October 9 - Chocolates are my weakness

The well-heeled set of New York had arrived for the evening. The invitation said six to nine p.m., but everyone knew that no one was showing up before at least eight, and that the drinks would still be poured and the cuisine still served long past when the ninth bell tolled. It was a rainy evening, the first evening cool enough to merit the title of autumnal, but the society ladies didn’t let that stop them from wearing dresses that stopped at upper-thigh (better yet to say, stopped where their bikini waxes stopped), or their strapless ensembles, or their low-cut negligee numbers. The men were in suits of course; that was the generally accepted uniform. Button-down shirts, collars stiff and starched, ties eccentric and witty since this was the one place where men could display personality in their wardrobes. They all had the same trimmed haircut, the same clean-shaven face. No L train mustaches or soul patches here.

Jamie did not want to come to the party, because he hated this kind of scene. “The women want to fuck you for your money or use you for your money so they can eat foie gras at an It restaurant. It’s as simple as that,” he had told his friend, Jacob, at the gym on Monday. Jacob looked at him blankly.

“What’s wrong with that?”

Jamie was meant to go because his father was in the insurance business – high end insurance, Ronald Bollinger would explain. Lamborghinis, Harry Winston jewelry, casks of wine aged fifty years in a dusty cellar somewhere in the Burgundy region, watches the size of a postcard that adorned the wrist of a hedge fund manager. These were the things that Ronald Bollinger insured.

“Like J. Lo’s ass,” Jamie explained to a girl at a party once. “You know how they say it’s insured for ten million? That’s the kind of thing my dad insures.”

This party was meant to entice the rich, who already owned their riches, into buying more of the very same thing so they could claim to be even richer. Jamie would normally have passed up the scene, gone to the Village to listen to jazz at Small’s, or to hear a musician at Joe’s Pub, or soak up the scene while watching sports at one of countless sports bars where the bartenders knew his name and his drink (Jack and coke).

“Miranda will be there,” his mother had insinuated that morning, her winking eyes a nudge in the rib as she spooned scrambled eggs onto his plate. Jamie hated that he was driven to living back home, but he refused to take hand-outs from his parents while waiting for his music to be discovered – right now, he and three buddies played jazz one night a week at a small space on Prince Street, but that was it, and it wasn’t enough to pay the bills. Or rent. Somehow, it didn’t seem like a hand-out from his parents to stay at their home instead of accepting their cash for rent, given that he was sleeping in his childhood bedroom which still had posters of Madonna on the walls in her Like a Virgin years, and blue sheets with race cars around the border that must have been purchased when he was ten. He still purchased his own food (usually pizza from the joint on the corner that charged $2.50 for a slice of cheese plus a can of soda) and did his own laundry (three dollars for two loads in quarters, if he used the washroom on the second floor of the building; ten dollars if he sent it to the Laundromat a black away). So it wasn’t really a hand-out, but the downside was that, after four years of having escaped at college, Jamie was back under his parents’ purview and back in their lifestyle.

“Miranda will be there,” Monica Bollinger stressed, as she scooped out those scrambled eggs (okay, Jamie hadn’t paid for those – his mother liked to buy free-range even though they were two dollars more expensive because it made her feel like she was an activist. “Global warming, darling. Global warming.”), and laid two strips of bacon alongside the yellow mass on his plate.

“Oh?” he had said casually in response.

“Yes,” gushed Monica, ignoring his lack of interest. “Miranda will be at this soiree tonight” – Monica liked using French terms, even when she was unaware of the root words behind them – “and I tell you. I saw that girl at the Met just last week, and my how she’s grown.”

Tits, Monica meant. Miranda had grown tits since the last time Jamie saw her in the twelfth grade. Which meant silicone ones.

The Bollinger’s arrived in a car – not a taxi, a car, hired for the night; the driver would wait somewhere around the block, napping while the rain tapped against the windshield, for the two hours that they were inside – at 8.05 p.m. The crowd had just begun to thicken, a watery sauce set to simmer over the stove that was just now congealing into a pudding. The color black predominated in choice of wardrobe. Ronald offered his arm to Monica and they promptly forgot the son they had dragged along.

Jamie stood with his hands in his pockets, staring with disinterest at the car that was the showpiece of the evening, a new specimen unveiled by Porsche. It was a shimmering, silver blue, black leather interior, price up on request written in small letters on the placard that boasted of its top-out speed (187 miles per hour) and other eccentric features.

No doubt Monica would forget all about her crusade against Global Warming when she saw the thing. For now, Jamie ascertained with a glimpse, his mother was too busy laughing like a bleating sheep while she pretended to enjoy the jokes of his father’s business partner. Mickey was there with his fourth trophy wife (the others had aged too much for their metal to shine, tarnished and rusted, and relegated to the top shelf labeled “Exes.”)

“Isn’t she beautiful?” asked a voice next to him.

For a moment, Jamie thought the newcomer meant his mother, or the fourth Trophy, then realized she was staring lovingly at the car as though it were a newborn kitten. She held a glass of champagne in one hand absently, so it leaned precariously like the Tower of Pisa and looked on the point of spilling onto the gleaming floor tiles.

“It’s a car,” Jamie shrugged, stressing the pronoun. The woman turned and glared at him as though what he had said was infinitely insensitive, and it took him a moment to recognize the face of the girl he had gone to grade school, high school with, because Monica was right; Miranda’s bosom had been augmented impressively, straining against a black top that looked suited for a boudoir, and detracting from the face that had once been pretty. He coughed and faced forward again, suddenly more interested in exactly what color silver the manufacturers had chosen for the Porsche.

“This party’s divine, isn’t it?” Miranda continued, ignoring his insensitivity. “Have you tried the samples? This champagne. Divine.”

She had used the word twice. He refrained from pointing out that ‘divine’ was normally reserved for Greek gods, manna, and intervention.

“They even have samples from that new chocolate boutique on Fifth Avenue. Chocolate truffles with honey inside.” Her eyes popped in ecstasy. “Chocolates are my weakness.”

Jamie’s eyebrows shot up. He could think of a dozen items to add to Miranda’s list of weaknesses. It was clear in that one moment how little Miranda had changed since their graduation, and how much he had.

As if on cue, an obsequious server came around with a silver tray proffered at waist level.

“Chocolate truffles?” he asked. Miranda gave a squeal like a piglet, snatching two. Jamie watched in horror as she popped both into her mouth at once, her cheeks puffed out like a chipmunks. Miranda smiled a chocolate-y smile in apology.

“I haven’t eaten all day,” she chimed, as though this was an accomplishment. “I’ve earned my truffles!”

The waiter held out his tray, but Jamie shook his head apologetically. The waiter frowned, moved off through the crowd.