The Other Side of Paradise

Randi wants ambiguous romance, and I believe this fits the bill. I'm riffing on the well-worn "trading up" meme that is so near and dear to the readership in this category. Of course, there's always a twist. I hope you enjoy... As usual, thanks, my friend. You keep us all productive.

*

The flight into LaGuardia had been a bitch. So, had my wife.

She'd been that way since I told the Netflix people, "not interested." I saw that refusal as the first step in getting a square peg out of a round hole. Ashley saw it as a "craven abandonment of a promising career." Afterward... we'd strongly agreed to disagree - for weeks. In fact, we disagreed so much that our sex life was more like a conjugal visit.

I'm a writer, and writers write. It's a compulsion. We do it because we have something to say - thoughts that we want to pass along to anybody willing to listen. We might occasionally offer up memorable insight - the kind that helps people better understand their lives. But at a minimum... we try to write something that we can be proud of. That's why six long years of grinding out crap for the likes of People Magazine was so soul-sucking.

Prostituting my talent DID buy us a nice place in Mill Valley. But I was thirty-two years old, and up to that point, my most memorable achievement had been an episode of The Time Traveler's Wife - which was fucking humiliating. So, I had to make my move now or slide down that legendary slippery slope into a lifetime of mediocrity and self-loathing.

I knew that the marital glacier wouldn't melt until I got myself another gig. Hence, I planned to talk to a literary agent while I was in Manhattan. Meantime, we were really in New York for the wedding of Ash's slut sister, Nadine.

The sister was marrying some clueless loser who thought the little whore was the Princess Bride. I don't know whether corporate tax law causes brain damage. Or you have to be absolutely "special" to get into the field. But the guy was totally oblivious to the fact that he was going to be cheated on - perhaps as early as the reception.

The two of them - the sisters, that is - were polar opposites. Nadine was the younger of the Vonn girls. She was short, voluptuous, and steamy hot. Ashley took after her dad - the Congressman. Ash was tall, model slim, cool, and classically gorgeous - with a studied air of class and refinement.

How Ash and I got together is irrelevant. But needless to say, it took a bit of persuasion to get Ash's family onside. Fortunately, I knew a few Hollywood types at the time. So, our engagement generated positive press for the Congressman. That was all it took. The man was a complete media-whore.

The family planned to stay at the Plaza. Of course, we were staying at the Plaza... The wedding was in the Terrace Room on the 29th. But my wife and I were in town a week early because the micromanaging old twat Ash calls "mother" wanted both her "girls" at her beck and call - histrionics being right smack dab in that ancient cow's wheelhouse.

The first unpleasant surprise happened exactly fifteen seconds after we walked into the Fifth Avenue foyer. The Congressman and the Dragon were standing at reception wearing the phony grins that they habitually plastered on their faces when they saw me. But this time, they were sharing the stage with the haughty, slightly equine countenance of William Wentworth IV.

Billy, as Ash referred to him, was an old flame from their Horace Mann days. They'd dated off and on through prep school, and I understood it was hot. But Ash and Billy were allegedly not on speaking terms. Hence, I'd assumed that the douchebag wouldn't be attending the wedding. Especially since - one of the reasons Billy and Ash broke up was that she had caught him fucking the bride-to-be. Still, as Scott Fitzgerald put it, "The rich are different from you and me."

Even more disturbing was the fact that... Ash blew right past her enthusiastically smiling parents and threw her arms around the pencil neck of the glowingly smirking William Wentworth the Fourth. I stood there with the bags and bellman taking in that poignant scene with considerable dismay.

Ash's mother said, snotty entitlement oozing from every pore, "Billy insisted on greeting you, Dear."

Wentworth, as always, looked like he'd stepped off the cover of GQ. He was five inches shorter, but he was slim and elegant in his stylish preppy uniform—open-collar dress shirt, de rigueur cashmere sweater, tailored khakis, and polished penny loafers—all J. Press... Boola! Boola! The varmint's carefully studied insouciance reeked of class superiority.

Once Ashley disentangled herself from Wentworth... he stepped forward and offered his hand to me. He said in that nasally preppy accent - that makes it sound like you're swallowing every word, "Erik, my good man... nice to see you." Even his handshake was stylized and affected. I had been rendered speechless by the utter shamelessness of the whole thing, so I just stood there pumping his arm like a dork.

