Bitter Is The New Black Part 21

I consider myself an expert on parties as my college career spanned from 1985 to 1996.141 In this eleven year period, I probably attended at least one party a week. Doing the math, that makes me the veteran of at least 572 parties.142 So consider me an expert when I say every party started with well-groomed attendees. Even if you weren't the prettiest debutant at the ball, you made the most of what you had. The men were gelled and pressed and each of the women sported their cutest clothes and a face-full of cosmetics. There was none of this shaved-headed, random-facial-haired, poorly outfitted foolishness. And no one forgot deodorant, either. If anything, the whiff of Polo Sport and Liz Claiborne perfume was practically overwhelming.

Second of all, parties never took place in anyone's DORM.

Ever.

I mean, how the heck could you sneak twenty kegs past the RA? Fraternity houses had entire floors devoted to party s.p.a.ce. And even apartment party-throwers cleared out the community living area to make room for lethal trash can punch because having s.p.a.ce to circulate was the key to throwing a good party.

Back then we had one drug and it was called ALCOHOL and that was just fine. There wasn't any crank or smack or crack or stank or whatever else the kids do now.143 If drugs had been more readily available, no one would have done them because we were all concerned about failing p.i.s.s tests and losing our internships.

At our parties, if kids hooked up it was behind closed doors. Mostly we just drank and laughed and gossiped and smoked Marlboros, much as we do now as adults at work functions. This is because the purpose of college parties is to prepare the youth of our nation to mainstream into corporate America.

So, please kids, pick yourselves up off the floor, take a shower, starch your khakis, crack a Pabst Blue Ribbon, and head over to the Delt house.

The future of American business is depending on you.

Although we're moving in two days, we still make time to meet my cousin's family for a delightful dinner at Carmine's. After hugs, kisses, and promises to do this more often, Fletch and I are on our way to catch a cab when we walk past Jilly's.

Jilly's...sigh.

Standing outside their door, I'm instantly transported back to 1999, where we're in the throes of the dot-com gold rush. Most weekends we put on all our finery and get together with the rest of the young turks for four-digit group dinners at the Signature Room, Tavern on Rush, Gibson's, etc. But no matter where we start, we always end up at the piano bar at Jilly's, hanging out with the rest of Chicago's young digital elite, drinking martinis, crooning along to Frank and Dino, and tripping across the dance floor while roving bands of photographers doc.u.ment our heyday on film.144 Invincibility permeates our souls like the smell of expensive cigars infuses our Brooks Brothers suits and Burberry shifts.

Of course, those days over. The young turks have gone the way of our success, status, and jobs.

And yet Jilly's still stands, having been reclaimed by baby boomers. I LOATHE baby boomers. Boomers are the only people who emerged from the dot-bomb unscathed. I blame them for the economic crash. They're the ones who used people like me and Fletch to build their pretend companies and their wealth, and then they bailed out before everything came crashing down.

"Feel like nipping in for a quick one?" I ask Fletch. He looks as wistful as I feel.

"I do, but we're limited to one apiece. We need to tip the movers."

We wedge our way through the crowds and up to the bar, waiting for a stool to come open. As seating at Jilly's is as precious and fleeting as a bull market for tech stocks, I grab an empty chair and plant myself in front of a couple of half-full drinks covered with napkins. I shove the gla.s.ses out of my way to make room and then gesture to my favorite bartender, who immediately knows to pull out the Stoli and Spanish olives. Seconds later, we're presented with two swimming poolsized c.o.c.ktails.

Fletch holds his drink up in a toast. "To new beginnings."

"Whatever they may bring." We clink gla.s.ses. I sip the icy vodka, close my eyes, and I'm back in The Day again...mmmm, stock options...ooh, venture capital...aahhh, the e-volution....

I'm jarred from my reverie when someone shoves my stool. I a.s.sume it's the crush of the crowd or Fletch on his way back from the men's room, but when I twist around, I come face to face with an angry boomer. He's the owner of the covered beverages and has returned after fifteen minutes of dancing to reclaim his spot at the bar.

Angry little eyes flash at me through tiny t.i.tanium bifocals and he accuses, "You took my seat."

"I most certainly did not. I sat down in an empty chair."

"Those are my drinks."

"And?" The LAST thing I'm going to do is hand my prized seat over to some boomer a.s.shole without a fight. "Haven't you ever been in a restaurant? A napkin is the universal signal for 'I'm done.' The drinks were covered. This chair was empty. I sat down. End of story."

