” not kidding) and spent the better part of an hour trying to get the controls to work herself.

But she failed (oooo sometimes the schadenfreude is really too much to bear). She then called the front desk and was rude; she handed me the phone and told me to work it out. Which I did: I asked for someone to come and fix the television, said please and thank you like a normal human being, and five minutes later a young porter came to the door (Eloise hid in her bedroom until he was gone) and confirmed that it was indeed broken. He apologized profusely and arranged for a repair for the next day. And then I actually taught her 15 minutes of Pilates.

Mid-trudge back to Treasure Beach (my middle-class haven of a pensione), it suddenly occurred to me why Eloise had bothered to have me and Gerry travel with her. She didn’t care about the money or the inconvenience. She doesn’t actually care about Pilates (as evidenced by her behavior during her sessions) or she would have just used the teachers and equipment at the hotel. No, Gerry and I are valuable to her because we know her, and because we know who’s Boss, and we therefore won’t try anything that would flip the power dynamic (like hold her to an appointment-time, or make her turn off the TV, or ask that she speak to us with respect). It's a status thing: she values me simply because I am on her payroll, and not on the hotel’s. She is too special to avail herself of the same amenities as an ordinary 17-star-hotel-guest. Money protects her from having to deal with strangers. She literally lives in a bubble of her own making.

I suddenly felt very free.

In the middle of my walk back, I encountered a group of people clustered in a little clearing just off the road. It was a woman in an apron and a headscarf, standing behind a parked van, the doors open. Something smelled so delicious that I slowed my New York-y pace and took a look. Resting on the back of her truck was a steam table, and she was ladling out food into Styrofoam takeout containers for a bunch of workmen crowding the clearing, cab drivers and construction workers, and a few golf caddies wearing white. They were lined up like little boys, clutching money. A few of them were sitting on a fallen tree-trunk, hunched over, eating. And eating. The woman looked me up and down and then decided I was benign enough. "Would you like a little lunch, honey?" and of course I did. There was some kind of chicken stew, and something that looked like goat, and every refined carbohydrate known to man -- rice with gravy, "macaroni pie," noodles they were calling "chow mein," "creamed" poatoes, something else that looked yam-like... Four Bajan dollars bought me enough food to last me for two meals. It was not necessarily food that fit the sweltering heat wave that is a Bajan afternoon, but it was my favorite thing I’ve eaten here, way better than the Frenchified stuff at the hotel, and I’ve gone back to the Truck Lady twice this week).

**

A few days later, upon returning to my room from Madame's lesson, there was a spooky little card propped on the bureau, saying, "Ian and Tara Peterson* request the company of Kyra Lopez-Choi* tonight at 6:30 for cocktails in the bar." I had no idea who Ian and Tara Peterson were; but I had eaten a rather forlorn dinner in the hotel restaurant alone on the patio the night before, and I decided that the invitation must be from some couple who had seen me and thought I’d looked lonely, had asked for my name and issued this rather over-formal invitation; I invented this whole scenario in about two seconds while reading the invite, and the whole thing made me uncomfortable.

But I supposed it was sort of sweet, and I couldn't envision ignoring the invitation and then hiding from this mystery couple for the remainder of our stay. And really, I had nothing to do except eat left-over macaroni pie and watch Bajan television in my room, so I put on a skirt and went to meet these strangers in the bar.

Except that when I got to the hotel bar (which is outdoors on a patio), there was only a very short, fat man with a slick dovetail hairdo and a glittery black shirt, so I snuck around the back to the front desk and casually asked the desk person (who according to her name tag is named Rhiannon), "Um…who are Ian and Tara Peterson?" And she looked at me like I was very stupid and said, "The general manager and his wife. They're hosting the party in the bar."

Of *course* I wasn’t being stalked, or targeted for the sin of being a solitary female; no one prints up formal drinks invitations for sad women alone in bars to bring with them on vacation to Barbados.

I have completely lost touch with reality.

Eventually a gathering did materialize in the bar, all couples (and certainly no one under the age of 40), which would have been unbearable except that my new beach-friends Sarah and John were there. They are lovely and down-to-earth and British. She is a former actress and he is a computer programmer. They are the first real people I have met all summer – as in, not connected in any way to Eloise's milieu, either by being a butler or a famous friend-of. We bonded because Sarah saw me finishing up Vanity Fair [finally!] on the beach and said something snarky about Reese Witherspoon's acting. (Ahhhh…..) Their daughter Iris is a snotty blond kid who hogs the guest-computer and hasn't left the TV lounge since their arrival in Barbados; she doesn't like the sun. (In fact, I’m only able to finish writing this at the moment because it is way past Iris’s bedtime. Just me and the mosquitoes now…)

At the party, blond homely pre-teen Iris sat on a bar stool with a Shirley Temple and talked to the fat man with the dovetail while Sarah and I talked to an amazing Italian couple who are taking their first vacation without their children since they became parents 20 years ago. Gianni is very skinny and handsome and has the whitest, most beautiful smile, and Elisabetta is his Roberto Benigni-like wife. This is how she introduced herself to me: "I am Elisabetta! but Pucci is my short-name! Ah- no - NICKname, that is my nickname!!! A Pucci is something you put your little cat or dog in! Is not right?"

Sarah asked her, "So do you prefer to be called Pucci or Elisabetta?" And the Signora rolled her huge eyes and said "But of course, I prefer Pucci!!! I am Pucci!" And laughed her huge generous laugh. She asked me what I was doing in Barbados, and I said was teaching Pilates ("Ah, WONDAFUL!!!”) but that really I was an actress, and her whole face lit up and she said, "AHHHHHHHH!!! That is my DREAM! In my next life that is ESSATLY what I want, to be an actress!!! I am a lawyer," making it sound being an attorney was both disgusting and inconvenient; but then she immediately brightened. "….but you know, to be a lawyer, that is ESSSATLY LIKE being an actress, except I am NOT supposed to be acting when I am being a lawyer!!!" And here I was starting to think that being a lawyer would at least feel more useful than an actress or a Pilates instructor; it seems either way, I have to sit and wait for the phone to ring…

It's hot, and it's late. Across the street at the local Chinese restaurant, it's karaoke night. Someone is murdering "Brown Eyed Girl." Karaoke is a local hobby, people really get into it, but Rhiannon, the Bajan front desk-girl of Treasure Beach told me that only the men actually sing. John and Sarah and I, post-cocktails, were chatting with all six of the hotel staff this evening; Rhiannon (who is not Irish in the slightest) was explaining to us that the women go to things like karaoke or concerts or dances only to watch the men. And to check each other out, cockblocker-style: "What's she wearing, is she hotter than me?" One of the three the desk guys, Lou, concurred, and he pointed to John's tattoo, which is his wife Sarah's name rather romantically etched into his pasty-pale British bicep: "You would never see that on a man here. Maybe on a woman…" And one of the other desk girls piped up, "No, a man would have a couple of pieces of masking tape with the names of his various girlfriends written on them, taped up and down his arm, hiding the wife-tattoo." The Caribbean all women seemed to find this hilarious, but the men got all huffy and pouffed out their chests and didn't laugh at all. Apparently all Caribbean men have one or two (or three) on the side; it's completely expected, and a woman's only recourse is to laugh at the men because they think they're so clever and original.

**

After that first disastrous Pilates session, it’s been getting better. Eloise is very excited about Barney “The Man In My Life” Cloverfield’s imminent arrival. It goes without saying that, what with the DVD player fixed, we watch his shows daily, usually of his most-recent, yet-to-be-aired "episodes". And she just never shuts up, it’s a continual run-on of ever-more-reverential tones of voice,"…he's just so handsome, so intelligent, and you know, Kyra, he really cares so deeply about the subjects he interviews, and he does all of his own research," which is categorically not true, I know he employs a team of researchers who write out those little cards for him…

Today Eloise actually told me the story of how she and Barney Cloverfield met (it wasn't hard to make her talk, I asked her about it when she was mid-coo). She told me that after her divorce six or seven years ago (Mr. Cloverfield is a fairly recent addition to her circle; in the time since her parting-of-the-ways from the father of her children, she has dated several crown-princes, plus the auction-house-owner-who-dumped-her), as soon as she was separated, a good friend introduced her to 6 or 7 men. None of them seemed right. Mr. Cloverfield is the 7th. Eloise nattered on abbout how she "knew right away," that they "just connected,” that she knew they were "soulmates" [that word is painful to me, but I'm quoting her], they share so much blah blah blah, every cliché you can think of. Eloise is not terribly deep, so I doubt her relationships are, but she believes every word she says. (And I also wonder what kind of a friend acts like a yenta for a seven-year period…)

Then I asked her, "Did you ever, in that time that you were meeting all these men and not liking them enough to seriously consider them, did you EVER have a moment of self-doubt where you thought to yourself, 'God, maybe it's me, maybe I'm just too choosy'?" And she looked a little surprised and said, "No, Kyra, never. You absolutely cannot do that to yourself, if you don't feel it you don't feel it." Right; I swear that's what I thought, but it sounds much more authoritative coming from the 15th richest woman in Britain.

Maybe self-doubt exists in proportional ratio to muscle tone in one’s butt, which would explain her still-mushy rear and indestructible self-confidence (as well as my own copious self-doubt and...well, never mind).

So. Holding out for chemistry, on the advice of Eloise Alcock, and hoping it comes in the shape of a man without the names of four other women taped to his arm. Praying for patience.

Bedtime for Bajans. xo

Chapter 20: Cinderella Story

2008-11-29T14:03:00.028-05:00

This bird has flown...

Part One: In Which Our Heroine Gets What She Wished For, Culinarily Speaking; Or, A Reverse-Cinderella Story

Soooooo…
As I think I told you, everyone French has gone back home for their traditional end-of-August family holiday. Anna – Welsh (?), red-headed, lots of common sense and professionalism -- has replaced Virginie in ze offus; she’s got a slightly perma-shocked expression on her face (or maybe it’s just a sensible reaction to the excess around her, to which the rest of us have all become shockingly immune). She is frighteningly capable (in comparison, it’s amazing Eloise didn’t fire Virginie long ago), but Eloise actually doesn’t seem to notice this and makes Anna feel like she’s done everything wrong…dinner was wrong, the invitations to her luncheon were wrong, the plane she booked for Egypt was wrong… Anna has shown up to staff meal the past few days flirting with the verge of tears (how to tell her it’s not worth the energy??) -- she doesn’t realize yet that Madame Eloise thinks asking for things to be done six different ways is an effective managerial technique for getting “the best” out of everyone.

Eloise actually said this to me out loud once. We were mid-Pilates-session, and she was on her fucking blackberry telling her office in London to rewrite (again and again and again) the speech she’s supposed to give in Davos (I know, gag). I guess I was staring and she looked at me sideways. “Kyra, if you accept what people give you the first time around, they’ll just be lazy for you.” Eloise doesn’t realize that people stopped doing their best for her a long time ago…they are too fucking tired, and they hate her. People tend not to do their best for someone who’s a pain in the ass.

Didier (being one of the French) has gone back to France, to be with his children and his unfortunate wife. By the time he left we were barely speaking, as if it were my fault that he’d had to carry the Pilates machine (“…euuuuhhhh, Keeeeyrrrra… tu et ta petite machine…..”) in and out of the garden all summer. And that I had failed to respond to his ham-fisted “flirting.” I have not turned out to be quite as charmante as he had hoped, I suppose.

In fact I have not been charming at all this summer. I… have been so bored. The Royal Family del’[major European country] left without much fanfare. The only people left to teach are Eloise, her mother and brother. I think they all hate Pilates. And I hate them.

The butlers have taken to calling me Bag Lady as I trot off to the beach in the morning with my enormo straw bag (containing a tome, a towel, sunscreen and, of course, my trusty walkie-talkie). They seem remarkably un-bitter about the fact that I am utterly useless while they race around with beads of sweat on their downy upper lips -- and I feel so very guilty and so very very bored, that one day last week I asked Manny the blinking diabetic chef if he needed help chopping vegetables in the kitchen. I like to cook, and frankly it's been weird not to have been cooking for myself all summer. It didn't seem like such a strange offer.

But he just laughed at me. “Go away, Bag Lady, are you really that idle?” And shooed me out, as do all the staff when I try to help. (They just want me to shut up and let them take the piss.)

This part of the story actually begins three days after that sad attempt: around noon, I ran into Manny on the hedge-path. He was toting a heavy-looking tray of dessert out to the guest-house pool where Eloise et la famille folle were eating lunch, and he actually asked me to carry the dessert tray for him because (he said) his wrists were tired. Indeed, his face was completely pale and covered in flop-sweat, so I took the tray from him, carried it down the path to the pool-gate, with him following behind me, barely able to walk straight; at the gate, I handed over the tray so he could serve Eloise himself, so she wouldn’t see me doing his work for him. He looked awful, really puffy around the eyes, and later that day he took to his bed with fever and chills, and his left ankle blew up to the size of a small balloon.

Curiously, even though Eloise made it clear to sweet Manny that she would pay for his medical care, he chose instead to buy a ticket home to England where, he said, he could have free [socialized] medical care and spare Madame the expense. (In re: Madame and expenses, here's a re-count of the hard-to-take numbers: $460 million. Real estate in London, Biarritz, _____Hampton, Aspen, and a new apartment-to-be-in New York; enough art in her collection to warrant a separate building in London; a foundation in her name; numerous glossy art publications; ranked 1_th on the “Richest Women in the UK” list, with somewhat less than the Queen, but more than Madonna.)

So. Even though Manny’s sincere desire to avoid inconveniencing his boss is admirable (I guess), and thrifty, his logic seemed faulty to me: Eloise can afford to pay for a hospital stay as well as a trip across the goddamn pond, with a seat in first class so he can put his feet up, thank you very much. If it were me with the foot, I think I’d skip the unnecessary heroism and avoid taking a 7-hour flight while in the midst of some kind of major insulin episode; but Manny is a better man than I. And maybe at this point he just wanted to GO HOME…can’t say I blame him. I brought him dinner in his bedroom – a big man in a child’s twin bed, tucked away in the butler-warren in the basement of the guest-house, Pierre’s socks and undies strewn every which way (yes…the butlers share bedrooms. I didn’t realize…). Manny was all bundled up and waxy-looking, and was watching Barney on TV. He asked for some hot water with lemon and he looked so grateful I thought I’d cry.

[small digression: It was on this evening that I discovered the Make-Up Bag. It was dark in the guest house, spookily quiet, the sun was down, I was wandering around the downstairs having dropped off Manny’s dinner tray, wondering how I should spend my exciting night, since (as we’ve established) cars are out of the question; and even if I did have wheels, where would I go? To a club with bottle service? (Yuck.) More solitary walks on the beach?

Eventually I went down into the exercise studio and decided to “work out,” which for me is maybe fifteen minutes of Pilates plus maaaaaaybe 15 minutes on the elliptical trainer if I’m feeling ambitious -- I hate to exercise -- while watching Six Feet Under (Eloise’s proclivity for multi-tasking-while-exercising is apparently contagious). And after my fifteen minutes were up and I had helped myself to all the fancy dried fruit on the fancy dried-fruit plate that the butlers replenish daily (n.b. the fruit is, of course, for Eloise if she needs a blood-sugar boost while exercising, not for peckish staff members; but I've been serving myself all summer, otherwise it would just go uneaten...), I decided to get into the dry sauna, which has its own little room right off of the exercise room.

As I was helping myself to a huge fluffy robe from the linen-closet, something caught my eye, something pushed all the way to the back of the shelf: a bright red make-up bag. Since there are no personal effects anywhere in the house, my curiosity was naturally piqued, and I pulled it towards me and tugged open the zipper. It was crammed full of the most expensive cosmetics, jar after jar of brand new, unopened, unused eye shadows and gels and cover-up and blushes in three colors, fur-soft brushes and a stack of lip glosses and a huge jar of La Prairie Crème de la Mer face cream, which is as expensive as the stuff I stole from Edwin, at least $150 for the heavy white jar in front of me. It was a teen-aged girl’s wet-dream, enough makeup for a dressing-room-ful of chorus girls. All of it was in Eloise’s colors, which meant most of it was useless to me. And all of it was sealed shut, which was the only thing that stopped me from opening that jar of miracle cream and clawing out soft handfuls of to smear all over my face and shoulders and….

Showing what I consider to be remarkable restraint, I re-zippered the bag and slid it back to where it had been quietly hiding in a dark corner of the shelf. And then I got into the sauna.]

*

Anyway, the next morning – knowing full well that her chef was so ill he really needed to be in a hospital – Madame decided to go ahead with her planned luncheon in the “garden” (aka poolside). I assumed she would just take her guests out to eat, or at least cater it in. But no, invitations had gone out, I saw the list of names, which included HRH Princess Aga K__n (I know there’s something wrong with that title, I’m sure I misread it. The Aga K__n is a man. At least I think it’s a man. "HRH," of course, stands for Her [or His] Royal Highness; but how is it that a woman who USED to be married to a royal hoozit gets to keep a title after the divorce? It’s all incredibly unclear and I’m tired of googling royalty. One of you can look it up and explain it to me. Thank you.)

So it’s the day-of, there’s no chef, and all French staff members are back in France, and they were the only ones on campus who really knew anything about food...I mean, I might *enjoy* cooking, but I can’t claim any ability to cater for 18. And Gerry believes we should all subsist on cheese and milk and butter. And Pierre is…a 27-year-old English lad (even though he is a gay butler) who prefers chips and lager. Nevertheless…he IS a butler, and Madame had expressly “asked” (not really a question) Pierre the evening before to please prepare something simple but homemade since Manny was "indisposed" (it had to at least look like she was employing a cook). Meanwhile, Manny was practically dying downstairs in the guest-house, and Pierre told me later that he had gone down there in a total panic, hoping Manny would be cognizant enough to dispense advice.

It was late morning, and I was in the pool with Madame Bourgeois doing geriatric pool-ercise when Pierre's voice came through on the walkie-talkie: "Kyra, Kyra, can you come help me please?" His voice seemed pitched slightly higher than usual, and I looked up to see poor put-upon Pierre rolling an enormous round table across the lawn and attempting to set it up himself. I got out of the pool in a hurry, handed off Mme. Bourgeois to her nurse and threw sweatpants over my wet bathing suit, and we were off…

…And so begins my reverse-Cinderella tale, my great backslide from Pilates Instructor to Kitchen Patrol duty.

[It should be said that this was actually my favorite day of the summer.]

[Well, until yesterday, but I'm getting ahead of myself.]

In my soggy clothes, I helped drag out the rest of the big tables; I helped set up chairs. Pierre taught me how to shine the already-shiny silver, and I shined silver for 18 (forks, knives, salad fork, dessert spoon, coffee spoon, blah blah blah) for an hour. I folded napkins. I put away the Pilates machine with Pierre, which the macho men usually don't let me do because it's so heavy. (Very heavy.)

And then I said, "Let me know if you need anything else," half-expecting Pierre to give me his sweet smile and whisper "No thank you" like usual. Instead, he said – panting – "Could you go into the kitchen and wash and dry all the lettuce you see there for Caesar salad?"

Upstairs the kitchen table was covered in recently-washed, sort-of-moist lettuce, all of it needing to be dried by hand, because apparently the salad spinner just didn’t get it dry enough.

As per Manny’s instructions, Pierre had also driven into town that morning to buy 12 rotisserie chickens at the deli counter of the grocery store (he couldn’t have had them delivered because Eloise would have seen and had a fit) and they were all lying on the kitchen table, shiny brown and uncarved, next to piles of asparagus, tomatoes, spinach, and five huge lumps of fresh mozzarella.

Pierre surveyed the fowl and looked completely defeated. “Do you know anything about carving chickens, Kyra?” I do not; but luckily Luisa the Colombian chambermaid (it’s late to introduce a new character, but: Luisa the Colombian chambermaid, deeply Christian, with a prolific paint-by-numbers hobby) thankfully did know, and so we were off. She carved, and I applied myself to the leaves from twenty heads of Romaine and DRIED EVERY LEAF with a linen kitchen towel (I don’t even do things like that for myself – I’ll ask myself why later) and tore them up, dressed them with something creamy from the fridge labeled “Caesar”…and sliced the de-boned chicken, and put it on platters garnished with beds of baby spinach…and sliced tomatoes and mozzarella and dressed that…and I blanched a gazillion asparagus spears, holding fancy clicking Food Network-y kitchen tongs…

It was… so much fun.

The guests showed up, including HRH Princess What’s-her-name… she arrived with her daughter, they were wearing matching hot-pink pantsuits and had the same blowsy blond blowout. I thought they were sisters until Pierre told me one of them was twenty years younger than the other, which means one of them (I couldn’t tell which) has had a lot of plastic surgery.

Poor shy Pierre had about five minutes to teach the trio of chambermaids how to serve from the left. He meticulously coordinated the serving of chicken and asparagus; it was all highly choreographed, he even had them march out to the table in order of their height, like the Rockettes. Being un-uniformed, I couldn't help actually serve (it just wouldn’t do, with my wild beachy hair and faded t-shirt and clogs, it would have killed the visual. I always was too short for the Rockettes, anyway…). But we were all -- the maids, Anna, Pierre and I -- racing around for the next two hours with barely a moment to stop and sit.

There was a little bit of subterfuge in the serving: the guests were eating by the guest-house pool, but the food was being prepared in the Main House kitchen. However, it wouldn’t do to bring the food straight through the garden gate to pool-side, because then it would look like the food had been prepared in the Main House. And it would be wrong for the guests to see this, since the Main House kitchen is soooo far away (down the path, up the steep and very narrow stairway, etc). It was very important therefore that the guests be under the impression that the food was being prepared in the guest-house kitchen, which is closer to the pool. Which meant the food had to be brought down from the Main House kitchen, down the stairs, down the path with the 20-foot hedges, into the guest-house via the front door (out of eye-shot of the guests), through the guest-house hall, kitchen and living rooms, out the back door and down the porch steps to the pool. We must have made a hundred slightly-frenzied trips from the Main House kitchen to the guest-house kitchen, trying to be silent; there was a lot of food.

Then I almost ruined dessert, which was chocolate-chip pecan pie (from the super-fancy bakery in town) that was to be served sliced on tiny little plates... Who knew you had to slice pecan pie upside down to prevent the crust from shattering? Pierre came through the kitchen and saw a ruined pie and turned white; luckily there were six more pies, and I redeemed myself by showing the flummoxed Pierre how to sift on powdered sugar with a flour-sifter, which Eloise miraculously owns. Pie and coffee were served, and then we were done.

(The fact is that I would make a terrible butler; I just don't care enough if everything Madame eats comes exactly when she wants it, and I just can't get into a panic over serving. Does he really care that much about doing things to Eloise’s liking for its own sake?? I would hope he could care less about her except when it comes to keeping his job. There are so many other fields where exactitude like that actually matters, where his level of stress might actually be called for. Like neurosurgery. Or commanding an army. I can’t make myself care about Eloise’s approval, so the day was a lark; but Pierre clearly has to care about her approval, and his life is a torment. Sort of like me on audition days…)

The kicker came when Eloise asked Pierre if he'd prepared the food himself, to which he said "Yes." And he wasn’t reeeeally lying, because technically he had "prepared" it, even though she meant to ask if he’d cooked it himself. If she’d known the chickens had come from the grocery store she would have been livid; instead she said it was the best chicken she had ever tasted. Which I found hilarious; butler-mission accomplished, hope they tipped the rotisserie guy at the Key Food. But Pierre did not smile once until the tables had been cleared and the last Maserati had disappeared out the front gate and Eloise was ensconced on her back porch, “working” (a.k.a. reading one of her magazines). And then he collapsed, inconsolable, in a sweaty heap in the guest-house kitchen, with me and Anna eating smashed pie and guzzling the left-over champagne. There was a lot of it and we got drunk.

And then I put on civilian attire (jeans, sandals, aaaaahhhh!) and Jenny picked me up in a Japanese car (aaaaahhhhh!) and we drove fifteen miles down the highway to another Hampton to meet her friend Toby at his summer share. It was so nice to be in a "real" house (well, frankly a Hamptons share with ex-frat boys who work on Wall Street is still plenty surreal for me, but whatever, it was glorious to be out of that over-decorated palace Eloise thinks is Paradise). We stayed up late drinking with boys and went to sleep in a spare bedroom with twin beds that smelled a little mildew-y, like a flea-market (aaaaahhhhh!!), and in the morning I woke up and went to Starbucks (context is everything, it suddenly seemed like an old friend rather than an evil corporate giant) and read the New York Times, because I knew Eloise would sleep late after her stupid garden party.

When I got back to La Jolie Plage at 9 am, the whole house was still. All I wanted was a nap, and I lay down on my teensy day-bed in yesterday’s clothes…

(And so begins Part Two, In which Our Heroine is Plucked From Practically-Indentured Servitude and is Delivered, as if by an Unseen Hand, to – Well, I Don’t Want to Give It Away Yet…):

…and closed my eyes.

But 'twas not to be.

Five minutes later (literally) Pierre’s voice on the radio woke me up. He sounded edgy. "Kyra, Kyra, could you come to the office please?"

And then I knew it was because I was finally free, I could go home.

Except when I got downstairs to ze offus, there was Anna, freshly showered but hung over, and looking suspiciously calm; and Pierre, looking just as tired as he had the day before. He clearly had not slept; he’s doing the work of three butlers at least. I knew I was looking pretty haggard myself. But instead of firing me, or telling me that my gig had finally, blessedly come to an end…Anna asked me, "Kyra, is there such a thing as a portable Pilates machine?”

And I said, “Oh, yes, the folding kind.” Virginie had asked me to research them for the cruise. “But I thought the cruise was canceled.”

And Anna bit her lip and said, “Oh, it’s still canceled….but could you please just go online right now and order a portable Pilates machine for Madame? And we need it delivered as soon as possible. If they could ship it out tonight that would be perfect.”

I was going to explain to Anna that any Pilates-machine-fabricator worth their salt (only “the best” for Eloise…) would be custom-making her machine and would need more than a day’s notice; but I could see that Anna would consider any superfluous information to be obstructionist, so I kept my mouth shut. Ever obedient, I sat down at her computer terminal and started looking up the number for all the Pilates machine manufacturers I could think of that made good quality folding machines (excluding the ones for sale on television).

But of course, when I started making inquiries, no Pilates machine could be had for love or money. It was Sunday morning in late-middle-August; everybody was closed or on vacation. Someone at my favorite company, in Boulder, Colorado, actually answered the phone, and told me (as I’d suspected they would) that it would take a minimum of seven days to build a machine, and that was if we rush-ordered it. I could tell Anna thought this was my fault, that I had been too informal on the phone, had failed to impress upon the Pilates-machine-makers how high the stakes were, how important a client Madame was, how vital it was that she get her machine ASAP, how it was really in their best interests to call in their Pilates-elves toute de suite and make them cut wood until that thing was finished ahead of schedule.

But when you’re calling a three-person shop in Boulder, Colorado, it just wouldn’t do to say, “Yes, calling on behalf of Madame Eloise Bourgeois Alcock….etc. etc. blah blah blah,” they would laugh. And they would laugh harder if I told them this was an "extremely high-end client," "very high-caliber," who wanted "only the best" and needed it NOW. That sort of thing may work on decorators and gardeners and certain naïve Pilates instructors, but god bless the small business that defies corporate-style customer service. A Pilates machine takes a long time to make; well-made things take a long time. Not everyone is on Eloise’s radio, waiting to jump at the littlest crackle.

After a couple of hours of futile online shopping, I said to Anna, “Um, I’m sorry -- where am I shipping this to, anyway? Couldn’t we have ordered this a week ago?” I expected the answer to be Egypt, or Iran; but Anna said, “Well, Madame has just this morning decided to go to Barbados for a week or so, and she needs to leave tonight." As in, her ninety days were up and she needed to leave the U.S.

That day.

“What happened to Egypt?” I asked, perhaps boldly. Anna blinked once, then said, “Their embassy was making things difficult.” I guess they wouldn’t let her have a fire-arm.

And maybe because I am a little slow, it only occurred to me just then: that if Madame was going somewhere – Barbados, apparently -- with a Pilates machine, and I am the only person on staff who knows how to use a Pilates machine…did this mean that I too was going somewhere? to Barbados? that day??

