The Other Side of Paradise

***** I opened my eyes to a light-filled room in a luxury hotel in midtown Manhattan. If it had been a dream, then why was I so overwhelmed by angst at the thought of what Julia must have done last night - or ninety-nine years ago - depending on how delusional I actually was.

Ash was sleeping next to me. But she was awake by the time I had finished in the bathroom. I said, keeping any heat out of my voice, "What time did you get in last night?" Ash looked me straight in the eye and lied, "Twelve thirty... you were asleep." Okay - so, the game was afoot.

I said, "I lost you in the Met. Where were you until that late hour?" I might as well bait the trap. She said, sugar wouldn't melt in her mouth, "Oh... Billy and I ran into my parents when we got back, and we decided to do a dinner cruise around Manhattan. There was a band and dancing on the boat, so we didn't get in until late."

That was another lie. Dinner cruises don't end at 3 AM. Since, the passengers would all get mugged returning to their hotels. Of course, I was sure that Ash would work very hard to keep me from confirming that little fable with her folks. But then again, they had probably gotten their stories straight already.

My wife said, trying to sound friendly, "What did you do all night?" I said, "I ate at Cipriani's and then sat down by the pond for a while. After that I came up here and went to bed." That was all true - except for a short excursion back to the Jazz Age.

Ash got a look like she had expected me to do something that boring and conventional. She clearly had no respect for me whatsoever. I was interested in hearing another tall-tale. So, I said, "What's on the agenda for today?"

Ash had the good grace to blush as she said, "Billy wants to show me his place up in Sagaponack". Which was outside Bridgehampton, a couple of hours from here, out on Long Island. It takes big bucks to live there.

Ashley quickly added, "I knew that you had an appointment with an agent today, so I told him I'd go out with him, alone." Well-well-well... Apparently you DO think I'm stupid. I have a twisted sense of humor. So, I just had to play cat and mouse with her. Seriously... it's a curse around normal people.

I said, with a concerned look on my face, "I don't like the idea of you spending so much time alone with Wentworth. We're finished if you fuck him - you know." I might as well lay out the ground rules for the inevitable divorce. And people who think I should've just confronted Ash with my suspicions, don't understand gamesmanship. I had no proof - yet!

Ash got a momentary look of disdain as she said coolly, "You know I don't like you to use that word." Deflect-deflect-deflect... then she added, absolutely straight-faced. "Billy and I are nothing more than old friends." She finished reassuringly, "You know that I would never do anything to jeopardize my marriage to you." Yep... she definitely thinks I'm clueless.

It wasn't like I needed pictures to divorce the bitch. California is a no-fault State, and she was going to be served as soon as we got back. The prenup made it easy-peasy. It might seem paranoid to pull the trigger so precipitously, given that I had no actual evidence. But frankly... at that point it was more a matter of respect than fidelity- the lack of the former being evident, even if the latter was a bit hazy. There was no point in prolonging this farce any longer.

I said, "Well then, I have a breakfast meeting. But I'd better see you back here for dinner." Ash said pissed, "You can't tell me what to do!" I said warningly as I exited the room, "Be here." Was that a look of uncertainty on her face?

The meeting with the rep from IGLA was productive. You can blind-submit a manuscript to most agencies. But you need to put a face behind the writing if you want to have it picked up. My credentials and experience got me a meeting with a potential rep, and we had a good discussion.

Then I hustled over to an old coin and collectibles dealer on East 57th. If I was going back to the Twenties I would need money appropriate to the time. So, I bought a thousand dollars' worth of "rare collectible" bills and coins for ten times their face value. That should tide me over in a decade when a good breakfast cost less than a buck.

I returned to the Plaza and printed out the manuscript. I wrapped it in brown paper and tied twine around it. Then I dumped it in a vintage leather briefcase that I'd bought from a thrift store up in Harlem... where I'd also picked up a dandy used fedora and vest. Then, dressed for the era, I went back to sitting on my bench.

It was high summer in Manhattan with all of the city noise and diesel fumes. But the Park provided a relatively peaceful respite. It'd been close to eight PM the last time I had dreamed - a phenomenon that was beginning to feel like an actual transition. The sun was only beginning to set. So, I expected to wait a while. But as soon as I leaned back, and closed my eyes I experienced the familiar feeling of vertigo.