"This is my chair."

"You certainly present a compelling argument. I am simply floored by your powers of persuasion. Tell me, are you an attorney?"

He shoves my chair again. "Listen, little girl, I'm a regular here, and the bartenders know when I cover my drink, it means I'm coming back, so get your a.s.s out of my seat right now."

I nod at the bartender. "Roger, you know this guy?"

"Never seen him before, Jen. Is there a problem?"

I smile. "No problem." And to the boomer: "Since I'm nice, you can have this seat in a couple of minutes because we're almost finished. Until then, p.i.s.s off." I shoo him away. He glowers at me before skulking back to the dance floor. Dance now, old man. Because someday I will rule Jilly's again.

Roger leans across the bar so that I can hear him over the noise. "Hey, where you guys been? Haven't seen you in here for a long time."

"Roger, I wouldn't even know where to begin."

It feels like we've been packing for months now, but it's only been a week. We've already got seventy cartons stacked up in the dining room, and we haven't even boxed up our personal items yet.

As I pack, I'm struck by the sheer amount of junk that I own. I now understand I have no right to b.i.t.c.h about being broke because I was really foolish with the money I had when I had it.

I start to tabulate what I could have had instead of what I do have. In this cabinet, I have twenty-five half-full bottles of body lotion, and they aren't cheap, either. I've got the sublime-the sparkly designer tubes-and the ridiculous-the glycolic-acid-which-burns-off-several-layers-of-skin-and yet my legs are totally scaly. I never remember to use them until after I put on my pants, and by then, I'm too lazy to take them off again. Figuring that each bottle cost an average of $40, I would have $1000 now, which would pay for two months of COBRA for Fletch and me.

Moving on to the next shelf, I find my nail-care toolbox. I open it and see at least twenty shades of matte red145 from OPI and Christian Dior, each of which cost an average of $10. I kept buying new bottles because I never got around to finding nail polish thinner to salvage the ones I already had. I have four identical bottles of Dutch Tulip and I'm embarra.s.sed by my largesse. Did I mention that $200 would pay for a month of electricity? Add this to the seventeen trays of $30 eye shadow I own and never use,146 and all of a sudden, I have the means to pay for six months' phone service.

The living room is a monument to my impulsive spending habits. I've got more than two hundred DVDs, including cinematic greats such as Monkey Bone, Corky Romano, and A Night at the Roxbury, leading me to believe not only do I have awful taste in films, but I also have a Chris Kattan fixation. What I don't have is $4000 earning interest in a money market account.

The DVDs reside on the same bookcase as all my hardbacked books. Instead of waiting for the paperback edition or, G.o.d forbid, going to the public library, I had to have hardcovers. Had I checked these books out instead, I could afford an entire year's worth of insurance on both vehicles.

But these expenditures are nothing compared to what's in my closet. My sweater compulsion could have easily afforded me a semester of grad school, and if I didn't have an affinity for fur-trimmed coats, I could fund an entire MBA, including a new laptop.

Now on to the mother lode-shoes. My stacked-heel loafer collection would have paid for two months' rent and my summer slide a.s.sortment a whole season's worth of groceries. My crocodile-skinned pumps alone might have funded a year of DSL service. And why the h.e.l.l did I need so many pair of athletic shoes? It's not like I exercise. But if I did, my sneaker budget could finance a health club membership at one of the city's sw.a.n.kier gyms.

Eventually, I get around to packing my purses. Even minus the ones I've auctioned, I still need two giant boxes to hold them all. None of these babies were a bargain, either. Why, exactly, did I need a lavender-and-brown Kate Spade bag for $300? Do you know how hard it is to coordinate those colors with anything else? I've used the d.a.m.n thing twice in two years. And while I dig my white floral Spade bag, I never carry it for fear of getting it dirty. It sits in my closet doing nothing. Why didn't I just give its $275 ticket price to a deserving charity instead?

Finally, I examine the cornerstone of my beloved but ridiculous collection-my giant chain-strap Prada bag. I loved this purse when I saw it, and d.a.m.n the price, I HAD to have it. Yet now it's covered with dust, hasn't been touched in months, and has brought me nothing but bad luck. I examine every inch of it and sigh deeply. The silver links are starting to chip and the Prada-embossed lining is torn. The worst part is that the cost of this bag could have paid for professionals to box up all this stuff.

Fletch comes in to work on his side of the closet. "How's it going?"