So I said to Anna, "Wait just one tiny little minute. I'm going to BARBADOS? Today?" And Anna cracked a smile said, “O yes, yes you are, I’m just booking you a room right now,” but before I could say did you ever think of asking me if I WANTED to go, I heard my voice say, "Anna…I’m so sorry, my passport's in Brooklyn, I can’t travel internationally." Because since the yacht cruise was canceled WEEKS ago, who thought I would need a passport?

But Anna didn’t bat an eye. She calmly said, "Well, take all those Pilates people’s phone numbers and your cell phone, get yourself packed, and Domingo will drive you to Brooklyn right now; and then you'll either get on the plane at JFK, or Domingo will drive you right back to West Hampton Beach, and you’ll catch the plane here; and if that’s the case you will take off around six; but if not I will let you know what time your flight is from JFK; but I don't actually know yet because I’ve not been able to reserve a plane; Madame of course would prefer to take off from West Hampton; I’ll let you know as soon as possible; do you text?”

Do I text.

West Hampton Beach is down the road from ________Hampton. It’s where Gabreski airport is located, which I only know about from living in such proximity to ze offus all summer; I’ve never been there myself, of course, because it is a special airport where only private planes take off and land.

Running on fumes, adrenaline and my first double espresso since Didier’s arrival way back in July, I started to run. She gave me twenty minutes to shower away the cooking, butling and drinking from the previous day and night, and to pack enough stuff for a week into my huge duffel bag, and put on civilian clothing (jeans for the second day in a row!). I left my room a total mess and, with Pierre chasing me down the driveway holding an international cell phone for me to use in Barbados and stuffing $600 “petty cash” into my hot little hand, got into the same huge white SUV that had driven me to the property from the Jitney on my first day. Domingo tossed my half-empty bag into the trunk, and he drove me as fast as he legally could the two hours to Brooklyn, me dialing every Pilates machine manufacturer I could think of, without any success.

I got the following text as we were pulling up to my door step in Brooklyn,

+0115607804489
“Madame taking off 5pm
West Hampton Beach
Hurry back now please
Thank you so much
anna”

I ran upstairs into my apartment, discovered that my passport was missing, realized I must have left it at my parents’ after a family trip to see an elderly relative in Montreal, quickly explained to Domingo, who nodded like he understood, and drove me to my parents’ apartment in another part of Brooklyn, where my mother met me at the door with my passport, gave me a hug, I barely even stopped to pee, I turned right back around and ran down the stairs, back into the car.

(Was there ever a bigger waste of energy? Or gas...did any one woman's whims -- or was it just her lack-of-planning?? -- ever leave a bigger carbon footprint than Eloise Alcock's?)

We raced the two hours back, and went straight to West Hapmton Beach, to the airport. There was a tiny glassed-in waiting area and a vast, empty runway. There were a few planes on the tarmac. Eloise, of course, was not there yet, but I saw from the window a little airport golf-cart laden with her forty rolling-suitcases, trundling over to the plane through the grey humidity.

Then the doors to the waiting room swished open, and to my horror, there, waiting patiently, reading "The Economist" and holding a tiny backpack was…Gerry. Gerry my nemesis, he of the rotting teeth and whole-milk obsession, he of the jingling jars of Propolis and endless nattering-on about Euro-trash celebrities and German engineering. Gerry, the South African massage therapist, who was apparently the only other member of Eloise’s staff (besides myself) who would be accompanying her to Barbados. I kept my face as blank as I could and put in my earphones.

At 5:30, someone official-looking escorted us out to the tarmac and we boarded the plane; Eloise finally showed up at 6:30 (doesn’t being late for takeoff, even if it’s a private plane, kind of mess things up for air-traffic controllers? apparently she didn’t care). Eloise had to board last anyway (etiquette on private planes being very strict about these things); Gerry was holding her carry-on bags and I looked at him like, “Are we supposed to carry her luggage?” He gave me a smirk. “Just being a gentleman,” he said. He looked pointedly at my jeans. “Didn’t you know we were traveling privately?”

“No, no one told me anything…I’m sorry, is there something…am I dressed inappropriately??”

“You look fine.” More smirking. (In addition to not knowing the proper way to plate a pecan pie, apparently I did not know that jeans were not appropriate private-plane attire.) Gerry straightened his khakis. “Pretty lucky break, no, to get to go away to Barbados. Never been on a private plane before?”

Before I could say, no, dipshit, no one I know has, it’s nothing to be fucking proud of, he wiggled his brows at me and I swear his teeth moved.

Frankly, I was trying really hard not to be pleased, or impressed; I didn't consider it a compliment that I had been invited, clearly Eloise had no one else available and I was ever-aware that no one had asked me to go, I had been told to go, and everyone merely assumed I would *jump* at the chance – and annoyingly, I had. But it was so hard to stay grumpy. That plane was… really nice. There was a curtained-off bed in the back for Eloise, and two couches, and big comfy reclining seats for Gerry and me. The walls were covered in pale suede. There was an on-board butler who served us wine with dinner and I fell asleep wrapped in a cashmere blanket. Grateful.

*

SO, as you must have guessed by now, I have been writing this missive from Barbados.

We arrived late in the velvety evening. Eloise and her copious luggage were whisked away in two town cars, and Gerry and I got into a taxi. I pretended to be sleepier than I really was so he wouldn't speak to me, but he babbled the whole way to the hotel anyway, seeming not to notice that I was unresponsive. We checked in, he went off to his room, and I was finally alone. (I accidentally woke up a random German tourist because the concierge gave me the wrong key, but she eventually located the right room for me.) I unlocked the door to my suite (the "room" my new BFF Anna was busily booking for me yesterday...) and there I discovered, to my unbridled joy, a vast, king-sized bed, onto which I climbed and sprawled diagonally, lulled into an uninterrupted eleven-hour sleep by the sounds of the ocean.

I have been here for one whole day. The sun is amazing and bright, and I can see the sea from my balcony, which has wooden shutters and hanging plants. I am staying in a lovely pensione, the Treasure Beach Hotel, on Sandy Lane Way. There is an orchid in my room. I am a mile down the road from Eloise who is staying at the 17-star Sandy Lane Hotel by the Sandy Lane golf course. A Pilates machine manufacturer in Queens has been successfully contacted, her folding machine has been ordered and is on its way. I have swum in the very blue Caribbean and eaten local ice cream. There’s lots to tell, and I promise to tell it all, but you might have to wait until it rains here, because it is too beautiful to stay inside for one more minute, and I am too busy being content to even feel a twinge of guilt over my possibly-undeservèd good fortune.

And... I don't know when I am coming home. Today is August 17th; supposedly we are leaving the 22nd. Of course, I guess I can leave anytime I want to, but Eloise seems to have no idea about how long this so-called “vacation” is to last, and if she did, she certainly wouldn’t let me know. I am, after all, being paid to be here, and this has just turned into the best worst job ever. Hopefully I'll be home in time for my birthday. But until then, I remain,

Ever yours,
K.Lo-Cho, Jet-Setter

Chapter 19: Genius on the Beach; or, How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Bertrand

2008-11-12T14:56:00.033-05:00

from: iamaseagull@aol.com
to: jennifer@bff.org

subj: "we'll spend the rest of our lives doing other people's work for them..."

Dollface,

Skip the middle section if you're having a good day. I think this must be the belly of the whale.

So… just in case you were wondering how my actual job is going, I think it bears mentioning that Madame’s sessions have completely deteriorated. She has decided that nothing I have taught her is working for her butt (never mind that she has done nothing I’ve told her to do correctly, ever, either because of the television, or because of her blackberry, or because of....pretty much anything to she can use to ignore me when I speak). We therefore no longer do actual Pilates exercises; we do the feel-the-burn crunchy-type exercises that Didier teaches her, just… on the Pilates machine. Didier’s exercises – and let me be clear, I find them odious, but people do them in the gym all the time and seem to like them fine -- require no attention (see above about blackberrying while exercising) or real mind-body awareness, so she naturally prefers them.

But frankly *those* exercises haven’t exactly been working either, so she has decided to double and quadruple her reps, as if that will tighten her flabby, flabby ass, and that means that I have spent our last bunch of sessions counting – literally! – to 150, or 200, or 250, while she huffs and puffs her way through tiny butt lifts on the Pilates machine and talks on the phone, every once in a while disrupting her conversation to tell me I’ve miscounted. In addition to driving me insane, this is very very bad for the springs on the Pilates machine. Maybe her machine will break and I’ll get to go home early….but no, that would only hurt my bank account, and weaken Operation: Get Out of Debt NOW.

But. She seems completely unconcerned that her back hurts more than ever (of course it does, she’s not really engaging her bum at all after 15 reps, so her lower back is totally overworked); that’s what Gerry the massage therapist is for, to rub her tired muscles. She is totally happy with this arrangement; she’s doing things her way. I, on the other hand, feel like an asshole; I am not teaching her a thing. She doesn’t believe a word I say about the thing she’s hired me to teach her to do, and yet she won’t fire me. And I won’t quit…Is stubbornness ever a virtue?

*

In other news…

Lou Roeberson, theatrical titan, is a terrible alcoholic.

He has, apparently, consumed all the liquor on the premises, so poor grouchy Roger had to go without his vodka martini last night: At the end of a long, hard day of racing around the property propelled by nothing but a walkie-talkie, Roger arrived downstairs at the guest-house bar only to discover a *note*, taped to the door of the mini-fridge, a black magic-marker scrawl in Lou’s distinctive penmanship, saying “NO VODKA. PLEASE BUY MORE.”

And when Roger opened the door to the mini-fridge – which only a few short weeks ago had been filled-to-bursting with Grey Goose, Tanqueray, many high-end bottles of other tonics-for-the-soul – he discovered only a cool, yawning, empty maw. There was one teensy airline-bottle of Bailey’s Irish Cream remaining, which Roger refused to drink on principle. (This is following hard upon that previous incident wherein Gerry the massage therapist came across Lou passed out on a couch in the not-so-wee small hours of the morning, and had to drag him upstairs with the help of butlers #1 and 2#, a.k.a. Roger and Pierre, before Madame Eloise could catch them. I was sort of touched that they felt so hide-bound to protect this strange man,who has never done them any favors, from the wrath of Eloise.)

I confirmed Roger’s story with Lou Roeberson’s young gay Venezuelan slave – erm, assistant. We ran into each other in the driveway, he scurrying from the guest house where Lou was slowly coming out of his hangover, and I scurrying to the guest house to obtain a Pilates accessory for Madame’s session on the grass. We stole a moment to conversate, and it was like almost like being in love, to run into one of my kind – as in, a young put-upon creature full of untapped artistic potential but for the time-being working for a spoiled, unreasonable boss.

We had first bonded a couple of weeks ago when I had asked him -- during another stolen moment en passant -- how he’d gotten his job working for Lou; and to my utter delight he’d confessed that he was a theater student getting a degree in directing in Berlin. Which made it very easy for me to tell him the truth about my own foolish aspiration (that would be my acting hobby, a.k.a. "career"). He practically hugged me.

Today, after a quick eye-roll over Lou’s proclivities (the Venezuelan was completely unperturbed by Lou’s state and told me frankly that it could have been much, much worse) he reiterated his invitation to me from last week: that I come to Lou’s theatrical compound today for lunch and for the showing of Lou’s new piece.

Now...it is impossible for me to overstate the impact Lou Roeberson has had – inadvertently, on his part – on my theater life. During college, right after I realized that actually I hated musicals and wanted nothing to do with them, one of my teachers told me about Lou Roeberson’s seminal work in the 70s, the one in which a man crossed the stage in such slow motion that it took him thirty minutes….the performance had lasted nine hours, people had walked out of the audience in droves, including my parents, who saw the original production. What tickled me so was hearing how, when challenged by critics, Lou answered them by saying, “The speed of life is very slow,” which I loved so much I pasted it in my journal…and which I still repeat to myself like a mantra when the speed of change in my life resembles the speed of grass growing....grass that gets cut down to size every single day by a huge lawn mower...but now I'm on a tangent....

Anyway, in my mind, Lou Roeberson was a brave rebel against theatrical time. He completely reinvented the ideas of pace and timing to suit himself, like a choreographer. And now, in his 60s, he has total artistic freedom, or maybe power is a better word: he does what he wants, people come with him; he has amazing collaborators…it occurs to me that he’s more a brilliant curator of designers and choreographers and composers who enable his work, sort of like Diaghilev; but whatever he calls himself, he has a very particular vision that changed the way we look at theater, not just in America but internationally. During my own European backpacking jaunt when I was 21, before I knew you, I made a special trip to Scotland to see one of his pieces. I knew that even if I didn’t understand what I was watching, his images were amazing and magical, an exacting mind was at work, he had an exquisite lighting designer, and the famous actress playing the lead was wonderful. And that I could only hope to be lucky enough to be involved in something so rare and so strange and so beautiful one day.

So yeah, I *desperately* wanted to go to lunch down the road at Lou’s theater. I desperately wanted to see his work, and be inspired by it, and get to meet Lou as an actress (rather than as Pilates-grunt-to-his-friend-and-hostess), and.... have him hire me (!) and sweep me out of this…situation.

Obviously, this did not happen.

Though I did, in fact, go to lunch down the road. But not without a lot of grief first, of course; Bertrand grimaced when I told him that WE had been invited to lunch – you could practically hear him thinking, "What is SHE doing coming with MOI to my friend Lou's?" Because Lou and Bertrand are best buds now. Lou eats dinner with Eloise et famille (of course) and so he has read Bertrand’s screenplay (o yes, Bertrand has a screenplay. Bertrand, it should be said, never finished school and has never written anything before this). According to Bertrand, Lou's feedback was very positive. (I will point out now that Lou has never written a screenplay before.)

Lou kindly doesn’t seem to notice that Bertrand is not really a genius, he’s just crazy. But they have found in each other a kindred spirit. Maybe because Lou also displays his own Asperger’s-esque tendencies, and knows what it is like to be shunned and awkward around slick, corporate minds. (I don’t know how he became such good friends with Eloise…those two didn’t meet until after he was a big success. Then she gave him a quarter of a million dollars for his facilities in _____Hampton…)

Anyway, Bertrand may have been horrified that I had been invited on this artistic expedition, but I may also have neglected to tell Bertrand that I’m an actress. All he knows about me is that I am supposed to teach his mother how to exercise. And that I have a faulty thyroid gland that he feels I should be grateful to him for trying to fix.

Then again, as far as Bertrand is concerned, even if he did know that I’m interested in Lou’s work, I am still staff, and therefore, it is inappropriate that I be invited to go anywhere with a master of the house.

Because -- although he may have no money or power back in Canada -- Bertrand loves to "put me in my place" in a way that someone with actual power would never bother doing. He'll jerk me around, telling me it's my fault if his mother is too tired to exercise: "You came at the wrong time," he’ll say if I show up to teach her, as instructed, at 9 after breakfast. When I return at 10, he’ll say Maman is too tired and needs to wear her Xenon headphones and could I please stop bothering her. (She in fact hates to exercise. Hates it. Moans the whole time. Pilates makes her burp. Not that she remembers who I am when we *do* work together, which is rare. I have re-introduced myself many times. It's like Groundhog Day.)

His latest is that he loves to catch me around 5:30 in the evening – after refusing my services all day long – just when the sky is turning these amazing colors and I’m heading to the beach to take it all in – he and Mama Bourgeois lazing on the porch in a torpor – and, right as I cross his line of vision, he'll call out, “Oh, Pilates [as if that were my name] – we’ll do exercises NOW.” And I’ll have to put down my beach bag and teach her. It's as if I made a false claim that Pilates would restore his mother's memory, and since that hasn't happened, then I am clearly a charlatan -- and therefore he's going to punish me.

Or maybe he just likes being boss.

So on this day, Bertrand, like a slow-moving tank, would not get into the car. At 12:30, Madame Bourgeois, and her nurse (who was going to be doing the driving) and I were waiting in the Mercedes, eager for a brief escape down the highway. And we waited and waited inside the hot car, in the driveway; the performance was to begin at 1 o’clock. Finally at 12:45, Bertrand moseyed out of the house and insisted that his mother needed to eat BEFORE we went, because the performance could last all afternoon and then she wouldn't eat again until 3. Truly I couldn’t understand his motives at all, since ostensibly we were going to the compound for lunch; but then I realized that no one else in the car was going to do it, the nurse was busy trying to figure out the stick shift, so I wordlessly got out of the car and went to the guest-house kitchen where I slapped together a mozzarella sandwich; it was obvious he just wanted to see me work.

I brought Madame Bourgeois her snack…which she looked at with wide, innocent eyes like it was a pretty flower and said, “What’s this?”

I silently dared Bertrand to tell me it was too much sugar for his mother (he is very concerned about her carbohydrate intake), but Bertrand just looked out the window while his mother ate.

We all just...sat there in silence in the car in the driveway while she munched away.

(It should be said here, with no malice towards Madame Bourgeois, that she is quite overweight and does not need to be eating extra cheese-sandwiches. Apparently when you lose your short-term memory to the extent that she has, you forget you've eaten as soon as you've swallowed a bite, so she tends to eat enough for two or three people.)

When she’d finished, the nurse was about to put the key into the ignition, but Bertrand suddenly jumped out and ran towards the house saying he'd forgotten his mother’s pills (he hadn't; he had forgotten his smokes); he came strolling back and got into the car, reeking of tobacco; and then he abruptly jumped out again, because he'd forgotten his water-tank invention to show Lou Roeberson. By this time it was just past 1 o’clock and I was banking on the show starting late, and I swear I hadn’t uttered a peep, but I guess my anxiety was showing, because Bertrand suddenly turned to me and said, “Tough!”

Obviously I didn't speak to him for the rest of the afternoon.

We finally made it down the road ten miles, where to my relief the performance had not started (why had I thought that Lou, a man who specializes in slow motion, would start on time? And when did I get so anal about punctuality?).

There was a huge lawn filled with guests, a big white tent like at a wedding, and Lou Roeberson standing a head and shoulders taller than everyone else, smiling and red-faced. To my astonishment, the entire staff seemed to know Bertrand and greeted him like he was an old friend. No one seemed to notice that his fly was half-undone, his mad-scientist hair was sticking out all over the place, that he smelled like a barn and was covered in sweat-stains... and was carrying a glass box full of water and held together with copper wire.

(Ooooooh, to be the sibling of a philanthropist and be treated like royalty when you’ve done nothing but get born. Oooooh, to have one’s *crafts* be treated like great works of art because one is the sibling of a philanthropist!)

Madame Bourgeois kept saying, "Where are we? Are we in Montreal?"

Eventually we were all herded into the white tent under which a low platform had been constructed for the performance. There was a vast amount of cable and speakers everywhere, but the walls of the tent were pulled back so we were in broad daylight, no lighting instruments anywhere, it was very casual. The chairs were a haphazard mélange of folding chairs next to sofas that were too low to the ground alongside rocking chairs and garden furniture.

The audience was a total hodge-podge, too: some very, very wealthy people in fancy gold jewelry and expensive sunglasses, obviously donors or donors-to-be -- it looked like a page from the Social Registry -- next to scruffy artist-types in sweatpants. There was one very hot guy sitting by himself, he had a weird L.A.-skater haircut and swarthy cheekbones for days, and was wearing cut-off army fatigues and had a sexy tattoo peeking out of his t-shirt, and beautiful, I-do-nothing-but-sit-in-the-sun-all-day skin. He looked sort of…like an actor. (He looked, I will admit, like a total man-whore.) I guess I was staring. He smiled right at me and I looked away, grateful that I had put on a skirt. I also got up and changed my seat, suddenly aware that there was no earthly reason I had to stay near smelly Bertrand and his mother. But when I looked back at where the L.A. guy had been lounging across the room, he had disappeared.

Lou spoke a little about the piece we were about to see, something about Cuba and communism and baseball players. We were basically going to be watching a rehearsal of a workshop of a seed of an idea. Lou sat at the front of the “stage,” behind a table, in front of a microphone, just like I knew he would, just like all the books said he would…I was so excited…

It finally began. The actors came onstage in rehearsal sweats. They got into a vaguely baseball-game-y formation, there was a guy with a stick (a bat, I guess)… and someone else doing something kind of catcher-like, but otherwise it was totally abstract, sort of interesting, sort of obscure. Lou sat with his back to the audience and every once in a while, after gazing at his work, he would lean forward and murmur a number into the microphone, “2…4….5…54…39…” And then the actors would shift their positions, sometimes imperceptibly, sometimes not. It was like watching a series of snapshots; they moved only when Lou whispered, which he did at totally random intervals: sometimes they held their position for a few seconds, sometimes for a minute. Which is a long time.

Now…it was just a rehearsal, he was trying out ideas and playing. This wasn’t a finished performance, although you could tell the positions were meticulous and the actors were totally nervous and trying hard to please him.

There were no lights. There was no text. It was just like a dance piece except there wasn’t much movement. Which was fine, there’s nothing wrong with that…nothing. Except that I was reeeeeeally distracted by that microphone, it was… really bothering me. Which surprised me; I know how this is how he works, it’s famous.

But it reminded me of something, I just couldn’t-- quite --

And…to my complete and utter chagrin…I was *bored*. It was so hot under the tent. There was no air; the actors were sweating (which gave the lie to the slow motion: even if you can slow down the speed at which you blink, you cannot slow down the rate at which sweat drips off your chin and falls on the floor).

And the actors looked a little automoton-y. Their faces were stony. But they didn’t seem angry, you could tell they had just been told to have no expression. And you could tell that they had been told exactly where to gaze, where to place their fingertips…because you could see them adjust, glance at Lou, self-correct infinitesimally.

During the bows (by all means, bows after rehearsal) they all suddenly looked so….well, some of them broke out into huge grins, pleased with the work and pleased with themselves. Some of them looked disgusted or tired, but whatever it was it was more dynamic than the looks on their faces during the show. It was as if they had suddenly become human as soon as Lou had stopped whispering into that stupid, stupid microphone.

And then I realized…

It reminded me of Eloise and her walkie-talkies.

Those actors were Lou’s sweating butlers, who jumped when they were called upon but not before. And only to do his bidding.

You could make the argument that Lou was commanding his troops for art’s sake, whereas Eloise only issues orders for bathing suits and water and towels and food and helicopters and boyfriends and Pilates sessions. Though I’d like to believe that a show is more significant than a vacation home, for the people who work to make it run -- actors, butlers, whoever is obeying the voice on the radio – really, really -- what’s the difference?

Is it any different for me to raise my arm in slow motion only when I’m told? or to speak a speech, when I’m told, how I’m told? than it is to teach Pilates when I’m told? HOW I’m told?

Of course, I’d rather play “Sonya” in Uncle Vanya -- a great play about futility and perseverance -- than play “Eloise’s Pilates Teacher” in this crap I’m in right now – because Uncle Vanya is just a better play…

*

I looked at my program. All of Lou’s performers had significant accomplishments; they all had credits at good theaters or dance companies. They had all created their own work at other points in their lives, their experiences were incredibly varied, they were in bands, they wrote poems, they had performed all over the world. And they were all there at Lou’s compound that summer on a “fellowship,” except the fellowship cost tuition money.

They had signed up for a chance to work with the great man, maybe not knowing that he would use them like dolls, that he would take their bodies and mold them the way a sculptor molds clay, and ask them to hold those positions with no expression on their faces and tell them that the shapes he had placed their bodies in was enough to express whatever great idea [about Cuba and baseball and communism] he was expressing. All he needed was their money, and their willingness-to-be-obedient.

In fact, maybe that is the actor’s talent. To be willing to be obedient to a word from your director.

Or to a word from your script.

I used to have this argument (I lost) with Fred, that freaky director I dated in college. He said that acting wasn’t creative, that it was re-creative. That the writing was the invention, on the page, and the directing was the invention in the space; but the actor just re-created what the director and writer had invented.

I know you agree with me, so this is the part you can skip altogether, but it just gets under my skin...I used to argue (with Fred) that actors do SO create, they design the performance using their voice and body and presence, in real time. They ultimately choose *how* a thing gets done, in the moment. I said that the theater was supposed to be collaborative. And I think it usually is. Otherwise…why did I ever want to do this in the first place? To participate in someone else’s vision, someone else’s story... but not passively. I mean, I think I picked it because I thought it was fun.

If you’re being given that many directions, on such microscopic level, à la Lou – when to breathe, where to look within an inch, what to feel (nothing) – from a director basically whispering into your brain while you’re doing it – you’ve suspended your own thoughts, your own will. All you’d have to do is go where you’re told, with full commitment; and then be unattached enough to leave that place as soon as the director chooses to command you. He gets to say what, where, when and how. How is that creative at all for the actor?

(I don’t know why this is suddenly not sitting well with me. I’ve wanted to do this my whole life. Acting is participatory, so you have to say yes, to the whole thing; and film acting is even more precise than stage acting, so what exactly did I think I was getting myself into?)

But if you’re just a robot, a yes-machine, that means the only way for an actor to wield his own power is to be disobedient: to say no. Or to complain, which actors are famous for doing. (Or to be very, very choosy about which jobs you say yes to…)

Or do something else with your life before becoming overwhelmed by bitterness….

O boy.

*

Lunch was served afterwards...there was a big cottage on the opposite end of the field from the wedding tent, and inside the hut was a kitchen turning out huge platters of organic food. It was delicious...and it was being prepared by the performers.

I managed to find Lou on the grass during a rare moment when he was standing by himself. I really wanted to tell him how when I’d felt about his stuff when I was twenty-one. How seeing his work when I was younger had made me realize that I could take all my dance training and integrate it into everything I’d learned as an actress and use it for performance. That it was at least partly because of him that I had sought out a training program that included major physical training as well as regular Stanislavski so that I too could one day be involved in creating works like the stuff he made.

But I found that I couldn’t find the words, I was busy fighting with myself.

He would think I was kissing his ass. He would wonder who I was. And I knew that in that moment I was so angry -- at the world, at the inequities in our fortunes, at my shamefully pathetic lack of career advancement -- that the most genuine thing I could say was not exactly politic: That I think it’s wrong to charge money from actors and then ask them to turn off their own agency in order to express your badly formed, half-baked idea.

My whole problem – huger, stupider than I can stomach -- boils down to plain old jealousy.

I’m jealous of Eloise, of Lou Roeberson and his millions of dollars and his unlimited time: whatever he needs to make the thing he’s making, donors give him. But if someone said to me, “Here, dear, here is a million dollars and a compound and dozens of actors paying you for the privilege of helping you make your work, nothing is stopping you now,” I would probably think my “work” -- whatever it happens to be -- didn’t deserve it, and how arrogant that would be, to accept that much… and how clearly Lou Roeberson has never once stopped to ask if he deserves all of this; I mean, no one person deserves this much, not even someone on whose work is actually good.

Although I suppose even this baseball-Cuba-communism project, given enough money and time and lighting design, could go down in theatrical history as an avant-garde classic…

So what came out of my mouth, to Lou Roeberson -- deeply alcoholic mildly autistc genius -- was: “That was so interesting. I’ll see you back at Eloise’s.” He beamed down at me, friendly-like, and said, “Yes, see you at Eloise’s.” And then he was swallowed up by a crowd of well-to-do well-wishers, and I wandered off. He's been living on the same property as I have for a month and a half and that was the first time we'd spoken.

And really, why should he speak to me. Clearly my soul is too stingy to be worth acknowledging. I am a troll, a troll in a skirt.

*

So I went over to the buffet and got some more salad and found a place on a rustic bench – built by an actor-carpenter, I’m sure – and planted myself in the sun. I wondered where Bertrand and Mme. Bourgeois had gotten to…when suddenly the sexiest voice ever said, “Hi, I’m Jeremiah,” and there, standing next to me – my dog-magnet is apparently as strong as ever, in case you were worried -- was the L.A. guy with the skater cut, eating a chicken leg and looking at me.

He sat down on the bench. I introduced myself to hot Jeremiah, and he said, “That’s an interesting name. Like the gelfling in The Dark Crystal?” (Um, paying attention to the lousy-but-somehow-still-effective pick-up line? Yes, like the gelfling in The Dark Crystal.)

I said to him, “I didn’t see you during the performance,” and he said, “That’s because I was running the sound board. “ I didn’t bother to say that I hadn’t really been aware that there had been any sound, per se; but of course, someone had to turn that damn microphone on and off.

Anyway. Jeremiah was saying that he said he owned a stop-motion animation company (?) in L.A. and I nodded like I was interested and asked him what he was doing in the Hamptons. He said, “Well, I came here because I thought this is where it’s at, and I thought working with Lou would be pretty awesome.” And I said, “So has it been...awesome?”

