Put Your Best Foot Forward

Another chapter sent to the editor for my book a few years ago…

I was feeling crippled with the typical Tuesday night TV fare so I willingly pushed myself out the door. I had checked the currency quotes coming out of Singapore for the umpteenth time and in the immortal words of Mick, I was getting no satisfaction. I felt overwhelmed and knew it would be difficult to sleep with the knot in my stomach. I was painfully aware this trade was digging a hole that would bury me with the cover-up. Traders will tell you they love the high, the addicting high of the trade. Everything coming together, like you predicted the future. I loved it too. This was not pain from too much of a good thing, this was the guilt eating at me from the inside — after all I had already been paid millions of bonus dollars for this error. My life has become one big gamble. The cards are stacked. I will lose the whole pot when they discover my error. She could sense my pain.

I rode the elevator down with a 40-ish woman in her designer sweats accompanying her lap dog out for it’s “nite-nite” walk. She could sense my pain. These lonely women are all over the city, raising animals like they are small children, bonding with these dogs at the expense of other relationships — who needs a man when a dog fits nicely on your lap. For those in search of a quick affair, they are perfect targets — there is never enough room for “the dog” and the boyfriend. Spend time with a woman that lets a dog sleep with her and you will soon find I speak the truth. Two dogs in the same bed becomes too large a crowd for any woman. Just when you are deep into that fantastic dream of the blond kissing you with her beautiful wind blown hair brushing against you, you awake to find it was her dog, Byron, licking you then sitting on your face. I once went home with an intelligent, well preserved, mature redhead — greatest legs on earth. I do not lie. When we got to the door of her home, a large, bellowing barking sound came from behind the closed door… “Beagle?,” I asked… “no, German Shepherd,” she said. Needless to say, I gave her a deep passionate kiss at the door, feeling her up for the souvenir wetness that I so love and bid her adieu with a slap on the ass, explaining to her I had an early morning conference call with Frankfurt.

I glanced at her short dark hair. It had an illustrious quality to it, reflecting the light from the elevator, like some shampoo commercial. I wanted to lean into her to smell its fragrance, to get lost in that wondrous, clean odor or just plain lose myself. She could sense my pain. Her skin was still tan from her weekends in the Hamptons. She looked scrumptious. I pictured her lounging by the pool at the beach house — string bikini, without visible tan lines. Drinking margaritas, ice cubes melting in her mouth… “could you rub some lotion on my sun-kissed shoulders, ? ” she would ask. Ok, maybe she didn’t call them “sun-kissed”, but nevertheless, I would rub on her whatever she requested,… until it was too hot to stay in the sun … time to hit the showers? Too soon for a nap?

She could sense my pain. This deep pain in my heart that radiates through every fiber of my being, down to the knot in my stomach. It’s lonely here. The greatest regret is knowing how things might have been, how great this life could have been with you in it and seeing my youngest daughter grow into the woman she will one day be. To my older children, I have long outlived my usefulness to them. I once read Buddhists believe you make your heaven or hell right here on earth and Milton said it best when he wrote that “The mind is its own place, and in itself / Can make a heav’n of hell, a hell of heav’n.” Hell is right between your ears my friends.

I sometimes looked in the mirror to see if it showed. I heard good detectives can spot a guilty person. I could see it. There it was, like a backpack slung-over my shoulder causing me to slouch to one side. If she noticed, she was being too kind because she said nothing. She could sense my pain. She just gave me a nervous smile; either from fear of being alone with a stranger or from her yearning to spend the night with someone other than that pampered pet. If she said the right thing I might just go back upstairs with her — but I will not pick up that dog’s shit.

The elevator door opened, she and the dog scurried out. I followed slowly, stopping to check out my appearance in the lobby’s mirror. I still looked good, even with that slouch. I couldn’t look into my eyes though. They were red from the tears, they had an evil quality that must shout to the world that I did not deserve the life I was living. My whole life was a lie.

