The Fran Lebowitz Reader (19 page)

III. WHAT NOT TO SAY TO POORER PEOPLE

It is at this juncture that the utmost care be exercised lest you lose your hard-won toehold. For it is in actual conversation with the poorer person that even the most attentive and conscientious student tends to falter.

Having been softened up with a lavish gift, the poorer person will indeed be in an expansive, even friendly, frame of mind. He is not, however, completely and irrevocably yours yet; it is still possible to raise his hackles and make as naught all of your previous efforts. A thoughtless remark, an inopportune question, an unsuitable reference—any of these may offend the poorer person to the point where you may totally alienate him. Below are some examples of the sort of thing one really must strive to avoid:

1. Is that your blue Daimler blocking the driveway?
   
2.  … and in the end, of course, it’s always the larger stockholder who is blamed.
   
3. I’ll call you around noon. Will you be up?
   
4. Who do you think you are, anyway—Lucius Beebe?
   
5. Don’t you believe it for a minute—these waiters make an absolute fortune.
   
6. Oh, a uniform. What a great idea.
   

IV. A SHORT GLOSSARY OF WORDS USED BY POORER PEOPLE

Angela de G
.

I
t is quiet now in the almost devastated East River co-op. Tarps litter the seriously marred parquet floors. Paint-stained ladders stand like skeletons in the somber dimness of insufficient track lighting. Abandoned shades of gray sadly spot a lower wall. Forlorn swatches of fabric in a harsh jumble of acid greens and impenetrable blacks are strewn angrily across a veritable ruin of an Empire Récamier. It is quiet now. Yes. Now. But for Angela de G., the occupant of this cavernous wreck, the momentary quiet is but an all too brief interlude. A precious chunk of serenity in a world that has turned upside down. A world made chaotic
and unsure. A world of terror and bleakness. A world of despair.

Angela de G. is renovating.

Quietly the small figure sits huddled in a huge coffee-colored sweater that is much too big for her emaciated frame. A sweater so voluminous and ill-fitting that one can barely hear her speak—a sweater, alas, that she could hardly refuse no matter how wretched the cut, how unflattering the hue, how inappropriate the garment to her way of life.

It was a gift from the designer.

But Angela de G., as she stares out the window, across the freezing black river and into the bleakness of Queens, seems oblivious to her attire. So great is her present crisis, so encompassing her depression that it is almost—almost—as if even clothes didn’t matter any more.

As Angela de G. talks, one is immediately struck by the conflict in her voice—low in volume but loud in agony as she pours out her litany of despair—a tale all too familiar to those of us in the social services. Familiar, yes, but nonetheless heartrending, for Angela de G.’s pain is real, her burden heavy. So one listens and one hears. Hears it all—the bitter fighting between the decorator and the architect, the arrogance of the lighting designer, the workmen who are late, the painters who are clumsy. The time and a half, the double time, the shock of hitherto unconsidered legal holidays. Yes, one listens, one hears, and one does, of course, what little one can. Hesitantly, all too aware of the meagerness of one’s assistance, the terrible inadequacy of one’s own ability to cope with such a situation, one offers what is, after all, cold comfort. The name of a little man marvelous with parquet. The number of a non-union plumber in Newark. The hope that she will someday find an upholsterer who knows what
he’s doing. Yes, one tries. One makes an effort, puts up a good front. But one knows, finally, that it will take more. That outside aid is needed. And needed badly.

Angela de G. is renovating.

Won’t you please help?

Leonard S.

Leonard S. is alone. Very alone. All alone. Yes, Leonard S. is by himself now. It was not always this way. Once it was different. Quite different. Last night, in fact. But all that has changed now. All that is over. For this morning, when Leonard S. awoke, he was confronted head-on with a tragedy he had long been dreading. Christopher R. was gone. Yes, Christopher R., dear, sweet, beautifully proportioned Christopher R. had left and Leonard S. was alone. Christopher R., however, was not alone. He was with all of Leonard S.’s cash, half of Leonard S.’s wardrobe, Leonard S.’s portable color television set, and Leonard S.’s exquisite little Ingres drawing.

Leonard S. hopes Christopher R. is happy now.