And he just sucked on the chicken leg and gazed at me in my skirt and my tan. He was sitting too close to me. He smelled really really good. He didn’t answer my question, just leaned over and murmured, “Listen… a bunch of us are going to make a bonfire on the beach later in the evening. Want to come?”

And I smiled and said, “Probably.” He wrote his number on a napkin, while I considered my options: would it be smart to go a-riding on one of Eloise’s bikes ten miles down the highway in the middle of the night? and: who could I ask to drive me to this little rendez-vous since Jonas the PPO, my only possible ally, was gone? and: was I interested enough in a one-night stand to pay for a cab?

and realizing: yes, yes I was…

…right then, along came Bertrand, charging across the lawn at me and said, “There you are, Kyra, please get in the car right now, we’re leaving.” Jeremiah looked up at Bertrand, slightly alarmed -- and Bertrand is definitely alarming -- but I was suddenly disgusted at myself at how harshly I’ve been judging him, this crazy mad scientist who follows his every creative impulse without a trace of self-consciousness, and me with my fancy degree and holier-than-thou attitude.

I looked at Bertrand holding his Alzheimer’s-curing-water-tank between his two hands like it was a precious gift; and then I looked at slightly-sleazy Jeremiah, with chicken grease on his fingers and that spoiled, coddled look on his face and thought, this man is used to getting everything he wants from women. This man is used to women laying themselves at his feet. This man has never been told...

[I mean, if I’ve been longing for artistic choices in this play I’m now stuck in called What I Did With My Summer Vacation, right in this moment I was being given a beautiful opportunity. I did not have to be willing or obedient. And it was remarkably easy to choose between Yet Another Cheap Experience and No Experience at All. I could wield my all-powerful…]

…no.

So I looked into sexy Jeremiah’s eyes and smiled as sweetly as possible and got up to go. “Bye now.” I didn’t take his number, relished the look on his face (“…doesn’t take direction well….”) and went with Bertrand to the car, strangely grateful to him for his perfect timing, even though I still wasn’t speaking to him on principle.

Lou Roeberson left the next day for Berlin, sweet gay Venezuelan assistant in tow.

Write soon. Clearly I need some friend-time. Help.
(Will we still be friends if I decide to go back to school for psychopharmacology...?)

xo -- with love from

The Gelfling. (No, that's not right...)

Chapter 18: Understudying

2008-10-30T17:07:00.017-04:00

But this is all distracting me from my main point, which is that….

Eloise is leaving. She's meant to go off to Egypt in a week, followed by Iran, and then on to what they’ve been ominously referring to as the Middle East (can’t they just say ISRAEL?).

Virginie and Ivan, the detested new head butler (I mean, he’s even worse than Roger, at least Roger looked like he was about to break into song if only he could stop running around; Ivan is a control freak) are all in a flap because they’re having trouble securing a legal firearm for the bodyguard. (Oh yes – they hired a new bodyguard to replace Jonas after all. He wears nunchucks on his belt. I avoid him at all costs, I don’t even know his name.) From the Egyptian embassy’s point of view, in theory at least, Eloise is traveling as a tourist, so why would a tourist need a gun? They wouldn’t. Or shouldn’t, unless that tourist were going to be doing risky high-end business, in which case Eloise needs a different kind of visa (and what does that say about the nature of business?)… and, ever discreet, Eloise is trying to avoid ’fessing up to the fact that she is, in fact, going to be doing business.

Or maybe she’s not, maybe it’s just her overweening sense of self-importance that has her convinced someone will want to attack her and she’ll need her bodyguard to guard her body.

Or maybe it is in fact what Roger mentioned: that since Eloise is not an American citizen, she has to vacate the premises every 90 days or start paying a lot of tax. And she is on day 82. So she has decided to go to Egypt. On a whim.

At any rate, the New Nameless Personal Protection Officer has to make a stop in Paris a few days early to obtain a gun (for some reason, what could it be, European travelers are allowed to carry weapons into Egypt and Iran, but not American travelers? I understand nothing…). And who the eff is Eloise that she needs a gun? As the embassy pointed out, if she were a diplomat it would be a different story. But she’s not. She’s just a spoiled brat.

Virginie is getting ready to go back to D.C. to go on another vacation; her nerves are completely gone, she can barely speak English. She wanders around the kitchen muttering "Fifteen yehrs I 'ave worrrrked for 'ehrrrrr, ahnd now I am ready to qweet, I cannot tehk eet anymorrrre.“ She is being temporarily understudied by Anna, a lovely redhead with a crazy Welsh accent. I actually like Anna, she is very cool and professional, has been doing personal assistant work for the wealthy for a long time, but she grew up working class and Eloise is completely baffling to her. Virginie has been training her in the ways of all things Gewurztraminer-Bourgeois-Alcock by booking, unbooking and rebooking Eloise’s flight to Cairo.

I’ve never been so glad to be out of a job in my life.

Although... technically...and sadly... this job doesn’t end for me until Bertrand and his mother, the elder forgetful Madame Bourgeois, leave; and even though they showed every intention of going after being slighted by their new digs in the nursery, neither seems particularly eager to actually vacate the premises and go back to Ottowa. In a week it will be just me, Pierre the junior butler, and the crazies. We’re all that’s left. Even Manny the cook will leave, back to London as soon as the fancy luncheon happens, and then it’ll be all about the takeout menus. Didier left yesterday afternoon, two kisses on the cheek for moi, and he’s back to his Parisian suburb with his two teenaged kids and his poor, poor wife. The inmates are leaving the asylum, their replacements sure to go just as mad.

And two days ago, Paola, the head maid (Paola, who is, let me just say, a big disappointment to the other two maids Luisa and Maria [see, I knew her name wasn’t Conchita] because Paola has reached the age of 20 and is still single…), QUIT.

Well, no – not really, she didn’t really quit, yesterday she had second thoughts and she came back. We all have bills to pay.

But it was thrilling when she did it; she came marching into the staff kitchen during lunch and told Ivan, the assholy new head butler, that she wouldn’t be coming back. One of Paola’s more arduous tasks is packing Eloise’s suitcases; and any time Eloise takes a trip, long or short, she always travels with enough stuff for a month, even when she goes away for a night. [This would be the place to mention that the contents of the three walk-in closets are, as I write, being packed into 40 – 40!! – huge suitcases-on-wheels which are to go back to Europe with her.]

Anyway, on the day Paola put her foot down, apparently Eloise had a Very Important Meeting in NYC (with a certain monogamy-challenged ex-POTUS, dontcha know) and was scheduled to fly out on a helicopter in the evening; but instead of telling Paola what to pack, she spent the whole day having lunch with the Principessa, getting her nails done, exercising with Didier (she hasn’t used me in the last week at all, I’ve only worked on the Principessa and Bertrand. See me cry?), etc. Finally she told Paola to draw her bath and gave her 40 minutes to press and pack everything, then yelled at her when it wasn’t done. And Paola, twenty years old, who has only been speaking English for two years, drew herself up and said, "I won’t be spoken to like I’m a servant. Even if I am one.“

Brava.

Ivan listened to Paola’s story in the kitchen, and then calmly told her to to take a night to think about it. I was almost sorry to see her when she did indeed come back the next morning. I guess we all need money more than dignity.

Eloise sort of apologized, said she’d been “stressed” because of the upcoming meeting with the man from Hope. She flew back “home” in time for lunch yesterday and arrived in a foul mood, so I guess the meeting did not go well. No cigars for Madame...

And finally…this morning I came across Mouton, the white (or formerly white) bichon frisée, lying in among the roots of the 20’ hedge that lines the footpaths of the property. Luisa told me that today he pooped in Eloise’s bedroom (good dog! ah, schadenfreude) and thusly has been permanently banished from indoors. It took me a second to realize that the reason a dog would choose to lie in the dirt is that the hedge is the only shade on the property – there are no trees, because this close to the beach, since there’s not enough soil for roots, a tree wouldn’t be natural… but neither is a 20’ hedge natural. The flowers and grass that Eloise pays a fortune to have planted -- according to the design laid out by the Duchess Albinoni-Barrington -- struggle to take root in what is basically a sand bed....

Anyway, the formerly-white dog is now brown. He licked my hand and then sank back down on his belly, totally dejected. I thought about taking him for a walk on the beach, but right then Domingo came out with the leash and shooed me away.

The one redeeming bit of news is that I have received an amazing invitation from Lou Roeberson’s adorable gay Venezuelan assistant, to go attend the afternoon benefit tomorrow, down the road at Lou’s theatrical compound (of which Eloise is a patroness). This would be truly exciting if it weren’t for the fact that stinky Bertrand has also been invited…but maybe he’ll bathe for Lou Roeberson.

Good-bye, my loves. Hopefully I’ll be home sooner than later (maybe…two weeks? No one knows anything…), with a lighter heart and a healthier bank account.

Grosses bises.
K.LoCho

Chapter 17: Gone With The Wind

2008-08-21T09:46:00.017-04:00

from: jennifer@bff.org
to: iamaseagull@aol.com
subj: More Disappointment Than I Can Bear

Dearest fweind,

Fucking cellphones. Why don’t they ever work?

I am so, so bummed to know that you can’t come see me in my Shakespeare in the Parking Lot debut. I was counting on it. Are you really stuck out there teaching freakin' Eloise? As selfish as it is for me to have wanted you here to watch me tear it up as Rosalind, a role I was BORN to play (even if it is in Connecticut…), the real reason I wanted you to come is that Elizabeth and Greg made a surprise visit from Seattle and (I have to tell you this part since you’re not going to be here) this was to be the formal surprise announcement that they are…at last…engagé!!! We were going to go out for fancy-pants dinner to celebrate…sorry, I’m rubbing it in. Of course I know you’re at work, and it won’t be the same without you, but I’m so confused: didn’t you tell Roger the butler that you had an appointment in the city today? What gives?

Missing you and feeling sad. Love,

yr BFF

**

from: iamaseagull@aol.com
to: jennifer@bff.org
subj: Re: More Disappointment Than I Can Bear

Yeah, yeah, yeah, one woe doth tread upon another.

You have no idea. I just read your email, and I wish I could strangle me some butler, or at least hit him over the head with a candlestick in the conservatory. I had to go upstairs to calm down, which is where I am now, because in fact, there was NO REASON AT ALL for me to be here in the Big House today; none. Roger was just being a dick.

Yes, of course I told him I “had an appointment” days ago. But the understanding with this gig is that I will teach Madame before taking off for the day ("scrub the hearth, then you may go to the ball...”).

So today, I packed my bag and then dutifully waited around for Eloise to show up for Pilates, waited all morning with an eerily silent walkie-talkie, and finally at noon I said to Roger, “Um…I need to be on a 2 o’clock train. Do you have any idea…I mean, is there…any way to find out…when Eloise is going to want Pilates?” And he said, “No, darling, I can’t bother her, she is on her vacation,” and coolly clipped off down the garden path. By one o'clock, the walkie-talkie still hadn't made a peep, and she hadn’t had tennis or golf, so I tracked down the scurrying butler and asked him, “Is she even awake?” No laughter from Roger; he said, “What’s the problem, Kyra,” with a warning note in his voice, as if I were pluck-pluck-plucking on his very last nerve.

I said, “Nothing, it’s just… Roger, I know I told you I had an appointment, and I really need to go if I’m going to make it. May I please leave for the day?” And he looked at me with a thundery brow and completely ignored what he and I both know to be true -- that Eloise never does Pilates in the late-afternoon -- and said, “I *just* don’t know, I’d like you to stay here please,

on the off-chance that Madame wants a session later on. What will I tell her if you’re not on the premises?”

Tell her I’ve fucked off. I don’t care. It’s none of her business…except it is, because she is paying me to be present. …it seems that I have tacitly agreed to being on-call, and if that is what they are paying me and housing me for, then that is how I’m expected to behave. Even though that really wasn’t what I’d had in mind when I took this gig. And it’s not as if I’ve been taking off every day. But I can’t exactly claim I’ve been working hard, it’s just – I’m trapped without being able to exercise my own volition…

It did occur to me to just leave; I had told them I had somewhere to be; why didn’t I just go?

…and of course the answer is money…
…I don’t know how far I can push it, before they figure out that I’m more expensive than the work I’m doing is worth and just fire me…

Whatever, I’m a chicken. I didn’t want to get fired. I should have just left, but I didn’t; and now I’m missing your show, and I’m missing Elizabeth and Greg’s engagement, and I’m so sorry and depressed I don’t even want to eat.

And the worst part is, it turns out that Eloise had returned late the night before from Paris and was ill with a fever, and had taken to her bed… and Roger knew that she was sick and that she had no intention of doing any Pilates that day. He just…didn’t tell me. Because of discretion. Because it “wasn’t my business.” Even though he knew I had to go. Even though he knew I was waiting. Just to be…what, malicious? To wield power? (Over me? How sad that I am the totality of his dominion.)

I did, in fact, drag my ass downstairs for staff dinner in the doggy-reeking staff kitchen. Gerry was in rare form, drinking a quart of whole milk – from the carton – and then sitting down at the table and dumping half a stick of butter into the serving dish of peas without asking anyone. I must have looked at him, and he, blithe as you please, said, “What is it darling, butter is very very good for you, anyone who likes peas likes butter, and if they don’t they can just eat around it.” I looked at the peas, the only green thing on the table, and watched them drowning in the hunk of butter, now melted into a vomity, greasy pool, wondering at the complete absurdity of what he’d just said and at how much I suddenly cared: I can’t even control peas.

Didier ate everything in sight. I couldn’t swallow or speak to Roger – I was fighting with myself, telling myself he was only doing his job, which is to manage the household, which means being discreet when Madame is ill. But. This last item feels plain old mean. I know he thinks I am lazy because I am not called upon to teach all that much, and he resents it; why should I be allowed to come and go as I please when everyone else works so hard? I’m sure to him it looks like I am on vacation. As far as he is concerned, I was hired for the household’s convenience; my convenience is of no importance to anyone; this is the job, and if I don’t like it I can…

Well, we’ve already considered that non-option; I cannot quit, I have to get out of debt. This is the quickest way, though perhaps giving up my autonomy is perhaps also the most torturous way of doing it. No one who works in an office full-time will have any sympathy for me, but then, they are on salary and can go home when their day is over. There I was at staff dinner, so disappointed, and so frustrated with my strange captivity that I was practically crying into my overcooked beef, thinking of you and Elizabeth and Greg celebrating and the utter uselessness of my presence in this household. And so angry at Roger. (And I’d just begun to have a relatively lovely rapport with him!)

I must have looked very sad indeed because he has since taken pity on me and took me aside after dinner to say he will make it possible for me to escape one day next week. But by then it will be beside the point. I don’t want to leave “campus” just for the sake of leaving; it’s that I cannot make plans because they have a claim on all my time. This live-in business is bollocks. Next year…well, HA! Next year. Would I ever, EVER want to live like this, or work for people like this, ever, ever again?? Next year I WILL be getting paid to act, thank you very much.

I miss you more than words can say. Please tell Elizabeth and Greg that I will write to them both tomorrow, and send them my love and regrets, but right now I’m feeling too sorry for myself to do any more communicating.

Maybe I'll throw myself into the sea.

Just kidding.
Free K. Lo-Cho.

"...there is a willow grows aslant a brook..."

**

from: iamaseagull@aol.com
to: momlopez-choi@aol.com, poplopez-choi@aol.com, talktthhand@juno.com, soundengineer@theatrco.org, youngcomposer@mymusic.com, pilatesqueen@pilatesqueen.com, lop-cho@nyc.bb.ss.com, ameryka@freecity.net,
jennifer@bff.org, elizabeth@blushingbride.net, gregory@notsogentle.com
subj: Southern Belle

Hello, y'all.

Quite unbelievably, I have moved AGAIN. The Royalty have arrived. Virginie miscalculated, which is rare, but it turned out that the Principessa wanted very much to be housed with her children (so much for my theory about royalty and kibbutzniks); and because of the presence of six (six!) Royal security guards, the Principessa del’ [major European country] ended up needing quite a bit more of the guest-house than Roger had originally anticipated. So I am living back in the main house in my old tacky-chintz-and-plaid-covered atticky nook. My moving to the guest-house was nothing more than an exercise in futility, like so much else…I am getting very good at stuffing my clothes, still on their hangers, into my duffel, toiletries (including the stolen ones) into a shopping bag, dragging it all down the path. Made the bed, stacked the books, put in a load of laundry in the basement (where the maids looked at me like I'd invaded their territory). Whole thing took an hour.

I have to say that I'm actually very grateful to Roger -- for not putting me in the house down the road. He has been extremely cranky lately, and it turned out it’s because he has been demoted: I just found out that his position as head-butler was only meant to be temporary, because he was so new to the job and so young, but he’s still super-pissed about the fact that we have a new head-butler, Ivan, who just arrived. And Roger now has to train new guy Ivan (who has authority over everyone including Roger), to do his old job. Ouch.

Now, I would have thought that Roger would make Ivan live in the Main House since they start work at the crack of dawn, and that it would make more sense for me to live with the other “fitness” staff, especially since Rog had been so adamant back in June about me not living “above” Madame; I thought for sure I would be banishèd to the house with Gerry and Didier, and Ivan would have my old room. Of course, if I were to live in the house with Gerry and Didier, Ivan would have to sleep on a day bed and he is six foot two… and then there’s the small matter of me, a poor vulnerable single woman, living with two letches in a small cottage; but when I tried to thank Roger for sparing my fate, he pish-toshed, said it wasn’t a personal favor to me, and fully admitted that he’d put me back upstairs because he just couldn’t stand the thought of one of the other butlers getting to work in the morning before he does. So, happily… Ivan is down the road and I am, once more, living above Madame.

Things are a leeeetle bit different now, though: Eloise's children are gone, and (as I told you) in an effort to keep the crazies in her family as far away from the Royals as possible, Eloise had crazy Bertrand and their mother, her Forgetfulness Mme. Bourgeois, bumped from their sumptuous guest-house digs into the other “nursery” rooms, up here on the Main House fourth floor with me. (Thankfully I am NOT sharing the bathroom with Bertrand, but with Madame Bourgeois’ night nurse.) This is in spite of the fact that Eloise has two big beautiful beige “guest” bedrooms standing empty on her side; but she won’t house her poor relations therein.

Mme. Bourgeois can feel the insult, somehow, and she refused to go to sleep until two a.m. on her first night up there. “Why am I being punished?” she kept wailing. “Whose house is this? Where’s my daughter Eloise? I will have to speak to Eloise my daughter about this.” It was Eloise your daughter who stuck you in the garret, lady. Even Bertrand seemed humbled. “We’ll leave Monday, mother,” he said. “We’ve stayed longer this year than we did last year.” “But I don’t want to leave!” Mme. Bourgeois was indignant, Bertrand suddenly frighteningly reasonable. “But Mother, last year you couldn’t wait to get out of here, you were up every night until midnight packing your bags...” (I swear I am not making up a single word of this.)

I’m very sympathetic, really; the bed in my room is barely big enough for littlish me, and theirs are no larger, it’s all children’s beds up here on the fourth floor. It is the nursery, after all. I expected Bertrand to be bitter, but he said to me the other day (on his way to sneak a verboten smoke), “Really, Eloise has been extremely generous to us, letting us stay here for this long, Mother feels much better, her blood pressure is” blah blah blah, “it’s time for us to go. I’m very grateful to Eloise. She paid for everything – the nurse, the doctors in Montreal...” Not like the other siblings, who have apparently all ganged up against anti-western-medicine Bertrand and have threatened to take Mme. Bourgeois away from him and place her under the care of the state.

I still think that given a choice (well, I wasn't given a choice) between living with them and living with Gerry in the house down the road, Gerry would still be worse.

Even though Bertrand has stunk up the whole floor with lousy Euro-cigarettes. Eloise is adamantly against his smoking and won’t let him do it on the property; she has caught him around the side of the house and yelled at him. I think she’s more worried about him burning down the house than about his health, but in any case, he has to hide his habit. He has figured out a way to open the sealed window in his bedroom, which I think technically means he broke it, so that he can smoke up there without having to go outside. He did the same thing in his mother’s room, presumably so she can breathe in the iodine: I can hear he sounds of the ocean through their closed doors and am frightfully jealous.

Betrand has also figured out the thermostat, in the hallway, that controls the upper floor’s temperature. Unsurprisingly for one so holistically inclined, he is completely opposed to air conditioning. However, the window in my room is not broken (meaning it is sealed with Spidey-glue), and so when he shuts off the a/c at night, my room becomes a coffin. I had a nightmare last night that I was being baked in an oven with my face smothered by cotton, and I woke up sweating. My room smelt of old shoes and cigarettes. I checked the thermostat in the hall; 86 Fahrenheit. I turned the air back on and dialed it all the way down to 68 degrees in a fit of sleepy pique, and in the morning I heard Bertrand yelling at Paola for "messing with the temperature." I defended her and said it was me that did it, that I couldn't breathe, that my windows didn't open; he told me to mind my own business. "Sea air is very important for mother at night. She mustn't catch a chill. Don't... touch... ANYthing!" He turned off the thermostat and walked away. When I went to bed, I turned it back on at a more-civilized 77 degrees. He turned it off the next morning. I turned it back on in the middle of the night....and so it goes.

The most spinnable news yet is this: I’m officially Pilates teacher to Royalty of a Major European country. The Principessa is here with her husband the Marquess de Mouffetarde* and their two spoiled progeny, Giannini and Nicoletta. Principessa Gisela* (aka Her Royal Highness, which is what the butlers have to call her) is incredibly nice and down to earth, and an absolute dream to teach. She does Pilates every day at 10 in the morning, but is usually a few minutes late and doesn't fuss. She concentrates and is totally curious about everything I say. Her groundedness makes Eloise look even more ridiculous, with her preening and her helicopters. Although of course... the Principessa has those six security guards (Eloise only has the one…). A few of them are staying with the royal family in the guest house, but in fact there aren’t enough bedrooms –- because of Lou Roeberson, theater royalty, who is still staying upstairs -– so one of the security guards is basically camped out in the library of the guest house. They spend the day hanging out with the cars in the garage, on call, which makes the garage look like a social club…every time I walk by I am unnerved by the sheer amount of Euro-testosterone.

Speaking of spoiled brats, let me take a moment to tell you about Major European royalty: the petit prince and princesse, Giannini and Nicoletta, are OOC. They are 7 and 5.

Nicoletta always has a sock. In her mouth. Like a blanky, only…a sock. Not the same sock, it seems it’s always a different, freshly laundered sock, but there it is, hanging out of her mouth, spitty.

And both children have taken a shine to, of all things, Pilates. Not to me; to the Pilates machine. Sometimes I’ll come out to teach (Pilates is always done outside these days, something of a relief because it means Eloise can’t watch TV during her lessons, sparing me a fight for her attention and a fight with the digital remote-control), and I’ll discover that these little Euro-monsters have unhooked all the machine’s attachments . They seem blissfully unaware that the machine is spring-loaded and could snap off a finger or two if they slipped (how Edward Gorey of me!) as they happily pull on the straps, crawl on top, stick their fingers in the tracks when their mother is working out, etc. And when they get in the way, they will not move. I can’t say anything; hardly appropriate, but interestingly, the Principessa – I get to call her Gisela, I LOVE being American! -- who is otherwise very measured and down to earth, seems unable to get them to obey her. She is also unable to speak to them in simple declarative sentences (oh, like…. “Get off the Pilates machine…because I SAID so…because it doesn’t belong to you…because we are guest’s at Mommy’s friend Eloise’s house…keep your voice down…because it’s not polite to scream when mommy’s having a lesson…” God. I’m hope I’m not going to be NO fun when I have kids.).

Here’s the part where I totally judge the parenting style of a future King and Queen: These little snot-nosed poppets chase after their mom incessantly (totally understandable, she doesn’t seem to want to spend too much time with them) and also seem to hate their nanny, Carmelita, who is 60 and way too long-in-the-tooth to be running after them. This morning little Giannini called his father the Marquess some horrible name; the Marquess then dragged his progeny off the Pilates machine by the waist-band of his little pants using one arm (ouch, wedgie), and the kid screamed like he was being tortured…no harm done really, I suppose, but I was a little shocked that instead of talking to the little monsters about how to behave, the Principessa and Marquess both throw up their hands (metaphorically speaking) and either shuffle them off to the nanny, or just ignore them when they’re being impossible. They may be royal, but they’re just kids. Or maybe I truly don't understand what it means to be a parent, picking your battles and so on, but is that really a good way to teach your children to behave? What about the time-out chair? (Well, actually I'm talking out my ass again; I don’t remember our family having a time-out chair, I’m sure I was snotty and screamy too...the parents could maybe tell a different story, but I remember being very well behaved at the age of 5. Something about having to go to school and making nice with the other children…)

And here’s the Bitching About Gerry [the South African massage therapist] Section: as I may have told you, Gerry has taken to guzzling full-fat milk and CREAM by the glass. He regularly comes into the kitchen and opens a carton of whatever dairy product he sees and sucks it down his gullet. (Manny even mentioned something about having to constantly go on milk-runs because we keep running out unexpectedly.) It’s bizarre, like an addiction: the other day Gerry and Didier and I had to drive into town for an errand, and Gerry made Didier pull over in the driveway of their cottage, and ran inside saying, “I’m just going to nip in for a quick sip of milk!” (WTF?) Weird, kind of Freudian…plus nutritionally I think it’s suspect: how it’s ok for humans to drink such large quantities of the hormonal product of another mammal, one that's big enough to have four stomachs, still doesn’t make total sense to me, plus I know that 90% of adults are lactose intolerant. But Gerry claims that cow’s cream is therapeutic. Why he isn’t a whale with a bad heart is beyond me, but he attributes it to that bee-resin product (um, drug?) he "distributes", Propolis.

He’s been getting shipments of it periodically all summer; it arrives in boxes of little brown glass jars with droppers that you squeeze under your tongue; all the butlers line up for their “fix” first thing in the morning. Personally, I think it’s snake oil; the last time he went off about “I’ve got this VERY SPECIAL product I get delivered SPECIALLY from Brazil, Propolis, it cures everything, I cured Eloise of her fever, etc.,” I tried it; it did make my brain feel a little buzzy, like doing a shot of whisky, or maybe just too much espresso. But I've also seen it on the shelves of the local health food store, so it’s not so blooming special. When I told Gerry that you can get Propolis in downtown ________Hampton, he just looked at me with a benign smile -– I think he thinks I'm a little dumb -- and said “Yes darling but that propolis they carry is inferior, not so pure because they make it with chemicals like glycol whereas mine is made with clean alcohol from the cane plant. The same thing they make rum with darling.” Oh, I see. The cane plant, source of sugar and healthy rum. I looked at his rotten teeth and glass of milk (not organic milk, by the way! Pasteurized! Homogenized! American! Full of chemicals and hormones!) and decided to shut up. He has such a high opinion of himself that challenging him is a waste of air. Instead I said, “But isn’t glycol, chemically speaking, an alcohol too?” to which he withered “No.”

But because I am not willing to take anyone's word for anything these days, here is what Merriam-Webster had to say about glycol: "Any of a class of organic compounds belonging to the alcohol family; in the molecule of a glycol, two hydroxyl (OH) groups are attached to different carbon atoms."

A-ha! I knew I sat through all those science classes in high school for a reason, and apparently the reason was be so as not to be gas-lighted by assholes with loose teeth. (Glycol, rum, cane plant, whatever, Propolis apparently can’t help tooth-rot…)

And then there’s Didier, who like me has discovered that the Main House pool is a relative refuge from the gaze of Big Brother (i.e. Roger). I was sure the pool was my own private domain, literally no one else has used it all summer (Eloise only likes the guest-house pool); but Didier isn't the worst company in the world; he has given up trying to learn English, so while I am sad to have to relinquish my privacy, I'm still pretty much alone with my thoughts if he's around. Plus he's got that body, though I try not to look (I wouldn't want him to get the wrong idea) (from the neck up, though, it should be said that you can tell he was formerly-handsome: chiseled cheekbones, James-Bond-y eyes... actually, what am I saying. He's kind of hot. He's just got a bad I'm-balding-and-unwilling-to-commit-to-a-fully-shaved-scalp haircut).

