The View From Penthouse B

13





Professional Updates


1. Margot





Having Googled the phrase “what publishers want,” Margot reports the answer is “a platform,” and she has one, big-time: the thirteen thousand Madoff victims plus millions of regular Americans living below the poverty line. Wouldn’t every one of them be a potential buyer for her memoir/guidebook?

“Have you written any of it yet?” Anthony asked. We were waiting for the popcorn to pop before we started our ladies’-choice DVD night, which was to say Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason. Margot said that all she had so far were a few notes, but this much she knew: The book should be small and adorable to catch people’s eye at the cash register; it had to be cheap because her target audience was broke; it would give tips on surviving hard times, cutting corners, finding free everything—openings, museums, readings, concerts, hors d’oeuvres at happy hours. There would be chapters called “Grow Your Own,” “Bake Your Own,” and “Shop Your Closet,” and lots of recipes throughout using cheap cuts of meat and beans in bulk. Most of all, it needed an irresistible title that would work in several languages.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” said Anthony.

“It’s going to take a lot of work and research,” I said.

Without prompting or apparent rumination, Margot recited, “Tip number one: Sell your car so you aren’t paying for a garage, gas, insurance, inspections, detailing, tune-ups, tolls, you name it. If you’re leaving the city, rent a car—or stay home. Two: Do your own manicures and pedicures. Three: Get your hair colored at a cheap salon or at a beauty school instead of by someone famous. Four: Buy all cosmetics, creams, makeup, et cetera at Duane Reade or CVS. Five: Go to the library. Six: Buy a whole chicken and cut it up yourself and learn to love thighs.”

After a short, diplomatic pause, Anthony asked, “You’re kidding, right?”

“About which one?”

“About all of them!”

Margot said, “In that list alone, a person could save hundreds a month.”

I said, “The problem is, people on budgets already know these tips.”

“Not to mention, they’re totally New York–centric,” said Anthony. “Do small towns even have different tiers of hair colorists?”

“And, no offense,” I said, “but advising someone to go to the library instead of buying books has pretty much been a well-known custom for hundreds of years.”

“Penny-pinching one-o-one,” Anthony grumbled.

“Not a bad title,” Margot said. “Penny-pinching à la Ponzi.”

“Don’t you dare,” said Anthony.

Margot, ever unflappable, said, “Hold your fire. I’ll get the popcorn. And my secret weapon.”

We could hear the opening and closing of kitchen drawers that were not associated with bowls, salt, or napkins. When she rejoined us, she was waving a yellowed magazine, which on inspection turned out to be Great Ground-Beef Recipes, a Family Circle publication marked ninety-five cents. “Copyright nineteen sixty-five!” Margot exclaimed. “A treasure trove left behind by our predecessors. Presto: my entrées.”

I said, “You can’t use someone else’s recipes. They’re copyrighted.”

“I’ve already thought of that. I’ll throw in a line saying that many were inspired by concoctions from a simpler time, blah, blah, blah . . . Merci beaucoup, Family Circle.” She turned to her first bookmark, a strip of wax paper, and read, “Chapter one: What would we do without ground beef, exclamation point.” Smiling happily, she turned to another marked page. “Meat Balls—two words—Stroganoff . . . Meat Balls Veronique . . . Persian Spoonburgers . . . Meat-loaf—hyphenated—Reubens.”

Anthony sighed and announced that he was going to skip Bridget Jones the sequel and opt for a workout.

“Is it the ground beef that’s making you both so mopey, or is it the whole project?” Margot asked.

“I can’t speak for Gwen,” Anthony said, “but I don’t love the idea of recipes from the nineteen sixties.”

“You don’t think the message is ‘I’m no snob. I used to buy porterhouse, but I’m happy with hamburger now’?”

I said, “I suppose . . .”

“It’s role-modeling. It’s saying ‘Keep your chin up.’ And I think I’m good at that.”