Our touching little moment was broken up by the Congressman saying... bonhomie dripping from every syllable, "Come on - we have a reservation at the Palm Court. We have to discuss our wonderful week together." Great!! Wonderful!!.... and with that, I was dragged across the foyer to that eponymous little confection for tea.

What followed was carefully choreographed posturing aimed at conveying to the riffraff around us that we were better than they were - or at least some of us were. The seating was Pere and Madame Vonn, Ashley, Wentworth, and me. Douchebag out-maneuvered me by do-si-doing my wife to the seat between her parents and himself. I ended up between Wentworth and Ash's old man.

The Congressman kicked off the inquisition by saying, "So Erik, I hear you lost your job?" Ash must have been commiserating with her parents. They always thought I was punching above my weight. Oh well..., we might as well get right down to the real nitty-gritty... n'est-ce pas?

I said, "If you mean, did I turn down the opportunity to touch up sitcom scripts for Netflix? The answer is yes. But I've written a real novel, and it requires a literary agent to sell it. So, I'm talking to one this week."

The Dragon sniffed and said, "How will you support your family if you're out of work?"

I knew better than to act long-suffering with the canoe. She would love for me to get defensive with her. Since her only goal is to paint me in a bad light. Instead, I said good-naturedly, "I've saved plenty of money. I'm sure it will bridge the gap between now and my first advance."

The old bat sniffed contemptuously and muttered, "Lazy cur!" Everybody at the table expected me to call her out. Instead, I laughed merrily and said in a voice oozing with good humor, "You are SUCH a character, Mrs. V. I always admired that." The old bitch didn't know whether she'd been complimented or insulted. But she DID know that she'd been dissed. She just sat there making sputtering noises.

That's when Douchebag chose to put in his oar. He said condescendingly, "Seriously, Erik... don't you think that's a little juvenile? Every teenage boy wants to be Hemingway. Then they grow up and join the real world." That from a guy with a multi-million-dollar trust fund, who "worked" at being a venture capitalist using his daddy's cash.

I was thinking about punching the motherfucker in the throat when the Congressman interrupted with, "If Erik wants to waste his life, then it's no concern of yours." Now, I didn't know whether I'd been supported or insulted. But - the cucumber sandwiches, scones with clotted cream, and the Fortnum and Mason showed up just then. So instead, we all tucked into having super-pretentious "afternoon tea."

***** I lit into Ashley the minute we got up to the room. She was hanging up the boutique-busting shitload of stuff that she'd brought along while humming a happy little tune. I said, "What the actual fuck, Ash!!?" She turned, regarded me cooly, and said, "Manners, Darling."

I said, "You told me that you and Dickhead were finished forever. Then when he shows up out of the blue, you practically dry hump him in the lobby."

My wife said, eyes twinkling, "Billy and I agreed that jealousy is just so bougie, Dear. So, we decided to be friends."

I said, still fuming, "And when did THAT little détente take place? I don't recall you ever talking about it."

Ash said, matter of fact, "Oh - Billy Facebooked me a couple of months ago when my parents invited him to the wedding. He wanted to clear the air. It really is no big deal now that Daph is about to be a married woman, and of course... I'm married to you."

I could see the fine hand of the Dragon in this. So, I said, "Of course."

Ash failed to pick up on my sarcasm. Instead, she said lightly, "Just to show us that there are no hard feelings... Billy has invited us to accompany him on a tour of the Met. They have a new Monet exhibit, and Billy is a connoisseur of his work."

The last thing I wanted was to be hauled around the Met by that pretentious D-bag. But I wasn't going to leave my wife alone with him, either... especially after the exhibition they'd BOTH put on downstairs. So, I said, "That sounds like fun." Our lack of sex must have permanently disabled Ash's irony sensors. Because she proceeded to cheerily drag me downstairs to join Billy. The timing indicated that it had all been arranged in advance.

We grabbed a cab for the short ride up Fifth. Ash was the smallest. So, she sat in the middle. I was scrunched against the right rear passenger door, trying to give her a little space. She was leaning away from me, I assumed, for the same reason. But it looked like she was actually leaning into Douchebag.