"Depressing," I reply.

"I'm sad, too. But this is what we have to do."

"I'm talking about all this stuff. What was I thinking? Why did I buy so much? And why didn't you stop me?"

He snorts. "Because it would have been impossible."

I look over at his tidy row after row of Johnson & Murphy shoes, neatly hung Hickey-Freeman suits, stacks of cashmere sweaters, and rung of custom-made Thomas Pink shirts. "You're one to talk."

He sits down heavily on the edge of the bed. "Now we know better. We've learned an expensive lesson."

I join him. "I just hope we didn't learn it too late."

I fear we've made a terrible mistake.

We've moved to the frigging barrio. I knew we should have checked this place out in daylight. Yes, our apartment and landlord are decent, but that doesn't change the fact that except for my building's tenants, no one here speaks English.

NO ONE.

Which is probably why I've never heard of this neighborhood before. I don't speak any of the languages in which I may have heard it discussed. All the signs are written in Spanish or Polish, and there are six lavanderias within walking distance. Not Laundromats: LAVANDERIAS. The shop around the corner sells Pollo Vivo, which translated means live chickens. I have no idea where I can buy a cup of coffee around here, but if I need access to an industrial-strength clothes dryer or want to kill my own dinner, I'm all set. The cashier at the local McDonald's even tried to take my order in Spanish. Excuse me, but am I not smack in the center of the United States of America? Unless I need to order a beer or tell someone I have a pencil, I'm screwed. Perhaps I should have paid more attention when Bill was discussing "urban renewal."

When we looked at this place, the new construction next door must have blinded me to the tenement two doors down. There are at least fifteen fresh-off-the-boat immigrant families squashed into a building made to hold four. I can't walk the dogs down the strip of gra.s.s bordering their property because of all the food they leave out, ostensibly for the birds. In the past two weeks, I've seen moldy tortillas, loaves of bread, cans of tuna, and a large sandwich with all the tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs. Since when do sparrows eat beefsteak tomatoes? Yesterday the dogs almost yanked my arm off when we ran into a rat feasting on the tenement's offerings; the rat slipped into a big crack in the side of the building as soon as it saw the dogs. That place has to be totally infested.

Today was the kicker. We were taking our a.m. potty run, and I stumbled across a pile of pancakes. Who leaves an entire short stack out for the birds?? I imagine the people inside, throwing their hands up and crying in Slavic accents, "Vy ve haf so many rats?" I feel like shouting back at them, "Because you feed them Continental breakfasts!"

One of us has to find a well-paying job soon because we simply CANNOT stay here.

Since our neighborhood doesn't have an official name, we've settled on "Sucktown." We've been in Sucktown three weeks and we've yet to meet any of the building's other tenants. I'm pretty sure I won't like them. Bill's going to have to paint lines in the parking lot because none of the residents can figure out how to park their cars on an angle without a guide, so half the time we're stuck leaving the Caddy on the street, which is SO not acceptable.

I'm particularly concerned about the people downstairs. They have tapestries on their windows and Grateful Dead stickers on their door, so I fear they may be hippies. Plus they crank up their music every time our dogs trot across the floor, so I wonder if their ceiling isn't properly soundproofed. What am I supposed to do, crate them like veal? Dogs run sometimes; deal with it. Ya lives on the first floor, ya takes your chances, you know?

The dogs and I are thundering down the stairs for our evening const.i.tutional when I finally b.u.mp into Hippie #1. We introduce ourselves and make inane small talk, which has nothing to do with what we're both thinking.

"Hi, Bobby, I'm Jen. It's a pleasure finally to meet you!" So you're the jacka.s.s who pays half the rent I do and yet still hogs up my parking s.p.a.ce.

Bobby gives me an insincere, fishy handshake. "Nice to meet you, too. How do you like living here?" Jesus Christ, do you people keep a herd of water buffalo up there? What's with the noise?

"It's great, thanks. Oh, this is Maisy and Loki. We've really been trying to keep them quiet. Hope they don't bother you!" HA, HA, HA, MOTHERf.u.c.kER! Keep parking in my s.p.a.ce and SEE how much louder we can be.

"Oh, no problem, we love dogs." You enjoy that loooong walk back to the house from your parking s.p.a.ce down the street? Why don't you bring the noise level down a couple of thousand decibels and maybe I'll move my car?

