It starts out on the wrong foot.
I dash out the door, already late for an 8:30 pm reservation, driving like mad, imagining them ordering without me, giving up my place setting and my chair, obliterating any sign that I was ever invited.
Running in at 8:50, I learn that yes, Steve has a table for five at 8:30 pm and no, I am the first to arrive, so sir, you can wait over there in the lounge for the rest of your table to arrive.
Oookay. Check the Blackberry; did Steve cancel the dinner? No emails. Should I call Steve? Calm down. Better wait a few minutes. Be cool. So I stand there, wondering where everyone is, watching other people eat and drink, hoping I don’t look like a stood-up date, then realizing I do, then trying to disappear.
Ten minutes later, the maître d’ sends Scott my way. “I can’t believe no one’s here yet,” he says. Um, I’m here, I think as I shrug and smile.
He has two bottles of wine under his arm. He holds one up to my eyes. I can’t read the label, knowing little French and nothing about wine, so I nod my head appreciatively and hope he interprets that as expertise. “Only the best for the wine club,” he says.
Wine club?
And that’s when Mike and Howard walk in, each bearing two bottles of wine. Then Steve and his two bottles of wine.
Following them to the table, I’m searching my mind, trying to remember: Did Steve say anything about wine? He’d said, “A group of us are getting together next week at this new restaurant. Want to come?”
Nothing about wine.
My instinct had been to say no, to invent a conflict and express regret, but these days I’m working hard to rebut my instincts, convinced they’re all wrong. These guys all live in Shady Glen, they’re my neighbors, I’ve met them over the years, but I’ve never spent any kidless time with them, so hey, this is a chance to crawl out from under my rock, give the social life the old college try, at least for a night, so I said yes.
“Are they decanting your wine?” Mike’s looking at me.
“No, I didn’t know this was a wine club, so I didn’t bring any wine.” Lame, but true. “Do you want me to order some? I can do that.” At least I offered.
“I think we have enough,” Mike says. Eight bottles for five men.
They don’t look too disappointed, probably relieved that at least I didn’t bring Two Buck Chuck. This is a fast crowd. Much faster than me.
The first bottle open, Mike proposes a toast to Scott. A retirement toast. Scott just sold his last building, closed his office down, packed it in for good, or at least until real estate prices return to earth.
Scott is 45.
Scott tells us he and his wife leave for France next week, “just to wander around,” he says, “no fixed plans,” although they’re flying in their decorator for a few weeks, hoping to find some good antiques for the house. “And our new wine cellar needs some real authentic racks,” he says.
“Unlike your wife’s.” Mike is grinning.
“Prick,” Scott is grinning too.
“Scott, you have the best life. I hate you. Can I shake your hand?” Mike is holding out his hand.
Scott slaps it. “Yeah, I’ve got it good,” he says, “but last time we were in France, we traveled with this other couple we know from the school. The guy’s a money manager or a trader, something like that, he made $12 million last year. And that’s mostly salary and a guaranteed bonus, so he stands to make that kind of money every year just for showing up to work. Can you imagine that? I sell a building, I might make half that, but that’s it for me, no more where that came from. It’s just a one-time thing. And if I play it wrong, I can lose money. This guy, he just shows up for work, it’s like they sell a bunch of buildings for him. Year after year.”
“Yeah,” Howard says, “but does he have a boss?”
“Sort of, I guess,” says Scott, “he doesn’t own the company, and they won’t give him equity, so they have to pay him tons of cash to keep him.”
“That is some serious money,” Howard says, “but he can lose it if the owner fires him. Or if the markets go down in a recession. You should see my brother-in-law. That guy has the best life. He and his partner make sex toys. Talk about a recession-proof business – do people ever stop playing with themselves? They make them in China for like ten cents each, then wholesale them for $5.00 to stores that sell them for $10.00. It’s all pure profit. And the best part of it is, his partner is like this sex toy design genius, invents all sorts of innovative dildos and stuff like that, so their sales keep growing and all my brother-in-law has to do is visit the factories a couple times each year and count the money as it rolls in. I’ll bet they split $8 million last year. Not as much as your friend, Scott, but that’s still a ton of money, they’re their own bosses, and, shit, they sell sex toys for a living. How great is that?”
Steve’s laughing. “Tell them about the sword fight.”
“So his kid – my nephew – he’s eight years old and having a play date and the friend’s mom comes over to pick him up and what’re they doing, they’re having a sword fight in the backyard. With dildos! They’re whacking each other in the head with some Long Dongs they found in the garage. Man, was she pissed.”
“And now he’s a pariah.”
“Sort of. People avoid them, but they also bug him for free samples.”
“Well,” Steve leans back, “that is a great life, but I don’t think it’s the best life, what with the stigma and all that. Talk about the best life – you guys all know Marco, right?”
“Gray Ferrari?”
“Right, he lives up my street, but you never see him. You know where he is? Racing cars. He follows the circuit around the world, spends half the year in Europe, this week he’s in Africa. And get this, his wife totally supports him. She owns this company, has a ton of money, so she buys him cars, pays all his bills, charters him a jet, lets him wander the world, do whatever he wants. A total free pass.”
“Why would she do that?”
“Two words: Underwear model. Need I say more?”
“No shit?”
“No shit. He used to be an underwear model. They’ve got posters hanging in his house. I’ve seen them. Let me tell you, he’s the real deal – great genes. And I’ve been out with him. Women throw themselves at him. It’s amazing. I’ve never seen anything like it. They go wild. The looks, the money, the race cars, the aura of bad boy danger – it’s a potent combination. Catnip for the ladies. All his life, this guy’s been the ultimate babe magnet, everywhere he goes. Can you imagine that?”
“Hell, even his wife’s a babe.”
“And rich. And get this, while he’s jetting around the world, racing his cars, he gets to do whatever he wants, if you know what I mean.”
“She’s okay with that?”
“I don’t know, but he doesn’t care. She built the business, but he still gets half. Community property. The ultimate ace in the hole. So he pretty much does whatever he wants, totally lives the life, and if it doesn’t work out, he’s still set for life.”
Howard lifts his glass. “You win. Marco has the best life. And now I’m depressed. Pass the wine.”
By now they’re well into the wine, wine I’ve barely sipped out of guilt at not having contributed any, and I ease my Blackberry out my pocket, checking the time, wondering how long I must sit here before crawling back under my rock.
Thanks for another dispatch from one of the inner circles of hell.
Posted by: R J Keefe | March 21, 2006 at 06:46 AM
No, wait--this is *fiction*, right?
Posted by: communicatrix | March 21, 2006 at 09:40 AM
You make me suddenly fonder of my rock.
Posted by: MindSpin | March 22, 2006 at 02:27 AM
I remember the first time I smelled a really expensive scented candle. It was in the home of a wealthy Hollywood couple and I was still pretty green about these things. I complimented the hostess about the candle and when it was time to leave she gave me the candle. I felt so cheap.
Posted by: rannva | March 22, 2006 at 09:41 PM