I have always liked the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The building is elegant, the atmosphere is invigorating, and it's intellectually absorbing to spend an afternoon surrounded by high art and culture. That is... unless you are trooping along with a self-important asshole who has to stop and bray like a donkey in front of every Monet in the exhibit.

Wentworth would pause, cock his head to one side, and ostentatiously proclaim that Monet's layering of the paint made the canvas look weathered and that his deconstruction of sunlight by using juxtaposed dabs of color was shadowy.

Since Monet had more or less invented Impressionism, weathered and shadowy was the whole point of the exercise, and the docent who had been paid to accompany us kept cutting me a look like, "Who the fuck is this guy?!!"

After Dickhead's dozenth clueless comment, the docent finally challenged him. She said, "None of what you say is true, Monsieur. In fact, it doesn't even make sense." Wentworth stopped, looked down his long equine nose at her, and said icily, "And who are YOU to question ME?"

Okay... the docent's doctorate WAS in art history. That might have been a persuasive argument. And she HAD been certified by the Met as an expert in Monet's life and work. Yet - instead of being embarrassed by Douchebag's over-entitled arrogance, Ash gave him an adoring look - like, "What a man!!"

The docent turned and walked briskly away. I chased after her while Dickhead moved on with Ash. I caught up with the docent as she was stomping into the next gallery. I said, "I'm sorry, that's just who he is." The docent said over her shoulder, "Well then - he's a conceited fool," and continued to walk. I couldn't say that I disagreed with her.

By the time I got back to the Monet exhibit, Ash and Billy were nowhere to be found. I searched for a while, then hopped a cab back to the Plaza. The Met is a big place, and Ash is a big girl. If she wanted to spend the afternoon letting Wentworth wrap his coils around her, then that was her choice.

Neither Ash nor Douchebag had returned by dinner, and Ash's parents were nowhere to be found. So, I walked across the Grand Army Plaza to Harry Cipriani's. It's a knockoff of the Harry's American Bar, which is located in Venice. That joint was allegedly one of Hemingway's favorite hangouts, and I felt the need to get in touch with the Lost Generation - a time when people actually read books and literature was truly literature. Okay... the food is great, too, even if it's an arm and a leg.

I sipped a glass of Casa Marengo Chianti and sat at my lonely two-top, watching the bright, hot day turn into evening. I was wrestling with a thought that had been hovering at the edge of my consciousness for some time - my marriage was over.

In retrospect... Ashley's actions were a red flag that anybody who was paying the slightest bit of attention would spot. I missed it because I was too caught up in the conflict of my own career problems. I get kind of neurotic when I feel like I'm drifting. And yes... I know it's something I need to get over since it creates blind spots.

Nonetheless... the colossal disrespect that Ashley had shown me brought the problem to the forefront. It was clear to me that Ashley and Douchebag were a matched pair. I mean, seriously!!... Ash was just as shallow, amoral, and overentitled as Wentworth.

Ashley is beautiful in the way that a Lamborghini is a superb car - sleek and immaculate. Even so, I realized there was nothing under Ash's hood except a massive ego and an innate sense of entitlement. I didn't know why I hadn't recognized that sooner.

Alas... you're always too caught up in the mating dance to recognize the flaws in the person you're pursuing. My wife and I had a lot in common—at least in terms of our social interests and traits. But... by year six, I realized that Ashley was a very bad choice... mainly because she didn't respect or value the person I was. Hence, it was clear that the only sensible solution was to part ways with her.

Was my pride wounded? Hell yes!! Was I angry? You bet!! But it wasn't for the reason that you might think. I was pissed at MYSELF for taking so bloody long to figure out who, and/or what I was married to. That failure was on me. But Ash's imminent betrayal was on her. So, let the games begin.

Dickhead was obviously making a bigtime play for my wife and she wasn't exactly discouraging him. In fact, it looked like she was trying to "trade-up" from her own regrettable choice. Accordingly, it was predictable that Ash would cheat with Wentworth. And if that happened... then, we were most assuredly done. Since, betrayal wipes the slate clean.

Seriously... A guy who tries to salvage a marriage that has been tainted by cheating is either hopelessly naïve or entirely lacking in self-respect. Why would I say something that mindlessly absolute? Well... everybody knows the rules. I mean... you say them out loud while you are tying the knot. Consequently, if one of the party makes the willful choice to ignore their publicly stated commitment - then by definition, there is a fatal flaw somewhere and you can't just sweep that under the rug.