Anyway. We did have the oddest exchange yesterday when we were both sunbathing out there, too lazy to go to the beach. Eloise was still ill, in spite of Gerry dosing her with his very special alcoholic Propolis, so she didn't want to exercise. It was late afternoon, but still bright enough to get nice and brown; I was wearing my new sale-bin bikini (that sale bin has been very good to me this summer). I had just finished moving my stuff back into my old blue room in the big house and was laughing about how tacky it was, “Have you seen that room?” And Didier goes, in his verrrry thick accent, “Non, Keera, I ’ave not see your rrrrroom. I 'have not been invited to see yourrrrr rrrrroom. I cannot go wizhout inveeeetashion. Would you like to invite me to see your bedrrroom?”

I couldn’t tell if he was kidding, so I tried to change the subject -- thusly the conversation turned, as it only can with Didier, to language. But I admit that I was a little thrown and accidentally the next words out of my mouth were, “How do you say 'wedding ring' in French?”

[Just...please don’t comment on that.]

He ignored my blushing and told me (une alliance), and to my utter, further embarrassment, the next clever words out of my mouth were, “So why don’t you ever wear one?” And he goes, “Euuuuh, becaussse I don’ lahk to…” as if it were the most natural thing in the world to go around with a naked finger, a naked torso and a tiny Speedo.

I recovered; next we began discussing the fine distinction between embetter and gener, which is the same as the difference between “to irritate” and “to annoy”: according to Didier you say “gener” when something irritates the skin, and “embetter” applies to a mental or emotional state, like mosquito bites are "irritating," but Gerry is "annoying" because he irritates my soul. Didier said, (in French) “For example, I would say it irritates me that I have played tennis in the sun for two hours today, because I have already taken too much sun; but it annoys me that you have not yet invited me to your bedroom...”

You have to know that "bedroom" sounds incredibly dirty when it is pronounced "ta petite chambre..."

That aside…I mean, that could just be me, being lonely, because I really don’t think he was flirting, I really don’t think he meant anything. I think he’s just a Frenchman. But I was suddenly extremely aware of how little this bikini actually covers, and got very self-conscious. I said, "Oh, ha ha," flung a towel around my waist and threw my large novel back into my straw bag, and tripped back towards the house, totally... annoyed that he'd invaded my haven. He looked genuiniely, innocently perplexed as he watched me gather my stuff. “Euh, but Keeerrrra! Where are you going? Ah, come back, Keerrrrra, you ‘ave such pretty ‘air, eeeet eeees jhuuuust like Vivien Leigh in ‘Autant en Emporte le Vent’...!”

And he... has hair like Ed Harris.

I went upstairs to my airless petite chambre and put aloe on my sunburn, and took to my bed.

(But it's nice to know I could play Irish in a pinch, at least in France. Of course, Scarlett O'Hara could have had that conversation without blushing.)

Whatever. I adore and miss you all. Please send letters and candy.

Kyra O'Lopez-Choi

Chapter 16: Teen Spirit

2008-08-21T09:45:00.016-04:00

Madame has gone to New York, then to London. She won’t be back for a week, but alas, I am still confined to the castle: I have to stay here and teach crazy Bertrand and memory-less Madame Bourgeois. As you know, young Edwin the Eldest has gone off to China, taking with him Jonas the security guy (and my only ally) -- who is not, as I had been previously told, being replaced (no security detail?!?! Quelle surprise.).

Even stranger, Manny the cook is also going to go to London with Madame. In his absence, Pierre (the sweet-faced junior butler) will be doing the cooking. I assumed this meant that Pierre has some kind of kitchen experience, but when I said "Oh, you cook as well?" he looked completely pixelated and said, "No, I don't know where Madame got the idea, I just found out last night that I was to do the cooking for Madame Bourgeois and Bertrand."

And Marlene has gone to Spain to meet her father and step-mother for a holiday (with a one-day shopping-detour in New York, with Roger as chaperone).

Which means the only remaining staff in the house with yours truly are Pierre and Virginie, and my nemeses Didier and his crony Gerry, whose brown teeth get looser by the day. Curiously, he just ordered a brand new, amazingly-designed, German-made massage table. He was giving me a lecture about the virtues of good German engineering, which is one of his many pet subjects, but I barely heard a word, I was busy wondering how he justifies spending money on massage tables when his teeth are literally falling out of his face.

Lou Roeberson remains a ghostly presence in the guest-house, barely ever here; we are not expected to serve him, and he has never requested a Pilates session. We have barely exchanged two words, which is completely depressing to me.

With Manny gone, the rest of us are left to our own devices for a few days this week, since Pierre is not expected to come up with staff meal. Personally, this is when I would pull out the take-out menus; but the fridge is well-stocked, and I think Didier mentioned something about all of us taking turns cooking, although I may have misunderstood his English. (I shudder to think of Gerry behind the stove.) Virginie said that she could always take Madame Blouin and Bertrand out to dinner, but if not, it will fall to the five of us to help Pierre serve meals to Madame and Bertrand [slight pause for an inner “…excuse me? um, not in the job description?” although I suppose if Virginie is up for it I have no business complaining]. I really can’t see myself fussing over table settings and center-pieces like Roger and Pierre. They outdid themselves the other night (setting Eloise's table, not staff meal), floating candles in a huge glass vase full of water they had dyed pink with food coloring. The night before they had bought tiny, white sea shells at the craft store and sunk them into a vase full of water they had dyed blue. If I were setting the table, they'd be lucky if the knives ended up on the right. Or is it the left? Thankfully that didn't happen; Pierre drove them into town for dinner.

In the absence of La Reine Folle, staff meal [leftovers and amazing wine] was much more relaxed, and there were some exciting revelations. When I asked Virginie last night what Madame Bourgeois had been like before Alzheimer’s took over, Virginie said, “Oh, she was very difficult, very demanding like Eloise, but she also had exquisite manners and culture. Tremendously interested in museums, music, art. Neither of her daughters have any culture at all.” Which is profoundly weird. Eloise's sister is even wealthier than Eloise, married to a Duke or something, and has a huge art collection; and Eloise of course professes to be so involved in all things artistique, her entire business is art, the magazines she owns are art magazines (Auctions & Artists*, the Art House Guide*, plus 14 more). But when I said so, Virginie said it has only been since Eloise’s divorce 6 or 7 years ago that she developed an interest in art (did I mention her that her husband left her for a 24-year-old? which I feel fine judging him for, even though she was clearly a terror to be married to). That she knows nothing about art history and has no taste at all, which is apparent to me judging from the heinous objets strewn all over the house. (Her latest addition is a "lightbox" she keeps on a table near the main entrance to the house. It is a white cube with some special kind of bulb inside it. It looks like an Ikea lamp. The artist is this famous Englishman and I shudder to think of the cost.)

So the night before the teenagers left, there was a ruckus in the guesthouse basement. Jonas, Roger, Pierre and Manny tend to have a nightcap in the "butler's kitchen" which is right below my room (actually it's a closet with a microwave and a plug-in kettle). I wandered downstairs in my sweats to see what all the noise was about and there they all were, plus Edwin -- and Marlene, who was seductively draped all over Jonas. When they saw me, she reluctantly climbed off his lap, and he looked too sheepish to be truly avuncular... I tried to be amused. Of course, Marlene and Edwin have known these guys for at least six months, so given how quickly Eloise fires people, her kids have practically grown up with this group, but it was still a little gross. This was apparently some sort of last hurrah with the staff (since it appears that neither of them has any friends). Manny got me a chair and offered me some Doritos and I got an earful during the ensuing gossip-fest. Among the charming tidbits:

That Edwin had to repeat a year of school – must be the family attention span…

That both Bourgeois youngsters have had sex (14 and 15 years old, and they seem very young and sheltered, but I suppose they’re just normal. They expressed genuine surprise and horror at the advanced age I had achieved by the time I unloaded my virginity).

That Pierre came upon Lou Roeberson passed-out-drunk on a couch in the guest-house last week, and had to call Gerry at the house down the road in order to help Lou get upstairs before the sun came up.

That in spite of the fact that Eloise walked in on Edwin, favorite son, having a threesome with two girls last year, she persists in the fear that he might be gay. When I asked Edwin about why that might be, he said, “She freaks out about stupid stuff. Like last night in the car I was listening to my pink iPod and she said to me, ‘Why do you have THAT color?!’ and I was like, ‘Come on, Mom, it’s because this one matches my SHIRT!'" He went on to say, “If I turned out to be gay, she would never, ever forgive me.” To which Roger batted his lashes and said, “Oh yes she would!”

It was all a little too "Miss Julie" for me -- the leering adult servants, the haughty nubile charges -- so I went to bed. And there you have it. Who knew a pink iPod could evince such a fear in the heart of a homophobic mom. God knows what she would think of Marlene sitting on the lap of her 31-year-old security guard.

Anyway. The Principessa del' [major European country] arrives next week when Eloise returns and I'm sure I'll have more for you then. Otherwise...lots of love. Really, really looking forward to coming back to earth.

xo,

K. Lo-Cho

Bonus Chapter: [Petty] Thievery

2008-08-21T09:44:00.017-04:00

from: iamaseagull@aol.com
to: ameryka@freecity.net

subj: Confessing (no absolution needed)

Hey city-dweller.

Sucks that my cell phone provider is so pathetic out here, you sounded like your were talking through a tissue. But this missive is an exclusive for you, one I know you'll appreciate given your own deeply acquisitive nature.

So...yesterday I was so bored -- no one wanted Pilates and Edwin the Scion is getting ready to leave for China (with Jonas the Hugh Grant-esque Personal Protection Officer, which as I told you I am rawther sad about). I so had nothing to do that I wandered into the kitchen to ask Manny the cook if I could help him chop vegetables, which I actually didn't think was such a ridiculous proposition. But he laughed at me and said, “Are you that bored?” and I said, “Yes, give me something to DO, ANYTHING,” and he said “I could SO twist that into something dirty,” (because everything I say gets twisted into something filthy by these English laddy messes). He shooed me away and has been teasing me ever since about how mine is the best job in the whole place, and he isn’t wrong; but really, for me, feeling useless is as bad as being too busy. I went to the beach without sun-screen (it was completely overcast) and got my first sunburn of the summer. Possibly punishment for what follows: Your Friend is a Felon.

I know you'll withhold judgment because your own youth was so replete with shoplifting exploits that you practically inspired this last escapade...(of course, my "youth" is technically passed, but puella aeterna seems to be prevailing these days...).

Anyway. As I think I told you, Edwin the Redheaded Teenage Menace (a.k.a. my bathroom-mate) has an amazing collection of ultra-fancy unguents for the skin, including a 2-ounce jar of this "cosmoceutical" face cream with "bioactive" aloe, sea kelp, shea butter, etc., that he keeps in the chest of drawers in which we both store toiletries...ah, the pleasures of sharing a bathroom with a teenaged boy. And my skin so adores this sea-kelp emollient. (Did you think I wouldn't use it?).

And because I know about these things, I happen to know it costs $150. Beyond my ken to spend this kind of money on that kind of thing, which is admittedly an arbitrary thing to choose not to spend money on -- especially since I am, in theory, an actress, and should therefore care about being "camera-ready" at any time and therefore, you'd think, would spare no expense on my skin; but there you are, and here I am.

So on one of Edwin's recent overnighters to New York, I noticed that he had, curiously, *left behind* this particular jar of creamy goodness, of which I had grown so fond -- for some reason it hadn't made the cut when he was packing his suitcase. And it occurred to me that if he hadn't needed to take that jar of cream with him to New York City, then maybe he *also* wouldn't need it in China. And so, when he returned to ________Hampton --a brief touch-down, he merely came back to pack his bags before leaving with Jonas for good -- I tried to steal it.

I had to be careful, because now that I have been moved to the guest-house, I have no business being anywhere near my old digs on the fourth floor of the main house. But there was lots of chaos, what with the maids racing up and down the stairs packing his bags. I just wandered upstairs with my new straw beach bag casually hanging off my shoulder, planning to tell anyone who stopped me that I had left my blow-drier diffuser in that bathroom which I used to share with Edwin, which was true (although it is also true that I have never, not once, bothered to dry my hair with a blow-drier this summer).

I grabbed my diffuser, and the precious jar of kelpy goo, and quietly, casually slipped back down the stairs with my quarry burning a hole in my bag.

And then I went to my room in the guest house with my walkie-talkie on, the volume cranked up to eleven, and listened to the goings-on in the main house. The maids rushing around. Eloise's commands, Roger's "Right-away-Madame"s. I waited in my room, sitting on the edge of my bed. Completely tense. I was having an attack of sweat and palpitations. Every time the walkie-talkie crackled I thought I would hear Edwin's adenoidal voice saying "HEY, WHERE'S MY MOISTURIZER???"'

This occurred to me: if anything goes missing in that house -- even crap like face cream -- the maids would be accused of stealing it. I couldn't bear to think of anyone getting in trouble on my account, let alone fired, and have that be on my conscience. I actually love the maids; particularly Luisa, who confessed to me yesterday (while I was neatening up the exercise studio and she was vacuuming it) that she just found out she is pregnant, and could I please please keep it a secret and not let Roger or Eloise or anyone know because she would lose her job but she is just so happy because all she ever ever ever wanted in life was her husband's baby....oh, it was touching. You would have thought she was my best friend, I practically cried and gave her an enormous hug.

So after a good twenty minutes of this terrible heart-pounding perspiration and guilt -- Edwin and Jonas still very much on the property, now playing one last game of tennis -- I got up with a clear(er) conscience, slung my straw bag back over my shoulder, traipsed my ass back down the path to the main house, up to the fourth floor bathroom, and... put that yummy face cream back in the drawer.

There was still time for Edwin to remember it and pack it if he really wanted to haul that shit with him to China. Jonas would make fun of him, but a committed beauty queen would find a way.

However...

When I put the jar back, I accidentally on-purpose put it in a different drawer than the one I had taken it from. And I put it all the way in the back of that drawer so that only someone who was reeeeeeeally committed to their skin care regimen would find it. Because (I reasoned) if I were packing for a long trip and wanted to take my fancy lotion, I would make it my business to ask my maid for it very specifically or even to pack it myself, and if I couldn't find it, I would look for it: therefore, if Edwin really needed his shea butter, he would search that chiffarobe until he'd found it. Of course, this is a poor justification for my behavior and it is also faulty logic: Edwin and I most certainly have different ideas about packing bags and keeping track of our things, and very different views on the subject of property, since he grew up with maids and I... didn't. It would never even occur to Edwin a) that any staff member would ever steal anything, or b) that face cream was worth coveting.

And after the bags were packed and goodbyes were said -- Jonas gave me the briefest of hugs in the staff kitchen, everyone was there but it was hardly enough of an acknowledgment of the good times we'd never spent -- I mean, who knows when, if, I'll ever see him again? -- after the two-person Merc had slid down the driveway and out the gates, bearing Edwin and Jonas onto the open road, followed by Domingo in the cow-sized SUV with Eloise in the back seat yammering away on her celly, after Mme. Bourgeois and Bertrand had been dispatched for their afternoon naps and Roger and Pierre had flopped onto couches in the guest-house with icy drinks in tall glasses and the house was quiet quiet quiet ("Cherry Orchard" time again)...

...this mean, nasty piece of baggage (um, moi) quietly crept back up the stairs to Edwin's and my formerly-shared bathroom, and slid open the now-considerably-emptier drawers in our formerly-shared dresser to see if it was still there....

...and there it was, a frosty glass jar filled with frothy white fats, right where I'd put it, in the back of the wrong drawer (along with a whole mess of other fancy creams with bio-active ingredients that he'd left behind to go bad until next summer)...

...and with an easy heart I slid that cargo into my bag and now it is MINE.

This is the depth to which I have sunk. Please know that I would never have taken it if I thought Luisa would really have gotten in trouble, nor would I have taken it if I thought Edwin had actually wanted it, needed it and couldn't afford to buy ten thousand more. I hope you still respect me.

Actually, I don't care if you respect me. My skin looks soooooo pretty.

[buahh haaah haah haah ha!!!]

KL-C

Chapter 15: Fairy Tale

2008-08-08T01:00:00.011-04:00

from: iamaseagull@aol.com

to: momlopez-choi@aol.com, poplopez-choi@aol.com, talktthhand@juno.com, soundengineer@theatrco.org, youngcomposer@mymusic.com, pilatesqueen@pilatesqueen.com, lop-cho@nyc.bb.ss.com, ameryka@freecity.net,
jennifer@bff.org

[...sigh...]

"Once upon a time there was a Pilates instructor.

But really she was a beauuuuuuutiful priiiiinnnncesssssss,
only nobody knew because she was held captive by a Wicked Queen...."

I have come down from the tower.
Well. Sort of; I’ve moved out of the nanny garret in the main house into a servant’s bedroom in the guest-house.

Everyone is moving. After Edwin the Teenaged Scion and his entourage (read: Jonas the Personal Protection Officer), leave on that slow boat (read: private plane) to China, Bertrand the Brain-Damaged Brother and Madame Bourgeois the Forgetful Mother will vacate their luxurious digs in the big rooms of the guest house; Eloise has insisted that they go live in the children’s rooms on the fourth floor of the Main House, essentially hiding her crazy family out of sight and leaving their gorgeous guest-house rooms open for the Principessa del’ [major European country] et famille.

When the Royalty do arrive, I will move (again! because they'll need my room for the royal nanny), to the house down the road, with soon-to-be housemates Gerry the soft-toothed masseur and Didier the bald French personal trainer – where, I fear, I will become the sole audience to bad jokes and old-world sexism…

But in the meanwhile, I am loving my new room…it's totally a step up from the garret: the cheap broken antiques are gone; it's really more like a hotel suite – no more sharing a bathroom, I have my own fancy bathroom with a deeeeep tub. Which makes up for the lack of Edwin's cache of sumptuous toiletries.

Best of all, I have a normal, adult-sized bed (actually it's two twin beds harnessed together by a Queen-sized fitted sheet... but after sleeping on a child's daybed lo these many weeks, why quibble?).

The walls are still covered in chintz; but it's nicer chintz.

It's also very very private. It's tucked away in a "wing" of the guest-house behind the "library." (I'm surprised that there are actually books in the library, no one in this house reads anything except the newspapers -- but they have very nice old leather-bound sets of Balzac etc.)

And the pièce de résistance: I can only get to my rooms via hidden doorways (another clue that it was designed for should-be-invisible servants). That doorway I told you about, the revolving one disguised to look like a bookshelf in the library? leads to a little hall to my room. The other secret door is off of the main hall, artfully disguised with a mirror hanging on a fake hook that splits in two when the door opens..… I'm in my very own Nancy Drew novel, but without the murder: two ways to escape with the Ming vases! or to go off on my forbidden assignation! (not likely)…or to abscond with the fancy face cream (likely…).

I suppose all this privacy is relative; Virginie is in the bedroom suite next door. Our bathrooms share a wall.

And the most interesting thing is that my new guest-housemate -- living upstairs in a sumptuous chintz-covered master suite -- is none other than the famous avant-garde theater director Lou Roeberson*, friend of Eloise Gewurztraminer Bourgeois since before she was an Alcock… he, the idol of my college years, the tall Ar-kansan* (*not really)…he of the slow-moving actors and the flights of fancy, he of the mild case of Aspergers’ and not-so-mild case of alcoholism…

Well. All of that dirt is really just hearsay; I haven’t actually laid my own eyes on the great man since he moved in, since I am awake from 7 until 11, and he is awake and off-site from 11 am until 5 am, when I’m told by the butlers he wanders in and crashes on a couch. This guy’s life is made of art, drinking, partying, insomnia, sweet German-Venezuelan boy assistants…and my life is made of worn out sweatpants and longing.

How did this happen? Where did I go wrong?

*

I went back into the city for the night on Wednesday – I had to get off the compound, went to dinner at Prune and had drinks in a sweaty East Village bar with normal people I love – with sincere promises to Virginie that I would come back on the very first train in the morning.

Which was at 7:50 am.

Of course, in the continuing misadventures of our intrepid Pilates girl, I was so sleepy that I totally conked out on the train, missed the ______Hampton station, and rode all the way to East Hampton.

Now, because I was convinced Eloise was expected back early in the morning from her tryst with Barney Cloverfield in one of the Carolinas, I called Virginie, lied and told her I had just arrived in ______Hampton (to which she said, "Good, come back as queeckly as pohssibuhl," making me think Eloise was back and twiddling her thumbs just waiting for me), and I jumped into a cab to take me the 11 miles down the Montauk “highway” (two lanes, site of the legendary Hamptons traffic) back to ______Hampton. Well, we were halfway down the pike when my cabbie decided to radio her boss for a price – hold onto your hats, folks -- $55 one way.

The train from NYC is $27.

[sidebar: From the cab, as far as I can tell, Easthampton is much nicer than _______Hampton. ________Hampton is very statusy and ostentatiously wealthy – all those groomed shrubs instead of fences! I read an article -- in the unfair, unbalanced Times -- about the neighborly competitive spirit abiding in _______Hampton over the shrubbery – people keep grooming them higher and higher; but the trouble with hedges is that they tend to fall over once they reach twenty feet tall. For me, lately whenever I walk into town I've been feeling like I'm trapped in the maze in "The Shining:” eerily quiet, not a soul, just 20’ green walls, mist and me.

But Easthampton -- which I think actually has more money, not to mention more political clout -- is much more low-key, with fewer shrubs, and less-stately mansions, many of them discreetly tucked away in the woods, off of the main road.

By contrast, ________Hampton is all high-end Madison Avenue boutiques and shiny over-tanned chicks with fake boobs (no wonder Jonas loves driving me into town), which makes me feel sorry for Eloise -- clearly she bought her $35 million property so she would be in the community of old-money Hamptons-ites, but she landed instead among the nouveau Euro-trash.]

Anyway. To make matters MORE humiliating for me, by the time I got back to La Jolie, Jolie Plage, plans had changed: I was informed that Madame would not be back until 4; I could have taken the bus back and no one would have cared or even noticed.

Utterly weakened, I took to my bed (my biiiiiig bed) and stayed there, fitfully napping and reading Epictetus the Stoic until 3:30 when Gerry the masseur (interestingly, all the massage therapists I know in New York detest the word masseur, a word Gerry doesn’t seem to mind; he is so Austin Powers) called me very excited, to tell me my room was all ready at the house down the road and that Didier had bought the kind of chocolate that I liked (we'd had a long discussion on the merits of very dark chocolate). Which is really very, very sweet of them….as irritating as those two are, they make it difficult to justify my irritation (nevertheless, I remain…).

Then Roger called to say that, actually, Madame wouldn't be back until late evening. I could have stayed in the city all day. I fell back asleep, all alone beweeping both my outcast state and the loss of my cab fare. I only emerged for staff meal (keep scrolling for that end of the tale…) and then went back to my blue chintzy lair.

She actually returned at 10:30 pm. Roger and Pierre had already gone to bed, and the maid dismissed for the night. I had accidentally left my radio on and could hear Marlene and Eloise coming into their empty house, calling, "Hello? Anybody home?" and, after no response, Eloise unhappily muttering, "Fine welcome." Did she expect Roger to be waiting up for her with a cold beverage? I got up to shut off my stupid fucking walkie-talkie, and went back to bed, gleefully imagining terrible things happening to them without their stahhff there to fetch things and wipe their asses for them.
☺

And now…oh, so sad. Actually, no; it is with great relief and not a twinge of regret that I announce to you, my beloved friends, that I will NOT be the On-Deck-of-Yacht Pilates instructor to Eloise Gewurztraminer Bourgeois Alcock…

I found out like this:

As you know, I went on this terrible blind date with a yacht-owner/horrible-person-with-no-soul named Jim. He had idly mentioned that he was trying to sell or rent his five-bedroom brand new yacht, or barring that, his older three-bedroom one (I could comment on the prospect of dating a guy who owns not one but two yachts right now, but I won't because that is a different dead-end subplot from the one in which I am currently mired...). And, ever dutiful, I had said, "What a coincidence, my boss is trying to rent a yacht for two weeks in August. Send me the dimensions." Which he did, and which I’d forwarded to Virginie. (This was before our disastrous blind rendez-vous.)

Virginie had been terribly worried last week because every yacht-rental place was booked up for the season -- apparently Madame had waited too long to reserve her rental (because she couldn't make up her dizzy little mind, until the last minute, if she even wanted to go at all). And so I called Virginie's cellphone today to follow up on Diamond Jim's "boat," thinking how deliciously de trop it would be if I were the instrument by which Eloise rented her yacht.

But when I called, Virginie seemed surprised and said, "Oohhhh, Kyra, ze crooze has been cahncelled. Sank you, zough, eez very swit of you to ahsk." And very sweet of you to TELL me the cruise was cancelled when you first found out (I mean, clearly she'd known about this state of affairs for awhile and hadn’t been planning to volunteer the information).

Does this mean I'm staying in the Hamptons through August? (I literally have no idea when this job is ending.)

Well, maybe; but maybe not, because the plot thickens: she was lying. So tonight, at staff dinner -- more wine, rosé, kind of boring, nothing like the Pauillac [sp.?] from three nights ago, but it loosened Roger's lips just the same – we were lingering over the leftover-cheese plate, since Eloise wasn’t expected back till late. I was at one end of the table pretending to pay attention to Didier try to form an English sentence, and trying to spread cold brie on stale baguette; and Virginie and Roger were at the other end, bitching at each other, when I suddenly and clearly heard Roger say, "...and if I have to go on that bloody cruise ---" and then Virginie shushing him. Verrrrry subtle; she may as well have kicked him under the table. I kept my eyes focused on Didier, but my ears were totally pricked up. Roger and Virginie dropped to furious whispering (do they really think people are that oblivious, or that dumb? Well, Gerry and Pierre and the maids didn’t seem to notice a thing) and Virginie finally raised her voice to regular level and said to Roger, with her eyebrows all up in her hairline, "Jhuust keep eet to yourrrrrself."

Which is exactly what she said to me when she told me (prematurely, as it turns out) that I was going on the boat. Roger got up and left the table, wouldn't meet my eye. Nor would Virginie. I smiled at them as guilelessly and sweetly as I could, and said to Didier in French, "I'm sorry, what were you trying to say?" (Ah, revenge on all the snotty Parisians who looked down their noses at my French when I was in Paris!)

So the cruise is not cancelled; I am just not going. I don't really know why, but then, I never really understood why I'd been tapped to go in the first place since I suspect she actually hates Pilates and only does it because her ex-boyfriend Prince Dfghjkl;lj;* of Wales used to do it and now it's fashionable. Her sessions have diminished in length to about 25 minutes on average, and she really only wants me to stretch her. Which is not the point of Pilates [see blog sidebar].

Plus on a yacht there's so little room, who wants to spend square footage on a Pilates machine?

Or maybe she doesn't think I'm "discreet" enough. Which is definitely true; I'm definitely not, but I don't know how she would surmise that from my outward behavior. (I know what you're thinking, she
doesn't read my email; she's dyslexic, plus she's very pressed for time.)

Of course, it's fairly plain that I am having trouble with the protocol of being the "help" – I have no interest in learning how to be a servant, even if it means this job ends early for me.

I don't actually care if she doesn't like Pilates or my teaching; I’ve tried very hard with her, have reached into the deep recesses of my imagination to come up with linguistic images and evocative kinesthetic ideas to help her get it, I have demonstrated exercises, cajoled, used my hands, talked about anatomy and breathing until I am blue, but she is uninterested, doesn’t listen, she’s the most impenetrable student I’ve ever, ever had in eight years of doing this; one might even say she’s unteachable, so her evaluation of my skill means nothing.

Of course it’s possible she just doesn’t like me; in fact Virginie has informed me on more than one occasion that she likes me very much; but since Eloise has made it clear from the beginning that she's not interested in who I am as long as I'm cheerful, and I have been failing at cheerful for the past week especially…well. So much for Becky Sharp, charming her way up the social ladder.

But it doesn't really matter.

Epictetus sez: “Did you not tell me these men were fools and charlatans? Why then should you care about the good opinion of fools and charlatans?”

I guess it's sort of sweet and quaint that Virginie would try to hide my exclusion so my feelings wouldn't be hurt. (Or maybe she was just practicing discretion for its own sake.) But beyond the fact that I've never been on a yacht before, there was nothing (niente, nada, rien) appealing about the prospect of being trapped on the open water with this woman for twelve days while she golfed her way through the various ports of call in the Mediterranean.

What I do mind is that Virginie thought I'd be dumb enough not to notice she was lying. And I mind about the money that Virginie still has not told me I won't be making (because as far as she knows, I don't know that the trip is still on, and am therefore still “reserved” for those two weeks of August when she doesn’t in fact, need my services at all); and that's almost two weeks of work I won't have. It would be nice of them to tell me, so I could find other means of gainful employment. But unless I ask, they'll tell me maybe the day before, leaving me high and dry. All in the name of "discretion," which is a bunch of bull. It's not discretion, it's power; they have more control over the situation the less everyone knows about the complete picture.