I walked down Park Avenue passing amorous couples strolling arm in arm. To many I might have been the invisible man, others watched me from the corner of their eye as if I were a mugger ready to strike. I ask, how many muggers walk down Park Avenue in a tailored suit? Muggers are either nervous types or drugged up to mask the fear, and let me tell you I know this from personal experience. I’m reminded of the time I was hanging out on the Upper East side until 2 in the morn with a cutie I was interested in getting to know. Finally deciding it was going nowhere I left her place and realized I was cash deficient — this was before the days of the great ATM or taxis with credit card readers. I was hesitant to take a subway at that time of the morning in my drunken state but no other choice presented itself. I paid my fare at the 77th/Lex station — subway tokens are all but history now, but I did get one that night — walked down to the quiet, but well-lit platform. One other person joined me on the downtown side but he looked harmless. When, what to my wondering, drunken eyes should appear but some gang bangers looking like eight little reindeer? “Yo Carlos, Yo Benito, Yo Pepe and Tito! Andale, Andale, Andale all!” From the other side, within the blink of an eye, they jumped onto the tracks climbing up my side, looking so lively and quick, yelling obscenities in an adrenaline filled rage. Within minutes, the other man was surrounded not 30 yards from me and beat down while the hero in me froze. It was like watching a movie in fast motion — I tell you this to show you the effects of adrenaline. We were all hyped on adrenaline at that time, the boys, me and the guy getting the beating, we were numb from the excitement. The booth worker yelled that he was calling the police and the little boys, the oldest being maybe 12 or 13 scampered back across the tracks like the little rats they were and disappeared out and up the stairs. Within minutes the police arrived and picked the man up, at least before the subway train came to take me away. Oh, … what a Night?

It didn’t appear as though anyone was out tonight so I had to jingle my memory for a place to find some bodies. I felt a sudden chill in the air. The sky was clear and I could tell the moon was bright but could not see it above the tall buildings. How wonderful it was to be out and feel free if even for a moment. I could live and be free. I fantasized about selling the apartment and leaving the country before anyone found out. If I sold the stocks and bonds and transferred the cash to an overseas account, like the Swiss ones you always hear about, I could live very comfortably somewhere in the world outside of the long arm of the law. In some third world country I might live like a king. Note to self to explore this avenue, though I think Swiss accounts are out since that route was just broken open by the IRS.

I cut over to Fifth Avenue and decided on the bar at the Royalton when I got to 44th Street. I walked up the stairs to the door, passed the doorman in his exquisite Armani suit and waltzed into the art deco lobby. I found an open couch and sat down. From my vantage point I surveyed the bar action and spied a couple of birds dressed in black. How original. Black seems to be the uniform of the New York, kind of club going woman. If it were not for the Kate Spade bags clutched to their sides and shoulders draped with mint green and pink pastel pashminas, the whole scene would have been colorless. I ordered Lagavulin neat from the cocktail waitress, who was wearing a long, black and tight knit dress with a slit up to her ass. Her one leg was unveiled in all its splendid glory. It was firm and smooth like a runner’s leg but soft to the touch or so I imagined. Oh, how I was now imagining it as she walked away to fetch my drink! I could picture her leg, next to me, in my bed as I laid next to it massaging it with some type of fragrant oil, slowly moving my hand up to where the dark length of the dress hid its deep mysteries. She placed the drink down on a low, smoked glass table framed in brushed aluminum. I gave her my credit card, I do remember when these platinum cards used to impress. Now everyone has one, no matter what your credit history. I made sure the waitress noticed the unbuttoned cuffs on the sleeves my my suit jacket, by looking at my watch. All the young turks on Wall Street wear them this way, a silent badge of status.

I told the waitress, her name was Sylvia, to send the birds at the bar a round on my tab. She smiled, I’m almost positive she did, but I missed it as my eyes slid down to her legs and back up to the magical ass. As she marched off to fill the order and notify the girls of their newest benefactor, I quickly pulled out my flask and downed a shot of the pink stuff. Drinking these days always includes scotch with a pink pepto chaser, compliments of that friend eating away in my stomach. As the girls received their drinks they waved their pashminas at me like flags of surrender. I sauntered over to see them up close but as my buddy, Tom says, ‘good from afar but far from good’. I made some small talk and finished my drink with them but could not keep my mind off Sylvia. I watched her scamper around out of the corner of my eye. She noticed that I was watching her. The bill included her number, but I make it a point to never let an opportunity slip away — he who hesitates is lost, they say. There is no time like the present to close the deal. When she brought back the receipt I asked what time she was done for the evening so I could buy her a cup of coffee or tea — God knows I needed one by now. She said she did not want a coffee but after an evening on her feet she would be hopelessly indebted if someone would rub them. She asked if I was volunteering — of course! She said I could meet her outside in 20 minutes. Life feels good in this moment, I might just forget my pain.