I opened my eyes to see a young couple strolling past. I must have looked like I had been sleeping because the woman acknowledged me with a smile. Their clothing established the time for me. So, I rose slowly from the bench, stretched, and walked back up the path toward my date with the Jazz Age.

The Rolls was waiting where the carriages pick up the passengers in the Twenty First Century. The door to the passenger compartment was open. I consulted the address that Dorthy Parker had given me and found, to my astonishment, that she actually lived at the Algonquin. So, I told the driver to take me to 59 West 44th.

The entrance to the Algonquin, or as all the literary types called it, "The Gonk," was pretty much like it looks today - canopied entrance and two heavy wooden doors. The lobby was oak, and the Pergola Restaurant was on the left. I ran into Billy as soon as I came in off the street.

Billy was a fixture at the Algonquin... and there was no tougher, street fighting rascal in the entire city. He had wandered into the lobby one stormy night in 1919 and decided to stay. And from that point onward, until his demise fifteen years later, he was in charge of greeting the guests.

Did I mention that Billy was a cat? His perfect tabby markings were marred by a badly nicked ear and slightly bent tail, which he acquired in a legendary fight with a guest's French poodle. Rumor has it that the epic battle was declared a draw, and both combatants were hauled off to the Vet's by their respective owners.

I was petting Billy as he wound around my legs when Dot stumbled out of the Oak Room. That place took up most of the back part of the restaurant. She had been at "lunch" for the past eight hours, with the other members of the Vicious Circle. That was what the regulars called the Algonquin Round Table, and she had obviously had a bit to drink.

Dorothy Parker was never shy about admitting she drank too much. Her most famous quip was, "I like to have a martini, Two at the very most. After three I'm under the table, after four I'm under my host." I reached into my briefcase, pulled out the manuscript and handed it to her.

Like most alcoholics, Dot was perfectly able to function, no matter how much drink she'd consumed. She said sardonically, "Hey Skippy! You weren't bullshitting me, were you?" I said laughing, "Nope, just had to go get it," meaning the manuscript.

Of course, the trip involved a visit to the future and the original manuscript was on a thumb drive that I had to print out in the Business Center of the Plaza - because nobody uses paper anymore. But that was TMI. The point was that I was going to have one of the finest literary minds of the 20th, or any other Century, do a critique of my writing.

Dot was stumbling along with Frank Adams, who was a well-known, fellow wit back in the day and the actor/writer Bob Benchley. It appeared that they were headed for another party. So, I said, "Can I tag along?" hoping to run into Julia again.

Dottie slurred, "Sure!! Why not??! The more the merrier." The Rolls was waiting patiently for me as we exited. I said, "Take my car." They all looked at me like they couldn't believe it was mine. But apparently it had adopted me as part of my dream.

I said, "Where to?" and Benchley said, The New Amsterdam over on 42nd Ziegfield is throwing an after party for his latest Follies. That confirmed it. I was officially certifiable. I mean... how in the world could I experience so much joy from the prospect of running into a girl I'd met in a dream?

We all clambered into the back and the Rolls motored over to 42nd in the Theater District. The party itself was backstage at Ziegfield's Theater and all the big stars were there: Billie Burke, Louise Brooks, W.C. Fields, and a guy who was clearly a cowboy. I asked Benchley who he was, and he looked at me like I'd just fallen off the turnip truck as he said, "You mean you don't recognize Will Rogers?"

I said, backpedaling, "I've only ever heard him on radio."

Adams said, "Who's the new mistress?" It was Julia of course. She was standing obediently next to Ziegfield. He was ignoring her completely as he held forth to his assembled group of admirers. She was gazing down. It was like she was embarrassed. But she raised her glance as the four of us entered the raucous party, her eyes met mine - and she put both hands over her mouth looking upset.

Have you ever experienced an instant when the fog of mundane life lifts and you see what you know for sure to be true? Well, that happened to me - right there on that spot. My wife Ashley was a beautiful woman, and she fulfilled all the basic requirements for a wife - present circumstances excepted. But my attraction to Ashley was more like mild friendship, compared to the compelling feelings that I had for Miss Julia Richmond.