And anyway, Eloise's vacation is hardly the stuff of state secrets, or even of gossip columns (I mean, now that I think of it, I suppose I COULD sell to Page Six the juicy, juicy tidbit that Eloise Alcock [everybody all together, "WHO???"] is dating Barney Cloverfield – and NO ONE WOULD CARE).

I suppose I should have enough class to understand that this "keep it to yourself" policy is not a power move, it's just good manners; no one wants the help gossiping amongst themselves or even caring about the goings-on in the life of the Mistress of the house. It's not that we're going to tell her secrets to the tabloids; it's just that we’re meant to ignore them for the sake of her feelings of privacy, because in a household so big it's probably hard for Madame to feel like her private life is her own.

And maybe I feel bad enough about my own shitty life that I just...don’t give a fig about her feelings.

*
[a new day, a new missive…]

A good day, really; a day of sun, no teaching Eloise, more lying on the beach, more wine with dinner, AND I found out I'm getting paid again (it’s quite sad, really, to be grateful for something that's owed to you).

Teaching Madame Bourgeois was not as much fun: today she had no recollection of who I was. Suzette the Nurse and I had to wheedle quite a bit to convince her to do Pilates, mostly because Eloise gets pissed if her mother doesn't exercise. After we got her onto one of the machines, she seemed happy and said, “Well! Whose house is this? We have one just like it in Montreal. Yes, and this porch, and this pool.”

She also kept getting distracted by one of the gardeners' straw hats, kept saying, "I love that hat! Where did she get it?" So at the end of the lesson, we asked the gardener -- who spoke no English at all, but enough to communicate that the hat came from Target -- when all of a sudden, it happened again: Mme. Bourgeois turns to me and says, "Oooo! Bathroom! Quickly!" (as if I could produce a W.C. on demand). I yelled for Suzette, but we were not quick enough – she trailed drops of pee all the way up the porch steps, through the guest house – leaving me holding her Chanel purse and feeling completely helpless and responsible for her petit accident. It was a little heartbreaking. The stylishly-hatted gardener never stopped pruning.

Then I taught crazy Bertrand. I'm back in his good graces, who knows why. He wouldn't speak to me for a few days, because I'd told him his Xenon amulet made me feel weird -- which it does, which I guess means it is doing something (?) -- I keep getting this really bizarro, sharp metallic taste on the back of my tongue every single time I put it on. So I haven't been wearing it.

But today he was back to dispensing advice for my delicate health; he has informed me that drinking beer is very good for a woman's "cycle," so get ready for a kegger upon my return.

Then Didier, who had spent his morning doing elder-cise with Mme. Bourgeois in the pool and was now swimming gorgeous French laps, got out of the water (glistening, glistening) and with no warning lifted me off my feet and dumped me into the chlorine, sweatpants, Danskos, white t-shirt (of course) and all.

Which I appreciated more than I showed.

Final item: How the Staff Discovered That The Walkie-Talkies Do, In Fact, Work: Roger and Pierre have been getting punchy lately and since Eloise is "off campus" so much, they often say things they shouldn't. Today, Madame went off to play tennis with Barney Cloverfield and said she wouldn't be back until late after lunch. The whole staff relaxed; Manny the cook took to his room to watch BBC and Roger and Jonas chased each other around the office with water guns…but at 1 pm, Roger came on radio saying, "All staff, all staff – please get ready now. Marlene has just informed me that Madame is eating lunch at the Sip-n-Soda downtown and could be back at any moment…unfortunately."

And then the radio crackled and we heard Madame's nasally voice quite clearly intone, "WHAT DO YOU MEAN, 'UNFORTUNATELY'?"

Apparently the radio signal is indeed strong enough -- god bless analog technology -- to wend its way all the way from La Jolie Plage, down the road a mile, through the doors of the Sip-n-Soda, into the silk lining of Eloise's new Prada bag. Will Roger be fired for his indiscretion? Stay tuned...

love,
The Little Match Girl

Chapter 14: Buon Giorno, Principessa

2008-07-24T01:36:00.011-04:00

from: iamaseagull@aol.com

to: momlopez-choi@aol.com, poplopez-choi@aol.com, talktthhand@juno.com, soundengineer@theatrco.org, youngcomposer@mymusic.com, pilatesqueen@pilatesqueen.com, lop-cho@nyc.bb.ss.com, ameryka@freecity.net,
jennifer@bff.org

Salut, mes confrères.

After a quiet few days I overheard the following news: that the Principessa del’ [major European country]* -- who is somehow a good friend of Madame’s -- is coming to stay for two weeks, with her husband the Marquess de Mouffetarde* and their two children (and Nanny, bien sur). Not knowing anything about this Princess (literally -- a princess), I googled the Royal Family del’ [major European country] and this is what came up:

Marquess and Marquise of Mouffetarde*:
Principessa Gisela Marianna Eleanora, Dominizia di Silencio y de Bourgogne et Lieblich* is the eldest daughter of the King and Queen of [major European country], Giovanni Friedrich* and Sylvanna*. At the present time she is the second in line for the succession to the Crown, after her brother the Prince of Frangipani*.

She is married with Gianbaptista-Phillipi and is mother of two children: Giannini and Nicoletta.

*

You can hear everything from the staff kitchen if the office door is open. And so it was that, yesterday, I overheard more secrets (no direct information, one must be discreet at all times), a whole conversation between Virginie and Jonas. They were talking about me, about how I may have to move to the guest house when these Royal Mouffettardes arrive. There was no mention of asking me (why would there be?), or even of letting me know. Not five minutes after overhearing this sinister plot, I nonchalantly strolled into ze offus and very innocently asked what was up. Not a peep from anyone. (Et tu, Jonas?)

Now…let it be said that I don’t actually mind moving, not at all. The guest house is lovely, the rooms for staff nicer than the one I’m staying in, though not as secluded. But if I am to move, it would be nice to be told directly. So I could start to pack. And not do it in a rush, on command.

But then, this morning, Gerry (the annoying masseur with the brown buck teeth) said to me, “So, Kyra, I hear you’re going to be our roommate. Virginie asked me today to get some towels and sheets ready for you.”

And I said, “Excuse me?” Apparently it’s been decided that I’m to move NOT to the guest-house, but to the house down the road – exiled from paradise! – in with Gerry and Didier. So much for it being “inappropriate” for an unmarried woman to live with two married old codgers. Maybe they’ve just decided I’m a tart who doesn’t need so much protecting.

Ten minutes later I bumped into Virginie in the hedgerow. She looked distracted, like she was on her way to make an “important” call for Eloise, but I stopped her and said, “So, am I supposed to move?” and she said “Eeeeuuuh, oui, as soon as possibhullle,” as if I’d been delaying the proceedings, as if this was something we’d been talking about for weeks. I mean…was I supposed to somehow intuit, and then organize, my own move? Or would they have just moved me out without telling me? I fully expect to come back from teaching later to find my room stripped and Roger telling me, “Oh, hello, Kyra, you’re not sleeping here tonight...”

If I hadn’t dug it out of Manny the Cook, I wouldn’t even know it’s because the Principessa’s children need to stay in the upstairs rooms of the main house with their nanny and body guards. (She and the Marquess will be staying in the palatial upstairs rooms in the guest-house). Now, I knew I was staying in a nursery – I should get a digital photo and email it to you all so you can see just how twee it is – but WHAT is the deal with aristocrats needing to be put as far away from their children as possible? They could easily be mistaken for early kibbutzniks – on those Israeli farms, as late as the 70s it used to be that the child care was a collective endeavor, like gardening: the responsibility of the whole community. So people didn’t live in nuclear family units; the children slept dorm-style separated from their parents. Who knew that Royalty had this in common with socialist radical secular Jewish farmers?

Meanwhile, one day last week I was teaching Eloise – this was the day after she’d left her mother, brother and two kids in the middle of lunch and took off in a heli to have a tryst god knows where with her manfriend Barney Cloverfield [the famous tv talk show host] – as she watched her spoiled brat daughter leave the exercise room, she said, “She’s a good girl.” And I made some generic compliment, “Your kids are so great, so [blah blah blah, I don’t know what I was saying, I was babbling], you’re so lucky.” And she shook her head and looked at me pityingly and said, “It’s not luck. It’s because I was there for them.”

And I’m sure from her point of view she was the most hands-on mother she’d ever seen, but personally, I’ve never seen children display such dislike for, or non-attachment to, a parent, nor a parent so obsessed with her own desires that she treats her children (like she treats everyone around her) like little toy soldiers she can summon and then put back in their boxes when she’s done playing with them. She has so little contact with her kids; even on this short holiday that they’re together, she’s usually off “working” or at a meeting or at a dinner or off at golf or off…somewhere. During the year the kids live at boarding schools and the rest of the time live with their father in Paris or London. Eloise sees them for a couple of weeks in the summer. “There” for her children…? I mean, they are very well taken care of financially, but it’s a chilly family atmosphere.

Then again, they are teenagers.

Anyway. Not my business.

I should also say that I’m relatively delighted to be moving into the house down the road. While Gerry is not my favorite person, and while I won’t be right on the ocean at sunset, frankly I’m a bit sick of living here like an unwanted guest. I usually feel underfoot, a curious feeling when there’s so much room. I get the distinct impression they would rather I just stayed in my garret if I’m not in the exercise room.

It took me two weeks, but I finally figured out that if Madame is not in her house (and she usually isn’t), she can’t see over the hedge to the main-house pool. (For some reason she herself prefers to hang out only by the guest-house pool.) The main-house pool is gorgeous, dark blue tiles, cleaned daily as if someone other than the Pilates teacher were actually going to use it, there are always fresh towels, water bottles, sunscreen, and a sort of Bedouin (?) -style tent (by way of pottery barn) at one end, should one require shade…but most importantly, NO ONE ever goes inside that gate. I'm even more invisible there than I am in my garret, which is pleasing to everyone. Unsurprisingly, I’ve been spending more time there. (Why does one need a pool -- two pools -- when living spitting distance from the ocean? I have no idea...but it's easier to get to than going out the front gate to get to the beach...).

No one else on staff comes there, no children, no dogs. And the last few days, for some reason, I've been completely idle. The other day I waited around all day – they went to NY, told me they’d be back at 4 and could we please all be there for exercise, and Didier and I were bored all day and totally ready at 4; but when they returned (at 7) they didn’t want anything except dinner. And the day before, for some reason no one wanted Pilates except for Edwin the Younger (as I’ve taken to calling the son).

Edwin, as I’ve mentioned, is preparing to go to China on a "cultural tour" for his 16th birthday with Jonas as “chaperone” (I really question the wisdom of that decision, given that Jonas is the staff-member most likely to get him laid, but maybe that's the point...), and neither of them are coming back all summer. Which is sad. I like Jonas, and Edwin… is the only kid of the three who actually likes Pilates.

Oh, who am I kidding. I’m going to miss Edwin because he has this incredible line of expensive moisturizer made with kelp that is so good to my skin and which I can’t afford. And since we share a bathroom, I’ve been using these lovely skin creams of his every night, and my zits are almost all gone. And now he’s leaving and I can’t afford fucking Susan Ciminelli "cosmoceuticals" (or whatever they’re called), that stuff is in the neighborhood of $150 for a 2-ounce jar of goo.

And speaking of toiletry-poaching…last week I came upon a little red bag lying around in the sauna room, tucked onto a shelf next to the fluffy towel pile. I peeked; it was filled with brand new unopened jars and bottles of moisturizer and really good makeup and sun cream. None of which I can sample -- not because of my integrity, but because I'd get caught -- it's all completely unused, none of the seals have been broken. (Sorry to reveal this aspect of my character, Mom and Dad. At least I’m not tempted by jewelry.) I asked Paola what it was doing there and she said Eloise’s makeup artist (!) fills those bags for her with her personal colors and leaves them in all the bathrooms – never know when you’ll need a touch-up…

Anyway. So I've had three days of sitting around – a beautiful concept, except I couldn't really relax because at any minute the radio could crackle and I’d be told either to get the hell away from the swimming pool, or to get up do some bloody work. I’m very conscious of the fact that the rest of the staff, Gerry and Didier included, are running around like crazy all day, and I am a lazy bum doing nothing except reading and writing and walking on the beach. I feel little flashes of resentment coming at me from Roger and the maids, even though I have made it clear that I’m available to sit by the phones, or do whatever, if they need a break; they always say no.

So yeah, I'm getting paid for doing nothing. (Although, you know, it could be many weeks before I get paid again…) I have never felt so useless. It's frustrating to sit there and think of all the things I could be doing back home in my real life; but I know that actually, I have no real life in New York. I have friends, it's true, but my days would mostly consist of running around, frustrated, trying so hard, and often failing, to get auditions, paying to meet casting directors, doing everything possible to get into some show, probably bad, that I didn't write, pretending to be someone else's version of a person, throwing energy at someone else's vision, just so I could feel a part of something. Which is what I'm doing here, playing the part of Eloise's Pilates Teacher. What's the difference? EIther way I'm someone's stand-in, going where someone else tells me, when they tell me to. Is that really what's meant by "work"? Why did I want to be an actress in the first place? How is it any better or any different from living in any other world I didn't create?

***

Tonight, after finding out that no helicopters would be taking off tomorrow due to inclement weather, Eloise spontaneously decided to fly to NY for two more days. At six, she told Roger to make an 8:30 pool-side reservation for dinner at the Soho House (in her new NYC neighborhood, the so-trendy-it's-not-cool-anymore Meatpacking District, near her currently-being-custom-built Richard Meier apt. Aren’t you sick of this yet? I kind of am…)

Didier has been promoted to wine steward. (In addition to personal training, not instead of.) Apparently in France, even the gym teachers (which is what Didier is back home, he coaches rugby for a lycée) have refined palates of superior quality. So tonight, with Eloise flown the coop, Didier the sommelier decided he had to sample a couple of bottles he was thinking of buying for Eloise’s cellar. Virginie is his crony; so we had wine with dinner. .. and the Ever-Discreet Virginie let it all out over the cheese course that -- according to Joseph Brunelleschi the wealth manager (now safely returned to the city, where he belongs, with his natty suits) -- Eloise is spending money far faster than she’s bringing it in. No surprise, really; every time she flies in a private jet, which they rent, it costs $100,000. Which is obscene when I consider that the reason it takes so long for anyone in this house to get paid is that she just “doesn’t have the time” to sign the checks for the staff. Because she’s golfing. Because this is her vacation and who wants to do pesky, work-y things like signing papers? Even if those papers happen to be money orders for the people facilitating said vacation?

Gross.

And, if she’s crying po’, why is she renting a yacht for August?

But then, it helps to remember that this is a woman who, during her tenure for Simonet, di Christophle* (the art auction house), her mandate was to get them out of debt – which she did by selling off a Klimt. The gallery was furious and her boyfriend (her luvvah), M. De Christophle*, had to fire her. (Maybe because no one with any taste would sell off a precious Klimt as a money-making venture? Because it’s like selling your family heirlooms in order to pay the rent? Or maybe because it was a financially unsound decision, since she sold it before the market had peaked on Klimts?)

Anyway, if she runs out of money, she can always sell…something. And – interestingly – it wasn't until after this auction-house boyfriend dumped her that she started getting interested in art and bought her first glossy art magazine-imprint. Which I think is a funny/pathetic/obvious career-change-as-revenge...

It’s been a week of revelations; snooping around ze offus I found a copy of Madame’s press release. All evidence to the contrary, Eloise is actually quite smart: according to the bio in her press kit, she went to Harvard Business School, the which credit has really thrown me for a loop. I’ve been comforting myself with the fact that above all, Eloise is no intellectual giant, plus she has dyslexia and zero ability to focus intently on one thing. How, how HOW did she complete course work for an MBA, let alone her application to Harvard? I know B-school is mostly about the schmooze, but still. Any non-rich person of her limited intellectual capacity wouldn’t have even gotten in because they don’t have her money. Which sort of knocks Harvard’s rep for supposedly being a bastion of meritocratic elitism. It’s just plain status they’re after.

Why is this so crushing?
Why should I be surprised?
Shouldn’t I know this stuff by now?

Honestly, it doesn’t matter.
I really don’t care.
As long as she pays me.

Bitterer and bitterer -- but very very tan --

yours,
K.Lo

Bonus Chapter: Blindly Dating

2008-07-22T11:08:00.008-04:00

from: iamaseagull@aol.com
to: momlopez-choi@aol.com, poplopez-choi@aol.com

Hello there –

Just a quick one today; you’ll be delighted to know that Eloise finally coughed up some money – I walked into town with the express purpose of checking my balance at an ATM and lo, there was the $6,000 she’s accumulated in my services. I know that sounds like a lot of money, but it’s pretty much gone now: I’ve been living on fumes and the bills have been piling up, so I spent the afternoon writing checks to Visa, and Cingular, and my voice teacher. Then I went to the grocery store and bought more green veg. I saved a little, because god knows how long I’ll have to wait before getting paid again; I hope you're very proud.

Had my blind date, went fine (went nowhere, don’t ask me anything). It’s been quiet. Will update soon.

Love you so much,

K

***

from: iamaseagull@aol.com
to: jennifer@bff.org
subj: Re: *Who* exactly have you set me up with?

jesus christ, Jenny. WHERE did you meet this guy? And WHAT MADE YOU THINK I WOULD LIKE HIM?!?!

***

from: jennifer@bff.org
to: iamaseagull@aol.com
subj: Re: Re: *Who* exactly have you set me up with?

Oh God. What happened? Remember that Jim is not MY friend, he’s Gecko-Boy’s friend… and I think my boyfriend just thought you were pretty and his poor old friend Jim was lonely in the Hamptons.

***

from: iamaseagull@aol.com
to: jennifer@bff.org
subj: Re: Re: Re: *Who* exactly have you set me up with?

Well, I can see why he’s lonely. He’s the biggest asshole alive. No wonder he’s been single for a long time. Jenny, he YELLED at me. By the end of the evening we were not speaking to each other. I know you’re thinking that this must be my fault, but I SWEAR to you, I wasn’t the one who brought up politics.

But I’m getting ahead of myself; let me begin at the beginning. So first of all he picks me up in a ginorm’ SUV (after those horrible emails when he kept trying to get me to meet him places after I twice told him I didn’t have a car). And he didn’t seem at all pleased to meet me, mildly annoyed when he drove up, said not a word about Eloise’s house, which I don’t take personally, it’s just – she has a gate that opens automatically and her house has a dumb name on a sign with special lighting; certainly a conversation-starter, at the very least. And it’s right on the ocean. Even from a yacht-owning, Troye-partying entrepreneur that should garner some kind of a comment. Not this guy, no way was he going to reveal that he was impressed with anything.

Least of all with me. For the record, I did not look ugly, and I was wearing something new and floaty and light blue with jeans and sandals. Looking back on how the rest of the date went, he probably thought I looked like a flower child. Little does he know that those shoes came from a quirky, overpriced Williamsburg boutique and that curly hair requires copious amounts of costly anti-frizz when living by the water; that’s one expensive fucking hippie.

But I am sure Diamond Jim was hoping for a tall high-end shiny-haired blond with a blow-out, the kind with skinny high heels and an aggressive Brazilian and a $1500 hand-bag. Like those girls on the Jitney who travel out here every summer specifically to meet guys like him, the kind of girl who will kiss alpha-male ass if he’ll only throw a kind word, and "$50 for the powder room", in her general direction.

Not I, said the fly.

Anyway. We went to this cute bar/restaurant that I’ve been to on my very occasional outings with Gerry and Didier, and the staff knows me a little there, which seemed, oddly, to mollify pouty Jim. And everything started rather innocuously... I asked him what he did (as we do here in America...maybe I should have pretended to be European and avoided the taboo topic of profession, which implies money as a subject matter, very gauche. God, I’m still all worked up.)

He answered that he “was into a lot of things with his brother,” (what does that mean??) but that lately he had been collecting art. I thought, “Fabulous, maybe Dave DID have a reason for hooking us up,” and so I chirped, “Oh, both my parents are artists!”

But Jim actually wasn’t interested in that, or maybe he was just pissed that I’d interrupted. (Sidebar: oddly, coincidentally, Eloise, who has devoted herself to championing art and artists, *also* doesn’t seem to care that both of my parents are artists! But I’m forgetting that Eloise tends to shower attention only on famous artists who already have a significant international following. It isn’t art she loves, it’s fame and notoriety and art-as-a-conduit-for-glamour. Oh, it makes me want to vomit green slime). Anyway, when I asked him who his favorite artist was, his exact words were, “I’ve been buying a lot of Cindy Sherman lately.”

Totally cool; I think Cindy Sherman is totally fascinating. I said, “Interesting. So what do you love about her stuff?” And he said – I kid you not – “I find that question a little naive. You don’t buy Cindy Shermans because you like her stuff, you buy it because it’s really hot right now. I’ll be able to flip them for double what I paid in less than four months, that’s how fast the market is moving now.”

So he never actually answered my question. I don’t think he actually likes art at all, he just likes that it’s a new market, a trendy, “hot” market.

As if the world was one big shopping mall.
As if art didn’t exist to be a balm to the soul,
or to challenge assumptions,
or to distill the best, the essence, the purest bits from the ever-deepening trenches of proverbial crap we wade through every day.
As if art were only useful for its business potential, only made to be sold to the highest bidder.

(I suppose even Michelangelo painted for money from the Church, not exactly a pure endeavor. Why am I so naïve?)

I haven’t even gotten to the good part yet: we started talking about health insurance. And how did we get there, you ask? Well... He mentioned that he’d been traveling, and I asked where and he said France. I got excited again (slow learner) and I asked how’d he liked it, with that blissful annoying “I heart Paris” look in my eye that I know you hate.

And he said, “Actually, I think Paris is over. Europe is actually dying. China is where it’s at.”
And I said, “I’ve never been to China [and you know I long to travel] but, um, in what way is Europe dying?”
And he said, “Well, the economy isn’t growing.” Oh.
And I said, “Wait just one little minute. Is that the only measure of a country’s vitality? What about quality of life?”
And he goes, “Yeah, quality of life, whatever, people over there hardly WORK, they go on strike when they don’t get what they want and they’re taxed to their tits.”
And I said, -- out of my mouth before I could stop it – “You sound like you work for Fox news.”

(I’m sorry; I know, I’m a blind date failure. But I JUST couldn’t help it. Everything, but EVERYTHING out of his mouth was a sound-bite from Sean Hannity’s lips. He wasn’t even trying to be original. I am NOT MAKING ANY OF THIS UP, I thought maybe all my expectations about conservatives were clichés, but then he went and fulfilled every single one.)

So he goes, “Actually, I don’t mind Fox news. Like, you probably read the New York Times, which claims to be fair and balanced, but at least Fox acknowledges its bias.” (I mean, wasn’t this argument in an op-ed last week?) “And Fox ends up being even more fair and balanced than the Times anyway, which only liberals read.” Oh, the shame of being a weak liberal is suddenly more than I can bear…

This was clearly a conversational dead end, so I tried to bring things back around to Paris, where the esthetic pleasures are undeniable, but he was completely unmoved by them; clearly, this man was brought up in a barn. Frankly, when I think about travel it's true I don’t want to talk about growth industries and robust commodities markets. As far as Paris goes, I was talking about de la Tour and cobblestones and cous-cous and croissants and cafe crème, about the Seine and Ravel, about little churches with doves flying through them and quirky French hip-hop and the hammam in the 5th arrondissement and CHEESE. And free health care. And I guess I said that part out loud…and he goes, “What is the big deal with liberals and free health insurance? You have a job!”

And we were off. I said “I know I have a job, but lots of people don’t, and anyway, this job doesn’t carry a health plan,” (maybe since Eloise the capitalist is Canadian and most of her employees are protected by the socialized medicine guaranteed by their non-American passports) and went on to explain, perhaps needlessly, that I had run out of my free Actors Equity insurance, and the Cobra plan costs $400 a month, which I find exorbitant. And he says, “Yeah, I guess it is tough to buy good insurance.” I thought I’d actually scored a point -- and then he goes: “But what if but you could buy something else? Like, if I were in charge, I would make a universal health insurance for like... $70 a week." Such a magnanimous King. I asked him what about the people who could barely afford shoes, let alone $70 a week; he had no response. Then I pointed out that even for me, $70 a week isn’t cheap; that’s $280 a month, pretty much a choice between voice lessons, health insurance or paying off credit card debt.

And he goes, “Not my problem, you’ve chosen to be an actress. Don’t make my tax dollars responsible for your choices. And why do you keep pursuing acting when it doesn’t seem to want you, anyway? I mean, clearly you’re a good Pilates teacher, your boss sounds really successful, you’re working a really high-end gig, why not go in that direction?”

And let’s say for the record that he’s right: that I am talentless, and irresponsible, and a drain on society and probably lazy to boot; let’s say that I never went to drama school or this was what I thought I was supposed to do with my life because I love it; is this how you speak to a someone you’ve just met? And isn’t the point of dating for it to one day, eventually, possibly culminate in at least sex? This is not how you speak to someone whose pants you might want into. (Not that I would have ever, ever, ever, anyway, gross.)

And what is with this perception that I’m somehow a successful teacher if I’m working for someone who is wealthy? And I love that he thinks Eloise is “successful” just because she’s rich and has that house; he doesn’t know who she is or what she does if any of her projects have ever been effective in the world.

But frankly, all of this I would have been able to overlook eventually: we all have opinions, I just happen to hate all of his, but that’s not his problem, so fine -- horrified though I was, I was planning on chalking this up to “rehearsal dating” and thanking your boyfriend the Gecko for the attempt and telling him that Jim and I “just weren’t a good fit” because clearly, unsurprisingly, I don’t belong anywhere near a conservative republican…

But then... he told me about his dog. Which is (big surprise here) a Doberman. I guess my eyebrows went up, because he said, “No, come on, he’s not bad. I only had to beat him once.”

I choked on my drink but managed to say, “I’m sorry, did you say you beat your dog? Are you joking?”
And he goes, “Yeah, no, it wasn’t such a big deal, I have this amazing navy blue suede couch and one day he got into it [that was his phrasing, “got into it” – can’t imagine what happens when a Doberman “gets into” a blue suede couch, but I’m picturing lots of stuffing], so I had to beat him.”

I was completely silent; and then I’m ashamed to admit that the only thing I could think of to say in the moment was “…with your hands?”

And he goes, “Nah, come on, you can’t beat a dog with your hands because then they’re afraid of your hands. I used my belt. Then I had to replace the couch. $8,000 down the drain.”

Well. That’s about >00001% of the Cindy Sherman that he’ll be selling next month.

I have to say…there’s part of me that thinks this couldn’t have been real, that this guy was just making shit up, that he saw me and within two seconds decided he didn’t think I was good enough for him, not hot enough, not powerful enough, not something enough, and just said a bunch of the most offensive stuff he could think of, as abusively as possible, to get me to end the date early. Which I did; I asked him to take me back; which he did, in silence. We barely managed to say goodnight.

Now…I know you and Dave just started dating, but if this is what his friends are like, I really think you should ask him about his politics before you have any more kissing lessons. (You haven’t slept with him yet, have you? Make sure he’s had a check-up recently, I don’t trust him any more. Eliot Gecko Spitzer is now on my shit list.)

Somewhere between the passive aggression of the Pacific Northwest males we encountered in school and the hyper-aggression of the dog-beating Northeast Alpha asshole, isn’t there some date-able middle ground?

Maybe in Illinois.

love,
the weakest, liberalest bra-burning-est hippie in the Hamptons...

Chapter 13: Nunnery

2008-07-07T23:36:00.010-04:00

from: iamaseagull@aol.com
to: jennifer@bff.org
subj: *Who* exactly have you set me up with?

I’m forwarding you the whole thing.
Keep scrolling, please.

K

**************

[begin forwarded message]:

from: Jamesinbusiness@thestreeter.com
to: iamaseagull@aol.com

Kyra,

Hi, I'm that guy from NYC that my buddy David probably mentioned to you. I guess you’re living out in the Hamptons for the summer. I keep my boat out there and head out almost every weekend. Let me know if you'd like to grab a drink out East or sometime in the City.