"What do you do for a living?" What kind of job allows you to smoke so much pot that I get a contact buzz every time I walk into my den?147 "I'm a bartender and my girlfriend, Holly, is a poet." Did I mention that we hate yuppie sc.u.m like you?

I guess Holly's unemployed, too? While reining in the dogs to go outside, I say, "I guess they're ready to go. See you later!" Hope you like show tunes 'cause I'm buying tap shoes.

"Nice to finally meet you!" Vengeance is mine, sayeth the downstairs neighbor. When he opens his door, I catch a glimpse of the six-foot bong in his living room. Nice.

The dogs and I wend our way down the street and, because another dog is coming toward us, veer off to walk by the tenement. As we pa.s.s, a flock of birds scatters. I look down to inspect this evening's treat and see they were gathered around a pile of chicken bones, which means...the birds in this neighborhood are cannibals!!

Seriously, that's it. We can't stay here.

It's time for drastic measures.

To: Sandy Case From: Date: March 8, 2003 Subject: Senior Account Manager Sandy, I see that Birchton & Co. is looking for a new Senior Account Manager. If you recall, I was set to interview for this exact job on 9/11/01. When weighing the events of the day, I chose to cancel our appointment rather than risk the unknown by going downtown.

Because of the cancellation, you decided against giving me another shot at an interview. A year and a half later, I look back on that day and am confident I made the right choice. I took the most sensible, prudent action I could based on the information I had at the time. I stand behind my decision.

Now you're faced with a choice, Sandy. You can simply delete the email from the pushy girl, or you can interview the woman who'll make the same kind of discerning and savvy judgment calls when it comes to your clients.

Should you choose the latter, I can be reached at the contact information below.

Best, Jennifer A. Lancaster ***

Holy s.h.i.t, I got the interview.

"How'd it go?" Fletch asks from his spot on the couch. Next to him are a pile of mini candy bar wrappers and half a gla.s.s of bourbon. I swear I don't know how Adult Protective Services has not yet intervened in our lives.

"Pretty well, I think. Sandy wants me to come back later in the week to talk to another one of the partners." I toss my briefcase onto the kitchen table and flop into the chair next to the television. "At one point, though, I knocked her socks off. Literally, I'm talking socks FLYING across the room."

"What was the question?"

"The usual 'Where do you see yourself in five years?' foolishness. What Sandy doesn't know is that I just finished reading an article by Peter Drucker in the Harvard Business Review on Managing Your Career.148 Instead of giving the road map of career progression from point A to B to C like everyone else does, I totally took Drucker's words out of context and said, 'It's rarely possible to look ahead more than eighteen months and still be reasonably clear and realistic. Instead, I choose to focus on where and how I can achieve results that will make a difference in my present position within a year and a half time frame. After that, I'd be open to whatever change and growth these results presented.' I'm telling you, she sat there with her mouth hanging open before she finally said, 'That's the most articulate answer I've ever gotten to that question.'"

"She have any idea how full of s.h.i.t you are?"

"Not yet. So what's been happening around here?" I eye his c.o.c.ktail. "Are you celebrating something?"

"I am. I got a call from that ISP, and they want to fly me out to New York for a second interview."

"That's fantastic!! When?"

"Probably Friday."

"How great would that be if we both got offers in the next week? We could be out of Sucktown and back in a normal neighborhood before summer."

"Amen. I just hope we're gone before one of the members of the Russian Army dies on the job site."

Oy. The Russian Army. Not the real one, mind you. We're talking about the ones next door doing construction. Actually, I think they're Polish, but Fletch says he's heard them speaking Russian. We've taken to calling them the Russian Army for simplification purposes because we discuss them A LOT.

The Army is building an $800,000 home next door to us, which will be nice. This neighborhood needs to be gentrified, like, yesterday, and expensive real estate will help. However, I'm not sure we're going to survive the building process, as I'm concerned this may be their first job ever.

I've always lived in city neighborhoods on the rise149 so I've seen an awful lot of construction in my time, but I've never witnessed a project like this one. First off, no one wears hard hats-unfortunate because they drop stuff ALL THE TIME. Bricks, beams, pallets, you name it, it comes crashing down with frightening regularity.

Last week I had to put my hood up when walking down the breezeway to my mailbox. Their welding created a virtual blizzard of falling sparks. And when I got to the front of the house I noticed my LAWN WAS ON FIRE. Later, I smelled singed hair and saw their foreman yelling and hopping around, clutching the back of his head. Call me a jerk, but when I spied his bald spot, I laughed out loud.