Rectifying the problem can run the gamut from pistols at dawn - to shared parenting. There might even be a reconciliation if the two parties can find a path that preserves everybody's personal integrity - I mean... that's what marriage counsellors are for - right? But you can never make another person play by the rules. That's a decision that they - and they alone - have to make. And it was clear that Ashley had made a very intentional choice - at least as far as her fidelity was concerned.

Consequently, in my mind, our marriage was finished. And frankly... I had no desire to salvage it. I mean... Ashley was who she was. With those parents and that upbringing how could she not be? At least she hadn't turned into a nymphomaniac like her slut sister. Then the dire thought struck me... maybe Ashley was just a lot smoother. Nadine was kind of stupid.

The realization that my wife might have been fucking around should have crushed me. But deep down... my only feeling was relief - not anger, not jealousy. Since, it got me out of any sense of obligation to our marriage. Elie Wiesel's line about the opposite of love being indifference rang true here. I'm not that emotionally shallow... really! But in my book, my getting mad at Ashley over her adulterous behavior gave the bitch far too much power over me. Indifference seemed like a more appropriate response.

Seriously!!... I mean I just didn't give a shit about what the woman did now. In fact - on further reflection - my lack of anguish over Ashely's absconding with a former lover told me everything I needed to know about next steps. Fool me once... that's circumstance - fool me twice that's enemy action.

The pre-nup that the Congressman insisted on, as a way of protecting his little girl from predatory me, would make the parting of our ways simple. So, maybe Ash's forcing the issue by fucking Douchebag was a good thing. I really didn't know. But I DID know that I was not going to stay in a dishonored marriage any longer than it took to file.

I settled the exorbitant tab with an Amex Black. Don't look so surprised! I told you that literary prostitution was lucrative. Then I stepped out of the air conditioned cool of Harry's onto the hot Manhattan pavement. I let out a big sigh and stood there, hands in pockets, taking in my surroundings, trying to decide what to do next.

Grand Army Plaza, with the garish statue of Uncle Billy Sherman, was in the foreground. Central Park was behind it. It was the height of summer and the trees looked like bright green icing on a giant sheet cake. Dusk was falling in the busy city and the peace and quiet of the park was too much to resist. So, I strolled across the plaza, past the Lombard Lamp and onto the trail leading down to the Pond.

It was nearly dark when I got there. I plopped down on a bench and stared out at the water. I'm a guy who lives in his head. I suspect all writers do. We're that way because we like to observe, not participate. So, for years I'd watched and analyzed and tried to fit life's vagaries into a rational frame - all without spending much time in the cut and thrust of the real world.

Now, the shit that fate had dumped on my head was coming home to roost - if I could torture a metaphor. It was as if, to quote Yeats, "The center cannot hold." My entire world seemed to be flying apart, and it was as if the things that I valued most, my dearly held sensibilities, were incompatible with the time that I was living in. Or in more prosaic terms, my soul - or inner self - or whatever the fuck you call that voice in your head - didn't belong in this world.

The Park dates back to the Civil War. So, it could just as easily be 1884, or 1924, as 2024. I was sitting under a lamp in the dark. The traffic along 5th was muted to a dull roar by the trees and I had the sense of disconnection from all of life's troubles. I put my head back for a second and stared up at the lights of passing airliners tracing their way across the hazy night sky and it felt like the world shifted.

***** I startled awake and looked at my Rolex. It was close to ten o'clock. I must have dozed off on the bench. I knew Ashley wouldn't be concerned. Since she was no doubt occupied doing other things. But I had to get back to the hotel. So, I hurried out of the park, and was confronted by a scene that was so shocking that my knees buckled. I staggered over to Tecumseh's statue and plopped down on the grass.

I'm sure everybody who saw me thought I was drunk. But alcohol was the least of my problems. Particularly since they didn't sell it back then. The Plaza was still there, naturally, and the Manhattan buildings crowded in on me as usual. But there were none of the modern fortresses that pepper midtown and lower Manhattan!!

I could see the Met Life Tower down by Madison Square and the Woolworth building even further down. But the Empire State Building and the Chrysler Building weren't there. In fact, every one of the familiar Manhattan sky scrapers was missing!!