Jim

sent from wireless device

*
from: iamaseagull@aol.com
to: Jamesinbusiness@thestreeter.com

Hey Jim,

Nice to hear from you….yes, your friend David (who is dating my best friend) apparently thinks it would be a good idea for you and I to meet. ☺ Which Hampton are you in? Give me a call and we can work out where & when.

See you soon,
Kyra
917-726-5780

P.S.
Are you really looking for a renter for your yacht? This may be a little bizarre, but I just found out my boss is trying to rent one for August...

*

from: Jamesinbusiness@thestreeter.com
to: iamaseagull@aol.com

Hi there.

Yes, Dave is a buddy of mine from Yale. I’m in East________ for the summers. A bunch of us are going to Troye* tonight. Why don’t I just meet you there?

And yes, I am still looking for a renter for my yacht. It’s in a slip a little further East, it sleeps six comfortably. Why don’t you send me her email and I’ll write to her with the dimensions.

J

sent from wireless device

*

from: iamaseagull@aol.com
to: Jamesinbusiness@thestreeter.com

Jim --

Excuse my ignorance, but…what’s Troye? (I’m sorry, is that a club? Clearly I’ve been living practically in a cloister so far this summer, by a walkie-talkie -- will explain later...it’s quite a story). Listen, I’d love to come, but I don’t really have access to a car. Would you mind picking me up?

Kyra

P.S. Here is the email for my boss Eloise’s personal assistant. Eloise won’t answer an email if she doesn’t know the person who sent it. Sorry. virginie@emgalifeandartholdingco.ltd.com

*

from: Jamesinbusiness@thestreeter.com
to: iamaseagull@aol.com

Hey,

Thanks for the assistant’s email; no worries about your boss, I usually delete any email if I don’t recognize the sender, too. I actually almost deleted your first one but Dave told me you were pretty cute so I rescued it from the spam folder.

Yeah, Troye is a club in the city and they just opened a branch in East _______; I’m there every weekend pretty much, it has great bottle service, very hot. You could cab it, it probably won’t be more than forty bucks. See you later.

J

sent from wireless device

*

from: iamaseagull@aol.com
to: Jamesinbusiness@thestreeter.com

Um, Jim – just tried to leave you a voicemail.

Sorry, but I didn’t realize how difficult it would be to get a cab in the Hamptons on a Saturday night – I’ve just been told it’ll be an hour or more before they can pick me up. It’s 10 pm right now and I haven’t heard from you; given that I have to be up and teaching at 7 am (right, I work Sundays), this probably isn’t such a good idea. Give me a call during the week and maybe we can go have a drink at this great place I know down the road from me.

Have fun tonight,
K
917-726-5780

*

from: Jamesinbusiness@thestreeter.com
to: iamaseagull@aol.com

Hi K,

Too bad it didn’t work out for you the other night. It was definitely good times (maybe too good, I’m still recovering two days later). I still can’t believe you haven’t been clubbing out here, it’s quite the scene. What about Thursday night at Red’s in ______Hampton? Let’s meet there.

J

sent from wireless device

*

from: iamaseagull@aol.com
to: Jamesinbusiness@thestreeter.com

Jim.

Would love to. But -- I really don’t have access to a car, and to be completely honest, I don’t want to spend $40 on cabs, so unless you want me to bike there, be a gentleman and pick me up in your car at the amazing domicile of Eloise Gewurztraminer Bourgeois Alcock, 30 Brandywine Way.
:)
I don’t know exactly what Dave told you about me, but I am, in fact, very cute and totally worth the gas in your SUV, plus I’m very bright and (I promise) can hold intelligent conversation about all sorts of things.

See you later.
K

[end forwarded message}

****************

from: jennifer@bff.org
to: iamaseagull@aol.com
subj: Re: *Who* exactly have you set me up with?

Dude. I'm dying. Did he write back? WHAT HAPPENED?

I have to say, that was a very strongly worded email you sent him, and I think you’re being a little reactionary: he’s just treating you like those guys treat chicks. He probably thinks you’re a party girl because every one else he knows is. Just go have a drink with him. Do you have anything better to do other than hang out with gay butlers? And why can’t Jonas drop you off?

*

from: iamaseagull@aol.com
to: jennifer@bff.org
Subject: Re: Re: *Who* exactly have you set me up with?

No, no, you're right. I should be *grateful*. Beggars/choosers, and all that. Thank GOD someone asked me out this summer.
Lucky, lucky me.

SERIOUSLY?? Jonas is not going to drive me to meet a guy. I would never even ask.
& would you be excited by the prospect of cabbing it to go meet some guy at a club where he goes out with his boyz every Saturday? (Didn't think so.)

Is he trying to make me feel bad because I didn’t go to an Ivy, or don’t make enough money for bottle service? Or have you set me up with a total frat guy? I’m creeped out and don’t want to go out with him at all.

Love,
Your dumb friend

*

from: jennifer@bff.org
to: iamaseagull@aol.com
Subject:Re: Re: Re: *Who* exactly have you set me up with?

K – Sorry. But you do have to go. Dave swears Jim is a serious person, and is actually looking to get married (all evidence to the contrary), he’s been single for a long time and Gecko swears up and down that he’s a really nice guy. And yes, it’s true that you’re just a little more stupid than the rest of us who went to an Ivy ;) Now go puke. I know you want to.

Your bff.

P.S. Gecko-Boy is becoming a much, much better kisser – I’ve been making him practice.

*******************

from: iamaseagull@aol.com

to: momlopez-choi@aol.com, poplopez-choi@aol.com, talktthhand@juno.com, soundengineer@theatrco.org, youngcomposer@mymusic.com, pilatesqueen@pilatesqueen.com, lop-cho@nyc.bb.ss.com, ameryka@freecity.net,
jennifer@bff.org

The gardeners came again today, and not a moment too soon to please Eloise (and it should be said that they have been here practically every other day to address minute problems in the garden, which was designed by someone on the “team” of the chintz-loving society decorator Duchess Albinoni-Barrington*). They have replanted flowers in their prime; they have re-topiaried the topiary. The never-short-enough-grass has received a crew cut. I still don’t understand why, grass is so pretty when it’s not poking you in the feet. But I think it must be a status symbol, as in: really short grass implies that you can pay to have someone else cut it for you, often.

Today I stopped in to see Virginie, ever-svamped in ze offus at the bottom of the stairs. The primary “work” right now in said offus seems to be rearranging it. It still isn’t clear to me what actual work gets done there. The only time I see Virginie is at meals, or when I “follow up” with her about being paid (like today), which is always answered by her telling me (again) to just be sure to make out an invoice for my first pay period so that poor Plascina (the one Jonas & butlers call Placenta) the London-office manager can process it. Then she said, “and Kyrrrrrra, mahke surrrrrre to be discrrrrrreet about this yakht beezness, do not to mention eet to anyone.” Even to you, my sort-of-starving artist friends (yes, even you may be dangerous – my emails are apparently an act of subversion. I guess it doesn’t take much).

In yet another act of insubordination (can you stand it, how daring I’ve become?) I will share with you-all that the Principessa della Reppublicca del’ [major European country]* and her husband the Marquess de Mouffetarde* are coming for four days in August and so the cruise has been post-poned until the 19th of August. I’m having a bet (with myself, since I can’t tell anyone, so sad) as to whether or not this cruise will actually take place. I’ve also just found out that I may get a 4-day (unpaid, sadly) reprieve later in July when she goes to Paris. Four days of freedom, mmmm. In the meanwhile, it seems I’m going to teach Pilates to….royalty.

[This just in from the walkie-talkie: they are eating lunch on the guest-house terrace. Roger’s voice on the walkie-talkie: “Manny, Manny. I’m just on my way back to the main house with the green salad. Madame would like to know, Is there anything we can add to it to make it a bit more….interesting?”

Long silence from Manny, then: “Hmmmmm...Yes, there probably is….”]

Roger Roger is losing his sang-froid; he had an outburst this afternoon at staff lunch when She got on walkie-talkie and said “Roger, Roger, where is Marlene? Tell her to go the tennis court and do her hour with the coach, she MUST play tennis today,” at which he looked in the direction of his radio and barked,“You bloody slag, leave your daughter alone and let her have a bloody rest, she’s on bloody vacation!!!!” and then hit the on-button and in his smoothest, most melodious butler-ese, intone, “Yes of course Madame, I’ll just go and get her.”

I suppose it isn’t right for me to criticize Eloise for being lax in her parenting when she’s clearly trying to distill a little discipline, but then, playing camp counselor isn’t exactly the same as nurturing.

To be sure, Marlene Alcock is the laziest, most spoiled, casually arrogant 13-going-on-14 year old I’ve ever encountered (14 being an already-arrogant and lazy stage of life). She lies around and flirts with the butlers; yesterday I caught her slinking up the stairs, post-beach, with her towel barely covering her “bits” (as Roger calls them), staring with googly eyes at hopeless Jonas, who [repulsively] wouldn’t look away. I hate teaching her even more than I hate teaching Eloise. The last time we worked together, she actually said, “Oh, I don’t LIKE you, you make me exercise!” I rolled my eyes and told her to watch it. Thankfully she has a sense of humor, but teenagers: yuck. I made her do the Hundred twice. [The Hundred is a particularly torturous exercise that you’ve probably seen on Pilates infomercials, the really Teutonic-looking one with the arms pumping & flapping.] So much for all that lovely pedagogy on the art of Pilates and healthy movement patterns and grace and flow and breathing and anatomy – all out the window, my job reduced to a tiny boxy boring word: exercise.

Marlene and I did actually have a bonding moment a few days ago, though it got botched at the end (which I guess is just as well): I was alone in ze offus, googling Pilates equipment online (Eloise had asked me to look for more stretchy therabands and order some “in all the colors”) when Marlene wandered in and stared at what I was doing. She actually deigned to speak to me, and began by asking who was the most famous celebrity I’d “trained”. SO sad to disappoint, the only remotely famous person I’ve taught is Dominique Hollingsworth*, the TV star from the 80s prime-time soap Sons & Legacies* (Dominique, who had made an impression on me both because of her rudeness and because of her shockingly large skull). Marlene was not impressed at all, having been born in 1992, long after Sons & Legacies was cancelled. My coolness cannot compare with my predecessor Prini, who used to teach Madonna [ed.’s note, there is really no way to come up with a good pseudonym for Madonna and have the same impact] or with Gerry the Buck-Toothed Masseur and his long long list of name-drop-worthy celebs.

In spite of my lack of status, Marlene and I spent a lovely hour looking up bands and movie stars online. And then I said, “So Marlene, what’s your thing, what do you like to do when you’re in London?”

And she goes (perhaps unsurprisingly),“Shopping. I loooooove shopping.”

Dutifully I complimented her bag and said it looked like a Marc Jacobs and she said “Everybody thinks that but I got it at this little boutique in London.” I had seen her come back from town one night with three large shopping bags from Calypso, where only a week ago (or was it two?) I'd hunted through the sale bin for a bathing suit.…and therein lies the difference between Marlene Alcock and myself…and before I could stop the words from out my big mouth, I say ”Oh, I love shopping too, except that I can never afford to buy exactly what I want. Plus if something’s really expensive sometimes I just can’t justify to myself spending that much money on one little item.”

I wasn’t trying to embarrass her, or myself; I swear I said that before I realized how inappropriate this was. But if I had temporarily forgotten that I am at work when I am in that house and Marlene is, effectively, my boss (a terrible flip-flop for a relationship that should be teacher/student), Marlene certainly hadn’t forgotten.; she looked at me like I had suddenly farted at the dinner table and she was going to pretend I hadn’t. What does she know about money? And as far as she’s concerned, her mother is paying me, so we shouldn’t be having gauche conversation of this stripe.

And, sadly, as we all know, that last utterance of mine is just not true: if I had pots of money -- and had paid off all my debt including voice teachers and therapists, and could pay all bills with ease and donate some to charity and some to NPR and afford health insurance -- I would have an amazing, carefully- & happily-curated wardrobe, and too many bags.

Oh, who am I kidding. There’s no way I would prioritize money for NPR before a new dress.

(Which, in my own perverse universe with its own boundaries, is not the same at all as buying luxury dishes that cost $1000 each or an Hermes pocketbook for $20,000, or having a closetful of identical Manolos. Though I’m sure someone else would take one look at the books cramming my apartment and call it a wasteful use of resources.)

Anyway, that was the end chit-chat with Marlene. She literally didn’t know what I was talking about. Which is also funny to me. Having less money than I want is such an ever-present aspect of my emotional landscape that it’s hard to imagine people who literally never think about it. At this point it’s a psychological habit, this feeling of scarcity.

Of course, as Eloise like to say, money is poison…

*

The office is somehow the default place to hang out. At the end of the day (as in, tonight), after staff dinner, sometimes I wander in there and hang out with Jonas, who is most often hogging the computer, googling the cars he wants to buy, (“Maserati GT, marvelous”), or talking long-distance on Eloise’s dime to his girlfriend. Speaking of whom, she definitely exists; I accidentally uncovered a picture of this mystery woman (under a pile of printouts of Aston Martins) by his computer in the office, and one of the butlers identified her as Jonas’ ladyfriend. She is indeed around 50 years old.

He also gave me a good lecture about the psychology of a warrior (“All about separating the wheat from the chaff, marvelous.”) Ah, Jonas Jonas, hornier than a toad, known to go around telling anecdotes that begin, “One time when I was fucking this girl with a mate of mine…” And this morning was classic; when I came down to the staff kitchen for breakfast, he said, “Kyra luv, you look marvelous. I can smell you from all the way over here.” Then – maintaining eye-contact all the while -- he grabbed a chair and started humping it, whining, “Make babies with me….”

I’ll have you know that this morning I was wearing sweat pants – at least they were clean – and I have a brand new zit. So while funny, I can assure you he doesn’t mean it. He’s a model citizen and may talk with swagger but intends to be faithful to his mother. Um, girlfriend.

In any case, Jonas is leaving, he’s going off to China for a month as de facto chaperone for Edwin the son in a few days (this is Edwin’s Grand Tour, or something like it), and then back to England – and then that will be it for Jonas this summer in _____Hampton, he gets a vacation after this. Sad for me…What will his replacement be like…?.

*

Butler subterfuge…so we’re all down in ze offus, Virginie included, when Roger Roger joined us with a half-finished bottle of wine Madame had rejected from the dinner table. I don’t know enough about wine to really do this story justice, but apparently Virginie – who, being French, knows more about wine than the rest of us – had recommended the bottle Roger was holding (Chateau Margaux), because it was nicer and more complex AND cheaper than the overpriced one Madame always drinks at supper (always the same one, Bichon Longville). Except Eloise had sent back the Chateau Margaux, saying it was “undrinkable,” and asked for her usual wine, which of course the house had run out of -- which Roger was loathe to tell her. (No excuses for Madame Eoise...as in, why wasn’t more ordered and airlifted in two bottles ago?). Virginie said, "Deeed you TELL herrrr she was drinkink somesing new?” and Roger admitted he had. Virginie said, “Listen, neverrrrrr tell her. She won’t like it because she doesn’t like change. But she knows NUSSING about wine and has no rrrrreal ability to taste eet.” [Eloise, after all, is French Canadian, not French, and so as far as Virginie is concerned, was born with an inferior palate…]. I guess this way, presumably, they can pinch pennies on wine, but at $50 wholesale for a bottle of the *cheap* one, why does it matter ANYway? Since when does this household care about being thrifty?

And so,
Roger filled an empty Bichon bottle with better wine from a better bottle
and brought the brew before his boss, who believed her butler was brandishing Bichon,
and unbeknownst to her…
drank the Chateau Margaux instead, and liked it.

Ever Yours -- Greedy, Venal and Vain --

Kyra

Chapter 12: London London

2008-06-22T17:39:00.009-04:00

Chapter 11: Going Boating

2008-06-11T00:35:00.014-04:00

from: iamaseagull@aol.com
to: momlopez-choi@aol.com, poplopez-choi@aol.com, talktthhand@juno.com, soundengineer@theatrco.org, youngcomposer@mymusic.com, pilatesqueen@pilatesqueen.com, lop-cho@nyc.bb.ss.com, ameryka@freecity.net,
jennifer@bff.org

Hello from the sunny seaside.

Well; it's actually raining. Two days of it. No more Pilates on the grass…a boon for my perpetual sunburn, but we’re all going a little stir-crazy, and there’s no sign of it stopping, so no beach time for me. Or for Eloise. And when there’s no golf, tennis or jogging, it becomes an all-morning affair in the nipply-cold exercise studio with me and Didier and the children. I’ve been getting up early and having tea and cereal alone with the dogs in the staff kitchen, then heading down the hedge-path to the exercise room where I hide in the hot, dry cedar sauna with my walkie-talkie and a book.

And I discovered yet another perk (can you stand it? so many perks, so little paycheck)…at night, instead of drinking with the pouty butlers (which is only briefly fun before it gets oppressively depressing), I can instead go down to the exercise room and have the place to myself. I’ve taken to riding the elliptical ski-machine thingie while watching television on the flat-screen. Last night, when I was done with my lame-o “workout,” I borrowed a cashmere blanket and some cushions from the screening room and watched Six Feet Under until Jonas turned on the security system. There’s also snacks down there; every morning Pierre brings a little plate full of gourmet dried fruit into the exercise studio, beautifully arranged peaches and pears and apricots (just like the one in the Hotel Beaux-Arts back in the city) in case Eloise needs a blood-sugar boost in the middle of exercising. Didier is the only one who eats from it during the day….and I work on it at night…

But I guess last night I actually did something to my leg riding that dumb treadmill, because it was killing me this morning and I made the mistake of complaining about it in front of Gerry, the loose-toothed South African massage therapist. It’s a shame I find him so off-putting (I can’t really say why, he just makes me want to run away screaming) because as soon as I mentioned that I was in pain, he dropped to his knees right there in the kitchen and went to work on my thigh (well, I guess that IS a little off-putting…but he fixed the problem).

Well, no, I know why he’s off-putting; he name-drops faster than the Post. He’s worse than a gossip column because at least Page 6 gives last names and credits. When Gerry says "Anna" (for example), he actually thinks I'm going to think that the only Anna in the world is Anna________ , the aging rocker’s ex-wife, one of his favorite celeb clients. Talking to him is as boring as yawning. No, yawning is more fun. God, I’m crabby today. Maybe I have radon poisoning from being stuck in this hermetically sealed environment.

Anyway. Like Jonas, Gerry also served in a war – based on the fact that he’s in his 50s, I’m going to assume it was the one where South Africa invaded Angola – but he chooses to gossip instead of talking about it. (Fair enough...)

Since we arrived, Gerry's other pet subject (he has a few) has been Propolis. "Dealing" it is one of his businesses, aside from making himself rich being a massage-toady for very, very wealthy ladies. Propolis is this bee-pollen product he gets from a special high-end (of course) Brazilian bee-farm; he imports it (probably illegally) dissolved in alcohol, in little brown unmarked glass bottles, and ships it to his freaky celebrity clients all over the world. He considers himself quite the success, even though he somehow has no money or inclination to take himself to the dentist (his teeth are brownish and literally falling out).

Propolis is this “miracle product” made by the humble honey-bee; for the bee, it’s a sealant for the hive, made of plant resins; but (according to Gerry) it is also wonderful for human consumption because of its astounding healing properties. It is [purportedly] anti-microbial, anti-fungal, and anti-inflammatory. He puts a dropperful on the back of his tongue every morning when he knows everyone is watching and makes a big dramatic deal about the “rush” he gets from it, as if it were heroin and he’d just shot up before an admiring crowd of wannabe junkies. Then he guzzles a glass of whole milk, raw milk being another of his pet health-theories (doesn't he realize that the stuff in America has been pasteurized within an inch of its life?).

He’s been after me daily to make propolis a part of my “regimen,” but so far I’ve put him off (not to mention that I would never, ever have a "regimen"); I’m the only hold-out. He offers it to Manny and the butlers whenever they complain about fatigue, and even though none of them like Gerry at all, they all claim the propolis gives them a little kick. Bertrand is so convinced of its medicinal properties that he takes it three times a day and, because the stuff goes through you immediately, he now shows up to his sessions with me reeking of raw honey from a mangy bee-hive.

*

In spite of the rain, Eloise went into the city early in the afternoon after Pilates. We had a small staff meal at 7 tonight because we thought She was getting back at 7:30; but we were informed (not that any of this has to do with me, but I get all this useless information via walkie-talkie) that in fact Madame's plans had changed, she had cancelled her dinner with [the Vietnam-era Presidential Adviser]. (!!! I mean, first of all, having plans to dine with him is unbelievable enough, but to cancel them? And no, they are not dating; at the moment, she is In Love with Monsieur Cloverfield the talk-show host, and the Vietnam-era Presidential Adviser is way too smart to be interested in a beautiful blond with ADD and dyslexia for any reason except her money…). And that she would be taking a car back to the Hamptons rather than a helicopter as was originally planned. And would therefore arrive late.

But of course they had to make it sound like she had cancelled on him. This is a lesson in image-management. The servants phrase everything amongst themselves to make it sound like Eloise has the upper hand in every relationship she participates in, because they know anyone can listen in over the radio. For instance, even if this were the case, they would NEVER say, “The Vietnam-era Presidential Adviser has cancelled on Eloise because she is too dumb to dine with; and she can’t find any heli-pilots willing to fly her out to the Hamptons on such short notice, so she will have to take a car back to the house.”

Because, even though she is unspeakably wealthy, most people really don’t care about who she is (I’ve listened in on the office phone while Virginie’s ordered her a private plane rental, and when she says, “Eet ees forrrr Madame Eloise Alcock,” the response from the airport people is always, “Who??”). So...Eloise, dateless and demoted to a car service. Just like me.

*

But I really need to stop it with the snark, and this is why: when Pierre sat down to staff dinner tonight, he asked Gerry and I to go into the office to speak with Virginie after supper. So of course, I immediately assumed (again) that I was about to be let go and started to panic about money -- whether or not this job is worth my time and energy, I need it. But it turned out Virginie had just wanted to make sure I was free from August 15th thru 31st to work.

I said of course, that I'd assumed that that was the length of the job anyway…(I’d certainly been planning on being paid through August, and hopefully before then).

Virginie goes, "Yes… well, for August zhere has been a change of plans. Madame would like to take a cruize either in the Mediterranean or Carribean, and she would lahk for you and Gerrrrry to come vis her on her yaccccchht." I SWEAR I AM NOT MAKING THIS UP. I AM GOING ON A YACHT IN AUGUST. (Unless plans change, and they do -- often…. see above for notes on Vietnam-era Presidential Adviser.)

But apparently this yacht cruise is a real plan; Eloise needs to leave the country by August 15th because she isn’t a citizen and must go somewhere outside of the U.S. every three months. Virginie -- usually very formal -- was so excited for me that she started giggling uncontrollably. This must be what it feels like to tell people they've won the sweepstakes. I mean, she knows nothing about me except that I’ve been looking slightly wretched and sleepy and put upon by missed sessions and late payment etc etc. She must think she made my year. And she may not be wrong…

It’s a little confusing only because I know Eloise prefers working out with Didier to working out with me; she still doesn’t get it with Pilates and gets annoyed when I won’t let her “go for the burn” or when I try to explain that Pilates is not about tight muscles; but it occurs to me that Didier probably wants to take his national French seaside vacation with his wife and children and is just not available for yachting.

So. I'm going on a cruise. I've never been on a boat that small, let alone with a billionairess and her luggage and three children and toothless massage therapist... I have never been on a yacht, period.

Now, Virginie did point out that Eloise doesn’t actually own said yacht yet; she said if they go to the Mediterranean (which would be my personal preference, which is what life is about, after all ;) ) they'll rent one, but if Eloise decides on the Caribbean, they'll buy one. Money officially has no meaning. I'm certainly not spending any on myself being here (except for kale and broccoli on my credit card…).

Anyway, when I went up to the 4th floor tonight, Edwin the 15-year-old had strewn his clothes (including a very nice pair of Tod's loafers) all over the bathroom, comme d’habitude, perhaps marking his territory?

And I don't even care. I'm going on a yacht in August.

**

Interestingly, the other petite thing that's come up is the fact that I’m Jewish. [ed.'s note: ...you didn't think Lopez-Choi was anything more than a nom de guerre...did you?] Roger (who has been too tired to be witty lately) and I were talking in the kitchen the other night about his sail-boats (again). I made an idle reference to the gross ham we’d had for lunch (only that it was gross…it’s not that I object to pig) but he suddenly looked at me like he’d just realized something and stammered, like he just didn't want to confront me about it, "You're...Jewish...aren't...are you not?" He's usually so poised and smooth and knowing; it's a little shocking that he would be one of those Europeans who don't realize that in this part of the world, being Jewish isn't something to be ashamed of. (Nor proud of; it just IS, and not really worth remarking upon. Like being brunette). I don’t walk around feeling marked; it's not a stigma in New York, and I forget that in the rest of the country, in the rest of the world, including Europe (maybe especially Europe), it’s a “thing.”

I patiently explained that I don’t practice the religion, that I eat bacon and enthusiastically date non-Jews. I was even MORE offended when he seemed relieved, but I know he didn't mean any harm. He's just...not from here. (Maybe he thinks I should walk around feeling contrite about it? Does he walk around constantly aware that he’s, for example, gay? Or that he’s a
butler?)

As for Eloise herself, she couldn’t be bothered about religion (she’s Catholic, but so non-practicing that last year during Ash Wednesday when I was teaching her at the Hotel Beaux-Arts, she actually asked me, “Why does everyone outside have black marks on their foreheads?"). But periodically she goes on these involved tangents in the middle of her Pilates sessions about how great Jews are. She recently made a lecture tour of Israel (I mean, did she lecture Palestinians and Israelis about how they just have to stop fighting? Or maybe that if they knew more about each other’s art and culture they would lay down their guns...? What a *sweet* idea.).

This particular day she was cooing over how manly Israeli men were, how smart Jews are, how much more intelligent than the average [the average WHAT???]. I wanted to vomit, but instead I pointed out that in my limited experience, many [though not all] of the Israeli men I’ve met have been incredibly misogynist and bullying. Maybe I was just being contrarian, but I was also a little offended. First of all, it’s off-the-mark to talk about Jews as if we are all Israeli -- or even all smart, because some of us, I’m sure, are quite dumb, and that shouldn’t make anyone somehow lesser-than.

I think Eloise thought I would be flattered, but instead I was totally put out by the fact that Eloise knows way too few Jews to be making any generalizations of any kind. The next words out of her mouth were the classic, "Well, all my best friends are Jewish," which I know is meant to be taken positively but always sticks in my…ear. A little. It just sounds to me, feels to me, like a second cousin to holocaust-era Germans saying "Individually Jews are fine, but collectively..." She continued, "It’s just a fact! my favorite people all happen to be Jewish, arty and intellectual. And they’re all so smart! It’s true! It’s genetic!"

So. Now we know why I get to go on the yacht....

☺

Gone fishin',
K

***

[excerpts]

from: jennifer@bff.org
to: iamaseagull@aol.com

Subject:Re: Re: Re: I can tell you love the PPO

K,

I know you’ll say I shouldn’t I care if David the Gecko-boy is being a dick when he and I clearly have nothing important in common, but he really is being a dick. I really think I’m not imagining this one... After a week of silence he called today and left me the jerkiest message [….]

The only nice part is that he seems OBSESSED with setting you up with some new friend of his that he met at his cousin's wedding. His name is James but I’ll politely refer to him as PearlyPants, he’s a super-wealthy Hamptonite... If you really want to go on a yacht, this guy actually owns one (and by the way is looking to rent it). I feel like the Gecko has some gay crush on this dude. I know he is not going to be your type at all, he’s a full-on business man, but please I think you MUST go on a date with the guy, if only to spy for me.

(And btw let me draw your attention to the below forwarded email from Gecko-boy, SEE how the guy I’ve been referring to as MY BOYFRIEND all summer described you to James... “my friend Jenny's hot friend Kyra?” Since when am I his “friend???” Not the "girl I am dating"? ExCUSE me??? WTF? Just when I was about to give him credit for finally, finally learning how to kiss. And do you know, it’s taken me all month to figure out who he looks like…Elliot Spitzer!)

despondently,
Jen-jen

***

[excerpt]

from: iamaseagull@aol.com
to: jennifer@bff.org

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: I can tell you love the PPO

Dearest darling,
This is what you get for going out with a a guy who, irony-free, golfs at a country club.
Do I HAVE to go out with his friend? I know I said I was bored, and living like a nun, but…

Well, if he really does need a renter for his yacht maybe I can hook him up with Eloise.