Nonetheless, this was a different situation... entirely. I realized beyond a shadow of a doubt that I could no more walk away from Julia Richmond than I could saw off my left leg. She seemed to sense something too. Because she touched Ziegfield's arm in the intimate way that women use to convey connection - and my jealousy meter spiked. She said something to him. Then she began to slowly drift in my direction.

I nodded toward a dark side-room, where they appeared to store stage sets. She gave an imperceptible nod and the two of us disappeared inside. She stood there for a second looking at me, confusion written on her pretty face. I, for one, wasn't the slightest bit confused. I knew what I wanted. So, I had to lay it on the line. This was too important, and the situation was just so tenuous. Hence, there was no recourse.

I might be a married man a hundred years in the future. But I was Frank Sullivan in this one, and I wasn't even slightly bothered by how absurdly improbable the circumstance was. I had finally found my one and only - and something as minor as the time space continuum wasn't going to stand in my way.

I said, emotion shading my voice, "I haven't been able to stop thinking about you." She cocked her head to one side, and said, "Thinking about me... what does that mean?"

I laughed and said, "I have no idea what that means. But I've felt a special connection with you since the two of us met. I mean, you're beautiful and all. But it goes a lot deeper than that. I know you feel it too." She gave a shy little nod.

The little voice in my head was screaming, "have you lost your fucking mind!!" I was making a heartfelt pitch to a woman who'd probably died before I was born. I mean seriously... you might consider moving to a foreign country for the sake of the love of your life - but another century? Not to mention the fact that I had no guarantee that I would be able to stay there.

This was 1925... It was an era of unbounded optimism. America was the new kid on the block. We had settled those internecine European wars for good, and anybody could get rich on Wall Street. It was also one of the most important eras for American literature. Fitzgerald had just published The Great Gatsby, and Hemingway was finishing up The Sun Also Rises. William Faulkner had recently published his first novel and was working on "The Sound and the Fury." So, it was a perfect time to be a writer.

Still, I wasn't a native of this era, and there would be no record of me - not that that mattered when all records were kept in hard-to-search filing cabinets. But I was from another time. My life might be unsatisfactory there - and of course, there was the little problem of my straying wife. But the 21st Century was my home.

Julia looked concerned. I guess I would, too, if the person I was talking to had suddenly gone catatonic. I had to snap out of it. So, I said, "I was hoping to get to know you better. You and I have a lot in common in terms of our values and ideas and I wanted to explore whether we could build a relationship."

Julia looked sad as she said, "I feel the same way. But you're one day late." One day late... What the fuck does that mean!!?? Julia continued regret in her voice, "I gave myself to Mr. Ziegfield last night and there is no changing that." A thunderbolt of jealousy shot through me. It felt like I was being electrocuted.

She added, shamefaced, "I don't know what got into me," then she grimaced, laughed, and said, "Well... I know what got into me, but I don't know why I did it. Still... I did it, and now I have to see it through, or I'll be one of - those kinds of girls."

Seriously??!! Really??!! I just stood there looking at this beautiful woman - rendered utterly speechless. Finally, I sputtered, "Wait - hold on - are you telling me that you had sex with Ziegfield and now you can't entertain any other offers?"

It was difficult for a guy from 21st Century America to believe that a woman could be that old fashioned. But of course, these were old-fashioned times. I mean, I got it... I didn't have to like it... But I understood. Female attitudes and behaviors were a mere twenty years removed from the smothering morality of the Victorian age. And, that doughty old battleax still had an iron grip on how most women defined virtue.

So, this might be the Roaring Twenties, a watershed time when morals and manners underwent a sea change. Young women cut their hair short and wore daring dresses. They danced to "suggestive" music, and they petted in parked cars. But those were "modern women "- not a girl from Toledo, Ohio. Last night, Julia had let Ziegfield fuck her. So now, she had to be faithful to him - or view herself as a slut.

I said, disappointed, "Well, if things don't work out with Ziegfield I want a shot at building a relationship with you." Julia gave me an unfathomable look, part yearning and part deep regret, and said dejectedly, "Please don't forget me." Then she turned, looking like she was about to cry, and walked back over to stand obediently at Ziegfield's side.