“I think I’ll go to the gym,” said Anthony.

“What about yours?” she asked him.

“My what?”

“Your recipes! Just our favorites. The gingerbread chocolate chunk, the Scarlett O’Haras, the Mixed Marriage, the PB and Js . . . five or six of the showstoppers. You’d get your own chapter. ‘Anthony’s Famous Cupcakes.’” She winked at me. “Illustrated with photos of our pastry chef.”

“Do you have these recipes written down?” I asked him.

“Of course I do.”

“It could be my ticket,” Margot said.

“Or mine,” said Anthony.





2. Me





I didn’t fix Charles up with any of my female acquaintances. Follow-through wasn’t my strong suit, anyway, and Charles didn’t mention it again. Margot did, but only to scold Anthony for suggesting that Charles was even a remotely appropriate blind date for an unsuspecting woman. She insisted that he didn’t deserve companionship, especially if it led to sexual gratification. Could I promise her I was out of the matchmaking business, especially where it involved an ex-brother-in-law? I said, for about the fifth time, “Yes, I promise.”

Recently, I posted signs in our building’s laundry room, advertising my skills in grammar and punctuation, diagramming sentences, and tutoring in the above disciplines. I check every day to see if any of the vertical tear-off tabs bearing my phone number are missing, but so far all are intact.





3. Anthony





He didn’t get the job at Lewiston Capital, but the company’s HR department invited him to apply for the job vacated by the successful in-house candidate. Although it pays less, Junior Financial Analyst was described as a “foot-in-the-door opportunity providing direct access to upper management who will help facilitate professional growth.”

He said he’d be embarrassed if he doesn’t get this one since it’s entry-level and has been practically handed to him. Margot and I tell him to put our names down as references, and we will rave about every aspect of him that could conceivably pertain to employment.

Present that same evening, Charles asked Anthony if he had a police record. When I rushed in to take offense on his behalf, Anthony said calmly, “He means my green-card fiasco. And the answer is no; my lawyer got me off.”

“How did you know about that?” I asked Charles.

Charles smiled. “We have conversations while you’re in the kitchen putting the finishing touches on your delicious stand-in meals.” He meant the more and more frequent substituting I’d been doing for the often-absent Margot. I had to say thank you. That very night was one of mine: cabbage soup with meatballs with a crusty boule on the side. Who would believe that a day-old loaf of bread could cost five dollars?





4. Olivia





There is another Sarno under our roof temporarily, on the parlor couch. Olivia’s two-week notice has expired, and her boyfriend-boss hasn’t yet found the one-bedroom apartment where they’ll live after he extricates himself from his marital home. None of us have met Noel, but we offer to go along on their dates so it looks more like friendship than alienation of affection. Noel’s wife, Davida, is not a divorce attorney, but her firm has a famously litigious and unforgiving family law unit. Without Davida’s unlovability and frigidity factored in, the potential screaming headline—MAN FALLS FOR NANNY—has the entire division licking its chops.

Like her brother, Olivia is handy and considerate around the house. We didn’t know she was a licensed bartender, but now we have gin and vodka in the freezer and cocktails of every hue. It’s a good guest indeed who empties a load of clean dishes without being asked and without interviewing the hosts as to where every bowl and pan are housed. Besides supplying the booze, she has assumed my cleaning responsibilities in lieu of paying rent, making us, in almost every sense, a cooperative. It all evens out, each of us contributing our own talents. As a big fan of Louisa May Alcott, and after my second Blue Lagoon, I expounded one night on Bronson Alcott’s utopian commune. Eventually, I had to renege after looking up Fruitlands, because we weren’t vegans or transcendentalists or farmers. In fact, I have stopped using “commune” even jokingly because Charles, being Charles, hears a note of promiscuity in that word.

Olivia loves children and misses the baby dreadfully, but she probably won’t be able to continue in the au pair field, having undone one employer’s marriage. Accordingly, the agency has her situation under advisement.