KLoCho

***

[full text]

from:Jamesinbusiness@thestreeter.com
to:iamaseagull@aol.com

Kyra,

Hi, I'm that guy from NYC that David probably mentioned to you. I guess you’re living out in the Hamptons for the summer. I keep my boat out there and head out almost every weekend. Let me know if you'd like to grab a drink out east or sometime in the City.

Jim

***

[excerpt]

from: iamaseagull@aol.com
to: jennifer@bff.org

Subject: FUBAR

Um, Jesus god, WHAT is the deal with “out east”??

Who capitalizes "the City" unless they grew up on "the Island"?

And why call it a boat when it’s a yacht? If you hadn’t told me I’d assume he owned a motor boat or a sailboat… or a dinghy…it’s like telling people you went to school “in Boston” when you went to Harvard…

Chapter 10: Barney Cloverfield*

2008-06-03T01:41:00.011-04:00

Chapter 9: Pilates sur l'herbe: Sunburn at Versailles

2008-05-20T20:29:00.017-04:00

from: iamaseagull@aol.com
to: momlopez-choi@aol.com

[excerpt of email to my mother]

… no, Eloise doesn't have a piano. I think the salt air and humidity would destroy it. (I took a walk on the beach yesterday and it was like walking through a cloud.) On the other hand, all of the white orchids (there are about a dozen) decorating the house have all developed ugly brown spots on their petals, I think from being in overly-air-conditioned rooms. They are now confined to the staff kitchen with the dogs, where they are thriving (the orchids, not the dogs); it is the least air-conditioned and therefore the most like the Florida swamp they come from.

And no, I can't really ask her to introduce me to Lou Roeberson…with whom she is eating dinner as I write this. Even though I get along well with her. Ma, I'm not even allowed to walk on her porch. She's my boss, not my patron or my benefactor.

Today I gave a "stretch-session" (??) to her 80-year-old mother, Madame Bourgeois, who has Alzheimer's; it's been very sad and strange, meeting her. She seems like she’s perfectly all right, completely present and sharp, but then she'll say something like, "Whose socks am I wearing? Are they yours?" She also needs to have a toothpick at all times. Anyway, she got tired after ten minutes.

So I’ve been teaching about four hours a day, not so terrible; I also taught Eloise's two younger children today...I mean, four hours of work (well, plus two hours of waiting) isn't bad for a day of otherwise lounging around. It is difficult to be constantly on hold, though. Why she can't just say "Pilates at ten" and stick to it…so I don't have to wake up at 7:45 with Roger the now-scary butler saying Madame isn't going to go to golf today so be ready, only to bust ass and then discover she's having breakfast, walking the dogs, playing tennis and THEN having pilates two hours later, when I could have easily slept until 9 and harmed no one -- is beyond me…but then -- as I'm having trouble getting thrugh my thick skull -- I am working, and apparently I am on-call.

I'm just grumpy. And, in this huge house with more bathrooms than there are people, I'm sharing a bathroom with a 15-year-old boy who leaves his wet towels on the floor for the maid (or me) to pick up....

**

from: iamaseagull@aol.com
to: jennifer@bff.org

Subject: Re: I can tell you love the PPO

[excerpt]

Dearest darlingest friend,

Don’t *yell* at me. I’m not defending the war, or suggesting we join the USO, and I haven’t suddenly become a pro-war flag-waver. Obviously I know that bombing the shit out of Afghanistan did nothing to keep us safe from Saudi terrorists, and I know Iraqi Baathists had nothing to do with Al Qaeda. But would you like to tell a soldier who’s fought (and let’s be clear, Jonas fought in other wars – maybe equally wrong-headed, but equally supported by “logical” arguments) that the means to his ends weren’t justified? Everyone’s goals are pretty much the same (i.e. safety) (well, actually, I think it’s usually mostly power and control people fight over, but the word of the day seems to be "safety." Or maybe it's "democracy"…), it’s just how we go about solving them…

Anyway, it wasn’t a logical conversation we were having, even though he remained very calm.

Besides, he can always claim that the wars he fought DID keep people safe because here we are, safe in ______Hampton. Even if I happen to feel we are less safe now having caused instability for the gain of the president’s oil interests, arguing with Jonas isn’t going to somehow make him look at the last ten years of his life and say “oh my god, I should never have fought in those wars.” His entire emotional life is predicated on not-regretting it.

Plus…at some point he must have decided it wasn’t solving the world’s problems, as evidenced by the fact that he no longer works for the army; he works here. (As in, he prefers defending Eloise’s flaccid backside to defending England or UN interests… or Democracy…)

Anyway. I don’t really know what he’d said that made me start crying. It was just that I felt like an asshole, I realized I didn’t have a leg to stand on, and Jonas – whatever I happen to think of war – knows from experience about moral compromise, in a really visceral way. We’re all compromised, but it’s easy for me to talk pacifism like I’m not. It’s easy for me to not feel guilt; I’ve never killed anyone with my own gun. But…for example, I eat meat -- from an animal activist’s point of view I shouldn’t be able to look at myself in the mirror. Eloise is supposedly full of compassion for the downtrodden, but she wears diamonds. If we all sat down and thought logically we’d all kill ourselves. We’re none of us blameless….
.
.
.
.

**

from: iamaseagull@aol.com
to: momlopez-choi@aol.com, poplopez-choi@aol.com, talktthhand@juno.com, soundengineer@theatrco.org, youngcomposer@mymusic.com, pilatesqueen@pilatesqueen.com, lop-cho@nyc.bb.ss.com, ameryka@freecity.net,
jennifer@bff.org

Salut, chers amis.

You'll all be delighted to know, I'm sure, that two days ago the tech guy came and finally the DVD player is working. It was another rainy day. Morning in the exercise studio, all were present, mother and her two spoiled children, all of whom insisted on watching a movie during Pilates... so I was forced to watch Coyote Ugly, a *genius* piece of cinema about the bar in the East Village, the one with the dancing bartenders.

Eloise’s concentration was particularly bad today and all she wanted to do was talk about her last trip to New York. She had asked me to recommend a Broadway show, so I had told her to go see [The Play About The Girl Who Got Kicked In The Head By A Pony and Then Went To Italy], and this is what she had to say: “Oh my GOD, Kyra, that play was so terrible. We walked out at intermission. So stereotypical, such an AMERICAN view of Europe [which is appropriate, since it was written by an American, but let it pass…]. My taste is much more European, I like subtle wit, sophistication…by the way, what happens in the end?” In the process of talking through act two, it was soon revealed that she had misunderstood several major plot points; I suppose because after all, English is her second language. I told her I was actually very fond of the show, particularly the music, and she goes, “Yes, well, people’s tastes are just… different, I guess. I found it so, how do you say it? Cheesy?” Bear in mind that while we were conversating, the scene playing in Coyote Ugly -- Eloise was as mesmerized by it as she’s capable of being mesmerized by anything -- was the last scene, where Piper Perabo has magically turned into a Britney-like pop princess. “You see!” goes Eloise, “THIS kind of thing I enjoy very much.”

I couldn’t help it, I said, “Oh, this subtle European music?”

Then I got into trouble for referring to her as “Eloise” over the radio to Roger. (This was after she and I had the whole discussion about how we’re on a first-name basis, she and I.) She goes, “Actually, although ìt’s fine in the studio to call me Eloise, with the Others you really must refer to me as Madame.” Which I knew she wanted. I knew what she'd meant; but there ís some perverse part of me that just wants to thumb my nose (or worse) at all this protocol. “Tread” on the grass. Tell the butler to piss off. Make them justify their stupid fucking preferences so they can hear themselves.

But I shouldn’t complain, because yesterday was a beautiful day. And this morning Madame Eloise woke up and decided the weather was just too nice for her to be indoors for exercise (or “sport,” as they refer to all physical activity). And so, Pierre and Roger carried the Pilates reformer (the machine with the springs that looks like a narrow bed) out onto the lawn by the pool. Also the yoga mats, medicine ball, hand weights for Didier the French personal trainer etc. etc.

There sat Eloise and the elder Madame Bourgeois [her ever-more-forgetful 80-year-old mother] on the guest-house verandah, while Gerry the bucktoothed masseur set up his massage table under a huge canvas umbrella by the pool. Bach was blaring from the speakers, butlers were rushing around with baskets of miniature Evian bottles and fancy oil-free sunscreens. What with the hyper-trimmed topiary and the parade of equipment-bearing servants, all we needed was a smelly old fountain with a spouting cherub for it to be oh-so Petit Trianon.

And then I taught. In the sun. For four hours (first Eloise, then her crazy brother Bertrand, Edwin the son, and Marlene the 13- year-old spoiled brat daughter). Truly, this is all way better than being inside on a sunny day, especially after all the fog and rain, but now I’m a little pink around the edges and have taken three much-needed naps. How do you know when you’ve had too much sun?

Madame informed the staff later in the afternoon that from now on whenever it's nice, "sport is to take place on the grass."

Now the butlers are mad at me because it means they now have to that Pilates machine in and out of the house every day, and it's huge and weighs around 150 pounds, so it takes two of them. I offered to help and they of course told me that that is not how things are done. I think they also suspect that I couldn't hold up my end (ha). So they are bitter, and I am sorry.

**

And now I need to explain the nutcase who is Eloise's brother, Bertrand Bourgeois.

When Bertrand was twelve he got kicked in the head by a pony.

No, not really. Not really a pony.

But when he was six he did get hit by a car, was thrown 60 feet in the air and suffered some mild (?) form of developmental damage. And when he was 25 he got hit by another car and was thrown 50 feet in the air. (I mean, bad luck on both counts. Other people hit him.)

And now he’s just a little…off.

Two days ago, when the staff was preparing for Bertrand & Madame Bourgeois’ arrival, I heard Pierre the junior butler having a very earnest discussion with the maids along these lines: “Now, when you’re unpacking Madame Bourgeois’ luggage, it is imperative that you hide her medications from Bertrand because he’ll take them.” So from this bit of eavesdropping I understood that Bertrand was some weird sort of depressive and would ingest any pill at the drop of a hat, no matter what it was. But as it turns out, I had misunderstood; he’s some sort of depressive who is violently opposed to pills and western medicine: Eloise is worried he will take AWAY the mother’s pills, preventing her from taking her prescribed medicine, and then attempt to treat her with his own brand of holistic healing.

And I know this is all true because at his session with me yesterday (at which it became almost immediately apparent that he is indeed a little…addled. First of all, he clearly hadn’t bathed for several days and when I gave him the instruction to “straighten his knee” he just lay there and did nothing for ten full seconds and then snapped at me "what on earth do you mean?") -- he was bitching and moaning about the fact that his mother has been "taking her damned thyroid medicine again. It makes her condition worse! I've told her not to take it! She's going to ruin all the progress we've made!” While I was touched that he genuinely believes he can cure his mother's Alzheimer's, I suddenly I had a spasm of defensiveness and said, “What exactly is wrong with thyroxine? I'm taking thyroxine.” Lots of people take thyroxine. (I mean, what was I thinking? Most normal, well-bred people don’t go around announcing their medications to strangers.) And he looked at me very sharply and snapped, “Well, you should stop that. It is very, very bad for you. How old are you?” and I told him, because there was no going back now, and he was freaking my shit out, “And HOW long have you been taking it?” and I told him barely six months, and he begged me to stop: “At least cut the pill in half, don’t take the whole thing. Why are you taking it?” and I told him [WHY didn’t I just say “none of your business, you old creep” ???] and he goes, “Well, you’ve really fucked yourself, haven’t you.”

I mean, REALLY. Those were his exact words.

Then he said (and this is in the middle of his Pilates session on the grass, there were witnesses, though no one was paying any attention), “Come upstairs, I have something to show you.”

First I said, “Why?” (Although Didier informed me last night at staff meal that it is not polite to ask “Why,” in the same way you might instruct a child about good manners... why Didier thinks it's ok to correct my manners in beyond me...do I have to walk around with a sign saying "I'm 30, not a child" ?? It made me think of my friend Sarah's ex-boyfriend in Paris who used to leave her bed every morning telling her "faites pas une betise," which basically means, "don't do anything stupid!" and, we later found out, is what mothers say to their children on their way to school...of course, it's a *little* bit different for me because I, thank god, am not sleeping with Didier...)

Anyway. Bertrand goes, “Just come with me please, I want to take your blood pressure and show you some natural medications you can take.” And then he mentioned this holistic health website that I’d actually heard of before, somehow that was enough to convince me that it would be ok to “go upstairs” to Bertrand’s room in the guest house; inappropriateness aside, I didn't exactly feel physically threatened, just creeped out.

So we go into his over-chintzed guest-house master suite. He sits me down in an armchair in his room and takes out this digital blood-pressure thingie, not unlike what the scientologists use in the subway, and took my blood pressure. Twice. Sitting and standing, very comme il faut. Only to discover that, indeed, I have slightly low blood pressure, a classic under-active thyroid symptom that I am already quite aware I have, thank you very much, along with the fatigue and weepiness of the past year (and let me just stop for a moment and say how annoyed I am that this medicine I’m taking doesn’t really seem to be working if I still have low blood pressure after six months).

He can tell I’m unimpressed with his medical practice.

*Then* he whips out this contraption he says he made: it’s a set of souped-up Bose headphones with two metal plugs somehow inserted to the outside of the earphones, so when you put it on you look like you’re channeling aliens. Without asking me, he sticks it on my head and commands, “Wear this every day for 15 minutes.” Completely nonplussed, I thanked him and took them off as quickly as possible and asked what it was. He told me the metal plugs were full of Xenon gas (remember the periodic table?), a gas which was more abundant during the geologic period when the earth was created,…this is according to Bertrand, who is clearly not a doctor at all but an extremely creative inventor (…dilletante…). He said “It is very healing to have Xenon radiation near one’s organs.”

I declined the headset (um, radiation?) and he showed me another one designed to press up against one’s thyroid gland (picture, please, a headset with one ear-piece removed, the remaining ear-piece up against your throat, with a Xenon plug.) I thanked him as politely as I could, and gently told him that it would be too awkward to wear it while teaching.

So this morning he shows up for his outdoor session (he showered!) and says, “Here, put this on…I made it for you.” He had brought me a metal “lavaliere”, this oblong brass bullet-like thing full of Xenon gas (??), hung on a length of blue ribbon for me to wear around my neck. He said I should always keep it with me, and never take it off and please please don’t take your medicine, that he would give me natural medicine, etc. Very well-intentioned, I'm sure. Clearly concerned about my health. Would that my own doctor took such an interest.

Then we had a long conversation about where the heart is located. He seems to think it’s near the stomach and I had to (gently, gently) disabuse him of that notion. He claims to have cured “many people’s hypothyroids”, but since he may not even know where the thyroid gland is located, I’m wary.

*

And then, at long last, I met Lou Roeberson (just seeing him wander across the grass towards Eloise was enough for me to start hearing repetitive synth music in my head and long to begin walking towards him in the slowest possible motion, but somehow I didn’t think he would think it was funny…): I was teaching Eloise by the pool when a very tall man ambled over. He’s balding, with white hair and a red face. He seemed quite entranced with Eloise (although I believe he too is gay). Anyway. I shook hands with him and he was very sweet but completely uninterested in me; Eloise, I'll have you know, referred to me NOT as "a wonderful talented actress at the beginning of her career" (easy to forget), but as her Pilates teacher (which I am).

He’s eating dinner with Bertrand right now. Eloise has jetted off for the evening to either North or South Carolina, can’t remember which, for a rendez-vous with her man, Barney Cloverfield [the late-night talk-show host famous for his round table and tall glass of water]. Bertrand mentioned he had written a screen play and that Lou Roeberson seems to want to read it. (Which makes me crazy.) I can’t think of anything more surreal: Texan avant-garde theater director with a purported [mild] case of Asperger's, eating with crazy damaged medicine man Bertrand and the lovely, lost Mme. Bourgeois (who, while I was teaching her, twice referred to Eloise as her sister).

In any case, Eloise did say that she would take me to Lou's performance-compound down the highway in ______Hampton for a look around, which would be delightful, since right now it pains me that he thinks I'm the on-call Pilates girl. He's coming over for a massage from Gerry tomorrow (who is happy to do it for no extra charge because he'll have a new celebrity-client name to drop). And Roger is always happy when Lou is around, because Lou doesn't go anywhere without bringing along his sweet Venezuelan assistant, Cristofer.

Given that the lights in the exercise room are broken; that despite multiple requests from Eloise, no one has replaced the towels in the steam room; that the grass has gone uncut for two whole days; that the cars go unwashed; that despite a very fancy electric fence, one of the five dogs escaped last night, and then magically reappeared this morning (but not after the butlers stayed up till one in the morning looking for him on the beach); that the TVs don't work and the air conditioners are moody; that the walkie-talkies need to be replaced; that Jonas is under-worked while Roger is so tired he actually asked me to man the phones in the office for an hour so he could nap...peace seems to have descended (temporarily, I'm sure). We're all a little happier with Eloise off the property.

This evening I "borrowed" one of the cashmere throw blankets from the screening room, wrapped myself in it and took a walk on the beach at sun-down -- the beach calm and deserted at dusk, very beautiful. Then Didier and Eloise's teenagers and I watched Friday Night Lights in the screening room. With French subtitles.

Happy fourth of July, an unsubtle and cheesy American holiday
(funny that the French have one just like it).

I love and miss you all and long for news.
xoxo,
Marie Antoinette

Chapter 8: Officer of Personal Protection

2008-05-14T10:46:00.016-04:00

from: iamaseagull@aol.com
to: momlopez-choi@aol.com, poplopez-choi@aol.com, talktthhand@juno.com, soundengineer@theatrco.org, youngcomposer@mymusic.com, pilatesqueen@pilatesqueen.com, lop-cho@nyc.bb.ss.com, ameryka@freecity.net

Hello lovelies.
Sorry, it's been a few days... Eloise is back from New York (clearly. The entire staff has gone crazy running up and down the stairs); there is now a full house: two children (Anastasia is off to Italy; she’s been replaced by Edwin, 15, and by Marlene, who is 13), Eloise’s 50-ish brother Bertrand, her mother the Mme. Bourgeois (who has some kind of dementia), her nurse, and Bertrand’s secret lover (?? according to Pierre, this person is hidden away in one of the guest-bedrooms and never seen. I don't know *what* to make of this tid-bit).

Edwin the 15-year-old son has taken over our shared bathroom up here in the garretts – he leaves his towels all over the floor, clearly he grew up having a maid – and he has more skin-care products than I do. That aside, according to Roger, Edwin is most definitely gay; but I take this with several grains of salt. (Apparently Eloise’s Polish dressing-maid, Verushka, told Roger back in London that Madame "is very worried about Edwin being around so many gay men," which is retarded even for Eloise. But whether that's Verushka misinterpreting Madame or not, is unclear. I don't really think Eloise is homophobic. And it's obvious that Roger, saucy though he may be, is not going to seduce her 15-year-old child. Who ARE these people? I haven't met Verushka yet, apparently she can't get a Visa, leaving Roger to pick out Eloise's clothes...)

I was told by Roger the day before they came home that because of Eloise’s late-evening arrival, I wouldn’t be expected in the exercise studio until 9; so it was a bit of a shock to the system when at 7:45 a.m. I had a frantic radio from Roger hissing, “She’s in the exercise studio! Where ARE you?!?!” She was extremely displeased when I arrived (barely presentable) 15 minutes later. She said, “You and Didier are going to have to get together and make up a programme des sports for everyone in the house, so that we can stay on schedule and avoid problems like this morning.”

My eye sockets aren’t big enough to accommodate the eye-roll that wanted to occur. For the record, Didier and I did in fact devise a daily schedule on the computer in the office later that day with Virginie watching; the schedule included her children’s activities starting at 8 a.m. with Pilates and personal training, and acknowledged Eloise’s golf and tennis schedule which begins at 7 a.m.; and the next day, having created this masterwork and handed it in to Madame, I waited around until 10 before teaching anyone at all. And how can I blame her children? Who wants to wake up at 8 on their summer vacation? Why would she?

Then I realized this was just a tactic to make sure I get it that I’m on a schedule.

Then the DVD player didn’t work again and she got mad at moi (frankly, I don’t even own a television back in Brooklyn, and really can’t be expected to work digital computerized double screen whatsits. Sorry. So we called the supposedly-handy Domingo, who actually knows even less than I do about digital anything, and who took so long to get to the exercise studio to fix the thing that Madame gave up and went off in a huff muttering about how lazy Domingo has become. It's true he doesn't race around with Roger's gusto, but Domingo is not lazy at all. He's just... exhausted. Eloise, who thinks she’s accomplishing a lot simply by ordering people around, perceives everyone else as slothful because they don't like waking up at 5 a.m. (Actually, she SAYS she’s up at 5 but I don’t believe her. I think she read somewhere that successful business leaders don’t get a lot of sleep, and she would like to think of herself in their company. We all know when she really wakes up because she immediately starts asking for stuff on the radio, “Roger, Roger, Jonas, Jonas, I’ll have my cappuccino NOW [please]…”)

**

My agent called a few days ago. Small cause for a celebration, since it was for a film – a bizarre Israeli independent about a graduate student who takes an older lover, who then proceeds to lock her up in a room with no food or water for three days…some kind of biblical reference, though the story was obviously totally secular…anyway, it was a good casting director and totally worth busting my ass to get into the city on time, to let Virginie know I would need to get my teaching done early that day, to remind her that she had told me she’d understood this would happen from time to time when she made me the offer, etc. etc. –

And then I remembered I had no money. Not even for the Jitney. None.

I finally brought up my lack of funds with Roger that night in the kitchen, since I was getting nowhere by following up with Virginie about my paycheck, and he pretty much blew me off: “I’ll see what I can do, dear, but the process of getting paid takes at least two weeks from when Eloise signs the checks, and she’s done nothing of the kind since she’s arrived.” I seethed and moped through the next two days, memorizing lines in my free time and wondering how I was going to get off the ranch. On the morning of the audition, with not a penny to my name, I pulled Roger over as he attempted to scuttle past me on the hedge-lined path. “What is it, dear? Such a long face, you’d think your dog died.” I explained, and his face actually changed. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea it had got so bad. I can lend you some of my own.”

I protested, “No, Roger, that’s ridiculous, I'm not going to borrow money from you. Isn’t there some in petty cash?” He said it was strictly against the rules to lend out petty cash that way, and scurried off to the guest-house. But as we were laying the table for staff lunch, he (discreetly, discreetly) slipped me a hundred dollars. I immediately called a cab to the Jitney stop and was in the city in time for my audition. Which went very well. (But how humiliating. And now I owe money to Roger as well as to my Visa card. )

Then I had a long, lovely dinner & dessert in the city with D______ , and took a late Jitney back, which arrived in ______Hampton at 1:30 in the morning…I ran into Manny as we were de-barking the same Jitney, in the strip-mall parking lot; he’d gone into the city for the evening and he smelled like a bar. I asked him if he’d seen his woman, and he smiled sadly and mumbled, “What woman,” which I take to mean they have broken up. He looked totally wrecked. We shared a cab back to the house, called Jonas to get him to turn the alarm system down... he was super grouchy about it…

**

Today: taught for two hours. Up at 8 to teach Madame. I just asked her if I'd been committing a breach of etiquette by calling her Eloise and She said, "No, all my coaching-staff [ahem!] call me Eloise." So I suppose it's only British butler-staff (and Latin American maid-staff) that have to call her Madame.

And I taught Edwin, whom I actually like very much. He seems to be pretty down to earth, in spite of all that aristo-Euro-teenaged insouciance. He has red hair and even more freckles than I do, and he was very easy to teach, worked hard. Way easier to teach than his mother, who ignores most of what I say and complains when she "doesn't feel it burning. If it's not burning it's not working! It burns when I work out with Didier!" I doubled her reps and Didier winked at me from across the studio, where he was doing push-ups with his annoying muscles rippling and his annoying sharp cheekbones smiling at me... which was confusing because in my limited experience Frenchmen so rarely smile, let alone at me, so I was too shocked and pissed to smile back. Marlene the 13-year-old whined on the walkie-talkie until even Madame gave up and excused her from Pilates; and off I went to the beach to wait for the elder Madame Bourgeois (Eloise’s mother) and Bertrand to summon me via butler.

**

Anyway, onto more interesting subjects, like the fact that I have finally discovered Jonas’ *official* job title: Personal Protection Officer. or P.P.O. -- which inevitably (childishly...) reminds me of Naughty by Nature’s “O.P.P.” -- but which is really the fancy way (everything’s the fancy fucking way) of saying Body Guard – because I guess Eloise is in danger of being kidnapped? I think she *wishes* she were important enough to be at risk for kidnapping. But maybe when you’re this wealthy you really are at risk. There’s very little I understand about her actual life.

So apparently in body-guarding, there's a strict division of labor. For example, in addition to the P.P.O. there is also something called a Close Protection Officer (C.P.O.), and to have a full complement of security you need both. At the house, she uses Jonas to man the gate with security cameras and make sure everything's locked etc. But his position is really for when she’s out and about, to follow her at a distance when she walks down the street, at carefully prescribed distances depending on the situation. Jonas very patiently explained to me “…how it would all shake down should an ‘incident’ arise... my job as the P.P.O. would be to take Madame and bodily remove her from immediate danger. The C.P.O. on the other hand would take care of the remaining assailant or assailants.”

And I of course asked, “What does that mean, ‘take care of the assailant?’”

And then Jonas showed me his gun.

I had no idea that Jonas has been toting a gun strapped to his back all day every day, though since he's not the C.P.O. I can't imagine what it’s really for (maybe to use it on Madame...? ;) ) But I guess since we *have* no C.P.O. he's doing double duty.

He gets to do butler-y things, too, because he's so under-used -- she doesn't really NEED an off-site body guard in _____Hampton except for golf and lunch downtown, so unless she’s off in New York, he’s twiddling his thumbs on the property.

Sometimes he gets sent on errands, like today they sent him into town to do some shopping for the house, and he said “Want to go for a ride?” and since I was done teaching, of course I did. Escape! In a BMW station wagon. Virginie had sent him off with Edwin’s tennis racket (needing to be restrung), and a long list of instructions which included buying flashlights for the entire property in case of power failure (???)… so we went downtown. In the sports store they immediately recognized him. Off to the hardware store, where he dropped $200 on huge flashlights and batteries for everyone in the household. Moving on to a soap store -- he’d been instructed to buy hand soaps for all the bathrooms – where he bought every kind of fancy soap he could see. To the bakery, where he bought four bags of chocolate truffles and two pecan pies. The candy store, where he bought a pound of dark-chocolate-covered orange peel. Drug store for an enormous number of shower poufs. Etc. Etc. Everywhere it was the same: we would get to the store and he would be confronted with several choices and then say, "Fuck all, I don’t know which one to get, we’ll take the whole lot.” And he’d peel bills off this wad of "petty" cash (root word petit, but there was nothing petit about that stack of 100s stuffed into the pocket of his khakis). Money is rapidly losing any meaning. I know dollars are not as sexy as pounds, but in his hands it was just crinkly greenish paper with about as much value as Monopoly money. (And yes, all that expenditure and not a drop for me…)

And now I have an enormous flashlight next to my walkie-talkie next to my almost-useless cellphone next to my tiny tiny bed.

Tomorrow I teach Mme Bourgeois, who has advanced Alzheimers'...will let you know how that goes.

Lots of love...

***

from: iamaseagull@aol.com
to: jennifer@bff.org
Sent: Thu, 30 Jun 2005 2:54 pm
Subject: Re: I need more!!!

Hoo-boy -- I just need to make clear to you that I am not in ANY way, shape or form, attracted to this French guy, so in response to your question – no, no, NO. If anyone, it's Jonas, who is so yum… laddish, but somehow crossed with Hugh Grant. Yesterday he drove me into town (errands) at about 65 miles per hour around hairpin turns, which is fast in a station wagon, the whole time regaling me with the different ways in which he likes to fuck his girlfriend. Salty though his conversation may be around me, rest assured, nothing is going to happen with Jonas either. He and his ladyfriend have been together for 6 years; she left her husband for him, he left his first serious girlfriend for her. And did I mention that she is 50 years old and has two kids, aged 24 and 23? And Jonas is only 31, so go have a Freudian party with *that* particular mom-complex. They’ll be together until…he grows up.