Meantime, I was metaphorically hitting myself in the head with a brick. I don't know where those paradoxes come from. But I wanted the woman MORE - not less. That was mainly because Julia had just proven that she wasn't - as she put it, "easy" - the woman had a bedrock sense of values along with the prettiest face and hottest body in Manhattan.

The music was cranking up and the party goers were getting rowdy. But my dominant emotion was a sense of hopelessness and depression. Which was ironic given that I was about to go back to the 21st Century where my wife was fucking around on me - and I had absolutely no feelings about that except liberation.

I wanted to say goodbye to Dottie before I left. She was in a corner arguing with a society matron about the Nineteenth Amendment. There were still parts of America that thought women were too flighty and emotional to be allowed to make decisions about the direction of the Country. Dottie's opponent was clearly one of those. I know that sounds nutty now, but those were different times.

Dottie threw up her hands as I approached and went stomping off muttering, "You can lead a horticulture, but you can't make her think..." She saw me, stopped, and said angrily, "What?! Skippy!!" I said mildly, "I'm leaving, but I wanted to set up a time to talk to you after you've read my manuscript." She said tartly, "Give me a day, and I'll see you at the Roundtable."

I didn't know if that was even possible. Since the Algonquin Roundtable met for lunch and I was only able to transition at night, local time. But I gave her a thankful grin and said, "See you then - and enjoy yourself."

She said flippantly, "Ducking for apples. Change one letter and it's the story of my life." I was laughing all the way out to the Rolls. Which was patiently waiting outside the theater door. I got in and told the driver, "The Plaza," sat back and thought about how fucked up my current situation was.

***** The transition occurred the moment I stepped out of the Rolls - maybe because my situation in the '20s sucked so bad. I came in from the Central Park South foyer, which was the main entrance in the Twenties and Ash's old man was sitting in the Grand Army Plaza side. So, we almost missed each other. But he spotted me as I approached the elevators and yelled, "Erik, wait up!"

As the "great man" approached, I thought, "Oh Shit!". He didn't look friendly. He said, in his slick politician voice, "There's something I want to talk to you about. Let's grab a drink in my room." I said exasperated, "Can't this wait until tomorrow? I'm tired." He said, "No - we need to settle this now!"

I gestured toward one of the lobby tables and said, "Okay, let's just sit here and you can say what you want to say." The Congressman was upset by that arrangement. But he could see that my joining him in his room was a non-starter. I'm really not as stupid as they all thought I was.

So, we sat in a pair of the semi-uncomfortable chairs situated by the lobby window. The Congressman cut right to the chase. He said, "What are you doing coming in at this hour, reeking of cigarettes?"

I got what he was implying. He thought I was fucking around. If I had told him that I was at Flo Ziegfield's party with Dorothy Parker and Robert Benchley he would have no doubt had me committed. So, I said, "Nothing that is any of your business."

He got red in the face as he said, "It IS my business if you are going to create a scandal that affects my re-election." His concern for his daughter was touching - NOT! I said, "Talk to Ashley. She's the one shacking up with her old boyfriend."

I could see by how the Congressman's eyes shifted that he was aware of the problem. But he blustered, "She is simply renewing acquaintances with an old friend. They aren't doing anything more than that."

I said, sarcastically, "All night??!!... at his place!!??"

The Congressman said, "She's been here all evening waiting for you."

I said, unbelieving, "Really?? Seriously?? How do you know that?"

The Congressman said, "Because she called me a half hour ago to ask me where you were. You weren't answering your phone." Cell service was a little spotty in the 1920s. I said, "Have you actually seen her?" He said, "No, but I assume she is up in your room."

I said laughing at him, "Let's go find out." Not surprisingly... I opened the door to the room, and it was deserted... as I knew it would be. I said, mockingly, "Looks like your little girl is spending the night with her 'old friend'."

The Congressman gave me a look that told me that he realized that I had his nuts in a vice and said, "I'll deal with that." He added warningly, "Don't even think about divorcing her!" Then he turned on his heel and bustled off down the hall to the elevators. I fell asleep anguishing about Ziegfield fucking Julia.

***** Ash showed up the next morning looking hangdog. Daddy must've interrupted her little tryst with Horse Face. It wasn't because the Congressman didn't approve of his daughter attempting to trade up. It was because the optics of a divorce, especially one involving infidelity, wouldn't play well in the media.