But that statement isn't really fair of me -- he & I had this intense two-hour conversation last night, post-shopping trip, after staff-dinner. We somehow started talking about the war. And of course I had to open my big fat mouth and say how I am just so opposed to the current war, and to the idea that killing people is a solution to anything, etc. etc. Of course I’m aware of how naïve it is to be a pacifist, especially since I’m a woman who will never be drafted, but these still happen to be my feelings.

Well, it turns out that Jonas went to Sandhurst (huge military academy, the British equivalent of West Point). We actually went to the office briefly so he could show me a picture of it online, told me he’d loved it, showed me what various British officer uniforms looked like (“Marvelous…” he says...imagine the word uttered through a locked jaw and a twinkly, glazed smile, Four Weddings and a Funeral all the way.) He actually seemed genuinely sentimental for military school. He told me he’d left home at 16 to go there. And he showed me pictures of this village in Bosnia where he and his regiment were stationed. He served in Bosnia (U.N. peace-keeping troops) and then in the first gulf war under NATO.

We ended up talking downstairs in the guesthouse on the overstuffed couches between the Screening Room and the Bar. He had some choice words for me. I could feel how disgusted he was with me and my knee-jerk peace-nik-ness; his whole tone was really, really tough, like a father chastising a daughter for bad grades, absolutely any trace of the flirt, the prankster, gone.

He’s proud of his service. (It’s not that I was trying to shame him.) He said he wouldn’t give back those experiences for anything. That he knows he and his men made a difference to many people’s lives. He talked about setting up a VCP (? vehicle check point) in Srebrenica, in between the Muslim and Christian factions, a peaceful zone that allowed one man to be momentarily re-united with his Muslim wife, and how the couple thanked the soldiers over and over for being there.

And he also told me he told me about how once he'd killed a man and his son in front of the wife and mother. He said, “I will never forget the look on her face or the sounds she made.”

He was so completely hardened in that moment I barely recognized him -- not aggressive, just telling me calmly and plainly how it is. And it was intensely difficult to sit there and listen. At one point, I was so ashamed by how unearned all my feelings are, tears started quietly rolling, which he very politely pretended not to notice. We talked a little about Israel too, but I barely remember what we said. Only that he was disgusted – how dare I judge a soldier for fighting, or deem the military somehow wrong-headed? Who do I think is keeping me safe? he said.

And I began to feel that I had no right to any thoughts or opinions on the subject because I have never gone to war. It was so much like that speech from “Big Love,” where Constantine is talking about violence in soldiers, and how women don't recognize that their lives are made possible by the military violence of men (…actually I seem to remember that in the play the character is potentially condoning violence towards women, which I obviously can’t qualify, but…here’s the pertinent part):

“…he should be esteemed for informing [a woman]
about what it is that civilization really contains –
the impulse to hurt, side by side with the gentleness
the use of force as well as tenderness
the presence of coercion…
because it has just been a luxury for her really
not to have to act on this impulse or even feel it
to let a man do it for her
so that she can stand aside and deplore it
whereas in reality
it is an inextricable part of the civilization in which she lives
on which she depends
that provides her a long life, longer usually than her husband,
and food and clothes
dining out in restaurants
and going on vacations to the Oceanside
so that when a man turns it against her
he is showing her a different sort of civilized behavior really
that she should know and feel intimately
as he does
to know the truth of how it is to live on earth
to know this is part not just of him
but also of her life
not go through life denying it
pretending it belongs to another
rather knowing it as her own
feeling it as her own …”

--[the (re)-making project, www.charlesmee.org, Big Love]

And then I asked him how he came to leave home at 16. “Mum kicked me out. I don’t speak to them.” I guess if you belong no place, if you’ve been rejected by your family, or possibly abused, and the price of belonging in your new place is that you might have to kill someone, you’ll do it. But clearly there are whole armies of men who make this decision.

And here we are, by the oceanside.

I don’t know how he can stand Eloise, let alone working for her, when he used to command a battalion; I don't know how he can stand me. We must seem like children to him. It's no wonder his girlfriend is older; who am I to decide he needs to "grow up"?

And then this morning, as if nothing had occurred, I heard him charge up the stairs at 7 a.m. and yell at Edwin’s door,
“Wakey wakey, hand off snakey!” Which is, I guess, how they rouse you in the army.

**

So. I know you were expecting gossip. Sorry.

ANYway. To get back to your question...Didier the Frenchman is kind of gross, fit or not. And old.
And married...

No, I need your boyfriend to set me up. Thanks for the offer. ;)
(Didn’t you say he had a friend down the road in ____Hampton…?)

Love you so much.
k

Chapter 7: Eating with a Frenchman (and Shopping and Stealing)

2008-04-30T00:31:00.017-04:00

from: iamaseagull@aol.com
to: jennifer@bff.org, talktthhand@juno.com

Hi ladies. No major developments, but...

When the cat’s away…

So yesterday she needed to take a few days to go into the city to pick up her 15-year-old son, Edwin.

Virginie, svamped at the ze ofus, was complaining night before last that Eloise had demanded that she call the heliport and order a chopper for 8 a.m. the following morning. “Eet is completement impossible, zere is no ’elicoptere, no pilot will take herrrrr, nussing ees availabell on such shorrrrt noteece, and she blame eet all on me.” Madame was going to have to settle for driving on the highway like any other prole.

Pilates, golf and tennis were all cancelled. She took Virginie and Roger with her to manage her schedule and her valises, Domingo drove her in the white SUV, Jonas followed behind in the BMW; he’ll drive Edwin back separately. The envoy left in a whirl of "Where's my Blackberry/can you find out what are the hot Broadway shows and get me tickets/what time does his plane land" etc. There were ten rolly suitcases in the kitchen and Paola and Luisa were racing up and down the stairs according to walkie-talkie commands about blouses and pocketbooks. It was like the scene at the end of “The Cherry Orchard” where everyone's running in and out of the room yelling "Where ARE my galoshes." (Except in our particular version of “The Cherry Orchard”, Eloise has ordered a butler to cut down those pesky trees in Act One, and I am playing Firs. If this were “The Three Sisters,” she would be Natasha chopping down the old-growth to plant flower beds. If this were “Uncle Vanya”…oh, never mind, you get it.)

Then the maids were released for the day and I was alone in the empty, empty house with tall blinking diabetic Manny and shy sweet Pierre. And the dogs.
.
Ostensibly, they've gone into New York to pick up young Edwin from the airport (flying into Kennedy on a commercial flight, how humble), but I also know – because Virginie the Discreet can’t keep her mouth shut – that Eloise is having dinner tonight again with [famous Vietnam era Secretary of State]. And Leonidas “Arthur” Papadapoulandrionis* the shipping-magnate/philanthropist-genius is dining here in a few days.

Blissfully, Manny the cook had no idea who Leonidas Papadapoulandrionis is (until I told him); he usually has no idea who he’s cooking for, and doesn’t much care. I’m relieved that there’s a member of the household who doesn’t give a crap about who Eloise is dining with, it just means he’s going to have to break out his French cookbooks and come up with something extra-elegant. He’s fully cognizant that it just doesn’t necessarily reflect well on you if you’re the personal chef to someone who dines with Leonidas Papadapalandrionis; it doesn’t reflect on you at all, in fact you’re still just staff. I’m clear that I’m only in it for the money....and maybe to meet Lou Roeberson, who I’m sure makes a habit of hiring actresses from his benefactress’ household staff…

You’d think with Eloise off the ranch, I would be on the first bus as quickly as possible, but frankly…free vacation. I mean, when else am I going to be able to go where I please on this amazing property and sleep late and hang out by the pool? And not have to teach AT ALL? Not that I don’t miss you all, but I have no job, my next audition isn’t until next week (for some Israeli film, very bizarre) and my apartment is sublet…plus there remains the technical fact that I don’t even have enough cash for a round-trip Jitney ticket. But I think I just want two days to lie around in the sun.

As soon as her car was out of the drive I got Pierre’s permission and went over to Eloise's side of the house.

It's beautiful. Such high ceilings. (And such bad modern art…I’m told she only brings the stuff that won't react to humid ocean air).

The windows are one endless sea-scape, and because it's the middle of the week, the beaches are deserted. The three bedrooms are enormous, all pale beiges and creams, to go with her wardrobe. Each one has its own bath, with more tubs with feet. (Needless to say my tub has no feet.)

I went into the master bedroom, which has a sitting room and a dressing room with a mirrored vanity completely covered with bottles of perfume.

I looked in her closet (what sense of propriety? Gone…) and saw her clothes organized by color (white, beige bein sur, black, navy) as well as little drawers labeled “lingerey [sic],” “camisalls, wite [sic]” and “mailots [sic]” “black bathing sutes [sic]” “white bathing sutes [sic]…”

There are three living room/library/entertaining-type areas, one with a big fireplace and more stacks of unread books about the brain, books about artists. There’s a formal dining room with a huge round table, the back-porch verandah with a tiled dining table overlooking the ocean....it all looks slightly un-lived in -- it's all extremely neat – and it's all very peaceful. It cries out for people and cozy parties, for nebbishy bohemians smoking hand-rolled hash-cigarettes by the fire. It cries out for late-1970s Woody Allen. But it’s been colonized by Restoration Hardware.

And I swear if I were her child I would seriously resent being relegated to the nursery rooms upstairs next to the Pilates instructor when there are these sumptuous bedrooms standing EMPTY on the Madame side of the house (not to mention the upstairs rooms in the guest house). I was informed this morning that from now on I’m actually going to be sharing my bathroom with teenaged scion Edwin, who arrives in two days and whose bedroom is to be down the hall from mine. (And let’s just take a moment: It’s inappropriate for me to be sleeping “above” Eloise, but NOT inappropriate for me to be sharing a bath with her 15-year old male progeny? Confusing, the butler SOP.)

Anyway. I’d been over there on her side for about twenty minutes and was contemplating locking her bathroom door and taking a soak in her enormous bathtub, which would have been truly transgressive, when my walkie-talkie crackled with Pierre’s voice calling me. (I can’t believe I was actually toting that shit around when she was gone). I ran out of her bedroom into the hallway just as Pierre swished through the door that separates the two house-halves looking, as he often does, sheepish and slightly overwhelmed and sweaty and muttering a breathless, “Can you help me?” I said of course, envisioning some small favor; I slink around feeling guilty all day because I have so little to do, and when I ask if I can help Pierre and Roger usually won’t even qualify my offer with a response. But not today: “Well, these boxes of books have just arrived and they need to be shelved.” Little did I know he meant twenty boxes of hardcover books that needed to be hauled up the stairs.

We spent the next *two hours* arranging books into the bookshelves. Half were young-adult books, which I found odd because a) as I’ve said, her children don’t live on her side of the house, and b) her children are too old for Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys. There were complete sets, the spines unbroken. Picture books. My personal childhood favorite, “Alice in Wonderland.” And grown-up books for Eloise, lots of first editions, plus literary criticism and French novels. I started shelving, attempting to be conscientious by doing it in vaguely-alphabetical order.

I had filled almost a whole breakfront when Pierre came over and (sheepishly) said, “I’m so sorry, but we have to do it like this,” and proceeded to take them all off the shelves, dust them, and replace them on shelves according to height and with corresponding colors. “It just needs to look… really, really nice.” Seeing that I had pushed them all the way back to the wall of the shelf, he gently pulled them all forward so the spines were flush with one another. There are distinctions in book-shelving only a butler, and his boss who has to look at the books on the shelf, could possibly care about.

In the afternoon, I finally escaped and walked into town -- half an hour along the beach, and then hang a right. It was gorgeous, and I am now so very very freckly.

I was on an almost-desperate mission to find dark green vegetables, since Manny the Cook believes that staff need only four food groups (iceberg lettuce, corn, beef and cheese). While I’m here, I’m determined to get my health back, and at the moment, I’m committed to vegetables. My holistic nutritionist – yeah, that’s right; go ahead and snort – would be proud; besides forswearing sugar (except dark chocolate)(ok fine, I fail at that sugar thing all the time) and making it through these past 5 interminable months of a year-long coffee-fast, drinking disgusting tea that is supposed to be good for a straggling thyroid gland [ooo, an organ recital! Isn’t this entertaining? I swear it becomes pertinent later on], I’ve been eating all kinds of seaweed-products and taking 10 daily vitamins...and exercising... Apparently it’s not really a job, it’s a spa (except it’s a spa that I’m not allowed to leave). Really, it’s no wonder Virginie and Roger don’t seem so concerned that I haven’t been paid yet.

I found the nice organic grocery where Manny shops for Eloise and bought fresh strawberries and arugula and broccoli rabe and some chard. Obviously I spent way more than $6.93 (the aforementioned contents of my bank account), so I …forked over my credit card. To pay for groceries. The whole point of this prison term was to clear my debt and stop doing things like that.

But having broken the seal, I took myself and my Visa card into the Calypso on Main Street (dangerous territory, as you know), and went shopping. I found the most amazing white summer dress, it was so soft…but the price-tag gave me agita and I sadly hung it back on the rack. Then I went hunting in the $25 bin and found this tiny woven blue bikini. I am not a bikini girl (as you also know), but by that time I was determined to buy something, anything the slightest bit luxurious that was mine and not Eloise’s. And to transform my belly from the color of vanilla ice cream to… something darker. So I swiped that well-used card again and am now the proud owner of three blue cotton triangles specially designed to, um, lift and separate.

**

Upon my return from town, Manny was back in the kitchen with Pierre; they were also very excited to go shopping, at a nearby outlet mall, in Madame's Mercedes convertible. Realizing that I might be feeling left out, they offered to take me along, but since the Merc is so snazzy it only fits two people, we were going to have to take the Jeep (open top, very sexy, very California) instead. But that plan was derailed by Didier, the French personal trainer who had just arrived by Jitney from JFK.

So instead, we drove to pick up Didier at the Jitney stop in the strip mall, and then we all went to dinner at a ridiculously overpriced restaurant in town, Eat on Main Street (I mean, how do you justify $40 for badly-cooked pasta?)(And why should I care, since it was on Eloise’s nickel?) The most remarkable thing(s) about the restaurant were the super-fancy grind-your-own salt and pepper shakers on the tables. During dinner, we were bored, and Manny, who is indeed more fun out of the kitchen, suddenly looked at me with a glint and dared me to steal them. I don’t know what possessed me to actually commit a misdemeanor, but I slipped them into my beach-bag when the waiter’s back was turned. Only Pierre noticed.

Didier speaks mostly French, so I was suddenly forced to translate. This was more French than I’ve had to speak in 9 years. He was not exactly grateful (though mildly interested that I’d bothered to study in France), but since his English is almost non-existent, and he needed me too much to make fun of me, I was totally unself-conscious about the fact that both my vocabulary and verb-declension skills have pretty much deserted me... the wine helped. Didier’s conversational contribution included terrible joke ("What do you call a stripe of brown hair on the head of a blonde?/A ray of hope.” Right, it wasn't funny in French, either), and he also declared, unprompted, that his grand passions in life were good wine, cheese and women (swear to god, that much of a cliché, it's making this missive very unsurprising). Which I duly translated for Manny and Pierre, who, both being English, found much to make fun of. But really Didier seems harmless, kind of a doofus. He seems very...fit, as might be expected from a personal trainer. Empirically he’s a handsome guy, has very blue, James Bond-y eyes and incredibly sharp cheekbones. He’s also probably in his middle-40's, and with no real hair on his head, just kind of…thinning blond peach fuzz.

After dinner, back out on Main Street by the cars, I presented Manny with the salt and pepper shakers, and he was so surprised that I’d actually done it – he said he’d been kidding.

But that I’d made his night. (Scoring points with the kitchen, not such a bad idea, but really, K.Lo…kleptomania to impress the cook? What’s up with that?)

Then Manny drove Didier to his new maison, the cottage down the road from Eloise’s.

And Pierre drove me home in the Mercedes for two.

And then, back at home, Pierre & Manny and I watched a movie…

…in the Screening Room.

Now, of course I'd known that the screening room existed; it’s just across the hall from the billiard room (doesn't this sound like a game of Clue? I can't believe there isn't a conservatory), but I hadn't really gotten a good look inside: Instead of rows of seats, there are rows of COUCHES, overstuffed couches and armchairs with matching footstools. Everything is upholstered in this thick green and gold tapestry stuff; the movie screen has a matching curtain that retracts automatically by remote. There were cashmere blankets thoughtfully, artfully strewn on every couch (in case the digital, dysfunctional air conditioning gets out of control. One day I do hope to write less about all the amazing THINGS that are in this house, but for now, it's all about the toys).

We watched a bad Bruce Willis movie, wrapped in cashmere, eating Manny’s stash of chef’s chocolate pilfered from the fridge.

**

Then today, Didier the French personal trainer unexpectedly came over to the Big House first thing in the morning. Manny radioed me right out of deepest slumber saying he had to go grocery shopping for dinner with Leonidas Papadapoulandrionis. (He was suddenly back to being grouchy business-Manny. I wanted to remind him that I was the same girl who’d broken the law pilfering condiments at his behest the night before, but he was clearly on another wavelength.) He said he was leaving me a key and could I please show Didier around the grounds.

Ten minutes later, barely awake, I was shepherding Didier around (he was impossibly chipper, it seemed rude; hasn’t he heard of jet lag??) from house to guest-house to exercise room, giving him the tour no one took the time to give me. A fair attempt was made to conduct this tour in French (he kept trying to speak English back to me, he’s incomprehensible) for the next two hours.... such a painful way to wake up. I even showed him the Pilates equipment, which he looked at with a shrug and a completely unimpressed “Bof.” He proudly showed me this exercise tool he’d “invented”, a crude wooden stick with a long rubber strap attached. I was equally unimpressed. And then, because he’d been so dismissive of Pilates and because he really wanted me to respect his weirdo stick "invention," he asked me to give him a quick Pilates lesson which made him shake :) and soon suggest, “Euuuuuhhh, Kyrrra, we can have a cuffeee?” I said I there was probably some in the main kitchen, since Eloise has cappuccino brought to her in bed every morning.

Without hesitating, he was up the stairs and rifling through Eloise’s fancy kitchen cabinets. He found the espresso maker and two pre-ground hi-tech Nescafe coffee pods, and before you could say “Roger will kill me,” we were having espresso on Madame's verboten back porch, my coffee-fast thrillingly broken. I admired his total lack of respect for protocol, but he’s worked for Eloise and her ex-husband in Paris for a long time and seemed completely comfortable with doing as he pleased in her absence. Even though it was really annoying that he kept correcting my French in even horribler English. Then we ate lunch by the pool (also against the rules), which was lovely, but by then I was just so sick of my bad French and sicker of Didier and his bad, sexist French jokes.

Finally he left me alone so he could take a run on the beach (oui, I looked, and non, he has no body fat). I escaped up to my garret, so relieved to be thinking en anglais once again, and put on my new teensy blue sale-purchase, and slathered on lots of SPF 30, and meandered down Eloise’s back stairway (oops, forgot to tell Didier we’re supposed to use the front gate when Madame’s around, but maybe she’ll give him special Francophone privileges) to take a long nap in the sun, walkie-talkie conspicuously absent from my beach bag.

With love from your sunburnt-but-somehow-still-pale BFF.
Please let me know what's going on in the city.
I might be losing my grip.
K

Chapter 6: Drinking with the Englishmen

2008-04-26T17:19:00.009-04:00

from: iamaseagull@aol.com
to: jennifer@bff.org, talktthhand@juno.com

Hi dears,

So I never finished about the other evening, other than the headache I ended up with... after the hang-out in the kitchen, eventually the gazillion-dollar dishes were stowed, and I traipsed with the butlers across the wet lawn to the guest house. We all got drenched by the sprinklers which are timed to go on precisely at 10 pm.

So there we all were, me and the butlers and Manny and Jonas and Joseph Brunelleschi, sitting in the barely-lit living room until way past midnight, eating bar-mix with our stocking-feet up on the overstuffed couches and ottomans and coffee-tables, and we all got drunk. I know this doesn’t sound too subversive, no illegal substances were involved -- but Eloise would, I’m sure, have a fit over the butlers drinking her hooch while on the job. But she was asleep and no one seemed concerned about our being caught.

The conversation was standard getting-to-know-you summer camp stuff. I was surprised to hear that nearly all of them have been able to buy significant property working this job. Roger has sail boats and a little house near London, Jonas loves buying old Astin Martins and fixing them up, and he is paying off a house in the Midlands, Christophe has that Porsche & the house in the Pyrenees, and Virginie has children. (But since Christophe also has that pesky angina, I’m going to wonder if it’s worth it to make enough to buy property and flashy cars if you pay for it with your health.). The plan, as far as I can see, is to butle for Eloise or someone like her for a few years, buy up property and retire as a landlord.

Other than that, we were basically talking about sex. Joseph Brunelleschi wanted to know everyone’s “marital status” which is a joke in a room (almost) full of gay men and a single single woman; Joseph, for all his good looks, tanorexia and meticulous wardrobe, is a very lonely person, and kept bemoaning the fact that he “just can’t seem to find anyone to fall in love with.”

Manny was more of a person once we were out of the kitchen; on the job, he always looks slightly murderous and I am under strict orders (from Roger) not to ask him how he’s doing, that it makes him furious. His last job was being a chef on private yachts. But he’s a bloke’s bloke. Like Jonas, who continues to be my favorite…mostly because he’s the most off-color...his favorite lately is to describe his favorite way to have sex as if he were reciting a shopping-list. “Rub the tits, go for the knickers, 1-2-3 you’re done. Marvelous.” Watching me giggle, he looked over and wiggled his eyebrows. "What about it, babe, you and me in my room, let's go, we'll be back in five." (Roger looked truly disgusted. Of course, it doesn't take much.)

Here’s the Interior Decorating Porn portion of the email:

Guest House living room: huge. It’s actually three living rooms that flow one into the other, connected by French doors, all high ceilings, with lots of oversized, overstuffed, cream-colored Pottery Barn-esque (though I’m sure it must be something more expensive & obscure) couches, and sisal floor covering over dark-stained floorboards.

Between martinis two and three, Mister Brunelleschi gave me a tour of the rest of the guest-house. There are many remarkable things about the guest house, including its, um, accessories (its “décor,” Joseph insisted on calling it). Eloise employs a fancy society decorator whose professional moniker is Duchess Albinoni-Barrington*, and she has tricked out every corner with large Ming (? Probably) vases.

But there are also…well, you know those blue and white painted mugs you can buy in Chinatown that come with a matching domed lid with a little knob on top? Well, there were these wooden plaques hung all along the walls of the stairway, and mounted on the little plaques were dozens of these nubbly mug-lids, so it was like a hallway lined with what look like blue and white china... breasts, of all shapes and sizes. So bizarre. And they’re everywhere. First of all, I can only assume they’re worth considerably more than what's available for us plebes to buy in Chinatown, but seeing that many mug-lids also begs the question, what happened to the mugs? and also, why? Definitely the weirdest collectible I've ever come across.

Joseph Brunelleschi lives in the guest-house. As we toured around the dark rooms he kept murmuring his favorite words, “…impeccable,” “…exquisite…” every time we passed yet another hideous objet. He and Virginie (in a room of her own) occupy two “Servants’ quarters” on the ground floor, small bedrooms in a little hidden hallway off the library that you get to by passing through, not kidding, a SECRET REVOLVING BOOKCASE. I’m sure the original 1890’s guest-house had one and so they built this one into the replica....o for a good murder mystery this summer, with candlesticks and subterfuge and guilty maids...

I hadn’t realized it, but the butlers all live in the guest-house as well, on the almost-basement-level with the exercise studio, tucked away behind a different wall that cuts off the plush carpeted side of the house from the more utilitarian, undecorated butler-dom. It’s like a little rabbit warren down there, little creepy hallways and three teeny bedrooms for Manny, Pierre and Roger, and a crummy little kitchenette with a microwave. We only went down to the bottom level so that Roger could prepare another round in the fancy-pants Bar next to the Billiard Room. :) The not-so-mini-mini-fridge is incredibly well-stocked with very high-end gin and vodka etc., and it isn’t locked either.

Upstairs is like another country altogether, or at least another state…Utah, maybe. The hallway is wide enough for a Mormon to turn around his ox-cart. The four mahster suites are up there. The Duchess Albinoni-Barrington’s tastes runs towards chintz. I mean, surely it’s not really chintz on the walls…what do I know, I’m too vulgar to understand distinctions in wall-covering, mug-covering and Ming. Each room has its own textile pattern with its own precious thematic shade of blue and its own huge four-poster bed, with a droopy canopy of mosquito netting and heavy curtains sweeping down from a ring on the impossibly high ceiling (completely unnecessary, since there are no drafts or mosquitoes in this hermetically sealed house). Also big writing desks, more digital televisions, screens behind which one may dress, etc. etc., like a fancy hotel but way nicer than the Hotel Beaux-Arts. And the bathrooms of course have tubs with feet.

Brunelleschi, rawther indiscreetly, let it drop that some of the awesome luminaries who’ve been invited to visit this summer include a recent horny ex-president and a handsome Hollywood actor-buddhist (neither of whom has yet accepted Eloise’s overture) and Lou Roeberson*, the avant-garde theater director I used to fantasize about working for….Eloise is on his board of his trustees and helped finance his huge performing arts complex down the road 10 miles from ______Hampton.

Back downstairs in the living room the drinking continued, but annoyingly, the butlers were incredibly tight-lipped about the back-office goings-on in the house. Even though the atmosphere invited gossip, all they did was begin to express a certain amount of disdain for Madame. But as soon as it got a little nasty, it was actually Jonas who pulled it back and said, “now really, she’s demanding but she’s not such a bad person. She believes in good things,” to which Roger told him, in the most outraged, caustic, hate-filled tones possible, “How easy for you to say when you sit around all day like a wanker.”

I have to say, though, even though I hate her, I agree with Jonas. Eloise’s basic convictions -- that understanding among nations can be improved through greater cultivation of the arts, and through increased research on the different ways our minds work in order to create more diverse models for education – are absolutely fine. There’s nothing wrong with any of that. It’s even stuff I might agree with, if it came out of the mouth of a different person. And if I didn’t also believe that clean drinking water and jobs and housing and other basic elements of social infrastructure are more important than art, when we’re talking about certain parts of the Middle East and Africa, which is all Eloise seems to want to talk about these days. During Pilates with the news on.

Gerry the awful massage therapist wasn’t there; he is the only member of the household not living on the property at the moment (and thank god he was absent, I can’t stand him and his babble). He had actually been occupying a third servant’s room in the guest-house and he asked to be moved out because he felt it was too ornate for humble him, the worst name-dropper of all time; he asked to be put in the cottage down the road, where I thought I was going to be living. Didier, the personal trainer who is arriving tomorrow from France, will be Gerry’s housemate.

And it was revealed to me on this night – by an inconsolably pissed-off Roger, who had actually lost an argument with Virginie over this, the subject of my living quarters -- that the reason I am not in the cottage down the road is that Virginie ultimately felt that it would be entirely inappropriate for me, an unmarried woman, to live with Gerry (divorced) and Didier (married), two clearly-not-gay, slightly older men. (I was obviously never consulted.) Roger, however, felt (and still feels) very strongly that it is even more entirely inappropriate for a member of Madame’s staff (me) to be living “over her” in her own house. I asked him, “’over her’? what on earth can that possibly mean?” and he said, darkly, “You, my dear, are sleeping on the fourth floor, which is the top floor of the house, and Madame sleeps on the second floor. This is not how things are done. No staff should live above the lady of the house.” I looked at him with my best “surely you must be joking,” but my friends, he was not. I did point out that I am clearly living in the nanny’s room, and if I were in fact a nanny, I would still be staff and still “above” the master bedroom; to which Roger replied that the house had clearly been built with a “different sort” of person in mind. His raised eyebrow let it be known that he still disapproves of my whereabouts, even after having consumed three gins-and-tonic.

After his petite jeremiad, I didn’t really know what to say, so I went to bed earlier than anyone, knowing that with Eloise going out of town in the morning, I could finally sleep late. Also, I could feel the creeping bitterness in everyone’s voices, their fury at being held there by Eloise and the fat salaries she’s paying them, painful golden handcuffs. And they are very very tired, and it isn’t even July. If Roger is so disgusted with Jonas and his relative leisure, I can only imagine he must think I’m irretrievably spoiled and lazy. The room became stifling and I went to bed.

Lots of love from the Unmarried Woman (wasn't that a 1980s Meryl Streep movie?).
More in a few days. xoxo

Chapter 5: Wealth-Management

2008-04-11T23:10:00.012-04:00

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