Happy with the way he’s treated Leonard S. Happy with the lies, the deceptions, the cheating. Happy with the way he’s hustled Leonard S.—used his connections, his credit-card number, his account at Paul Stuart’s. Happy with his adolescent arrogance, happy with his unspeakable ingratitude, happy with his exquisite little Ingres drawing.

Leonard S. is not happy. He is depressed. He is sick and he is tired. He is headachey. His illusions are shattered. His trust has been violated. He doesn’t feel like going to work. He is a broken man like a million other broken men in a
cold, unfeeling city. He is unbearably low. He is suffused with gloom. And he just can’t face the studio today.

Leonard S. talks, and his pain is a terrible thing to witness. Leonard S. loved Christopher R. Cherished him, cared for him, supported him. Leonard S. thought Christopher R. was loyal. Thought he was decent, thought he was different. Different from the others. Different from Timothy M., John H., Rodney W., David T., Alexander J., Matthew C., Benjamin P. and Joseph K. Different from Ronald B., from Anthony L. and from Carl P. But he was wrong. Very wrong.

He sees that now.

He must have been blind. He must have been crazy. He must have been out of his mind.

The phone rings.

Leonard S. returns from the call and it is apparent that tragedy has struck again. He pours himself a drink. His hands shake. His eyes are twin pools of anguish. He can barely speak, but slowly the sordid story is told. He has been doubly betrayed. What little faith he had left has deserted him completely. Christopher R. is en route to Los Angeles. With Leonard S.’s heart. With all of Leonard S.’s cash. With half of Leonard S.’s wardrobe. With Leonard S.’s portable color television set. With Leonard S.’s exquisite little Ingres drawing.

And with Leonard S.’s assistant, Michael F.

Leonard S. says he is through. He says he is finished. He says nothing means anything to him anymore—nothing at all. But perhaps there is yet some hope. Perhaps
you
can help. All contributions are in the strictest confidence. Anonymity is assured. We dare not speak your last name.

Mr. and Mrs. Alan T.

There was laughter here once. Music too. Parties. Celebrations. Catering. Fun.

But now this Tudor-style home in Bel Air is tense. Those that live here are worn. Nervous. They are doing their best, but the pressure is intolerable, the demands not to be believed. They are suffering the agonizing results of bad judgment. Faulty figuring. Sour deals.

They have misread the general public.

There was a time when that seemed impossible. When Mr. and Mrs. Alan T. were riding high. The smartest, the sharpest producing and packaging team in town. Surefooted, never faltering, never a mistake. Residuals, big box office, percentages of the gross, not the net. It all belonged to Mr. and Mrs. Alan T. Their respective fingers on the pulse of America. Mr. and Mrs. Right Place at the Right Time. There with the goods. Disaffected youth when America wanted disaffected youth. Black exploitation. Nostalgia. Male bonding. The occult. They predicted every single trend. Right on the money. Time after time. They had contacts. They had respect. They had power. They had four brand-new leased Mercedes all at once. Chocolate brown. Off-white. Silver gray. Deepest maroon. All paid for, compliments of the studio.

Then it all started caving in on them. A mistake here, an error there. Little things at first: going into general release too soon; giving a twenty-year-old director a budget he couldn’t handle; using an editor with a drinking problem;
putting a cute little number in a role that swamped her. Bad reviews. Drive-in city.

The maroon was the first to go. Then the off-white. Mr. and Mrs. Alan T. live with the sort of despair that few of us can truly understand. They are like wounded deer, like victims of some corrosive disease of the soul. They sit and stare at each other in mournful silence. They know it is only a matter of time. They know the silver gray is next. Then even the chocolate brown will be gone. They castigate themselves and each other. Their plight is all the harder to bear, for these once proud people see it as a failing of their own. An unrelenting self-induced horror.

Mr. and Mrs. Alan T. missed the boat on science fiction.

How it happened they simply cannot imagine. All the signs were there: paperbacks selling like hotcakes; huge conventions of future buffs; comic books; toys. A trend about to be. A gold mine. A money machine. A whole new ball game. And where were they? They answer their own question with a horrifying combination of grief and self-loathing. Off on location with some bomb about a Yorkshire terrier possessed by the devil. Yesterday’s newspapers, January’s Playmate of the Month in February.

Can you come to their aid? Can you help Mr. and Mrs. Alan T.? Try. Please. Make them an offer. They can hardly refuse. Can they?

Kimberly M.

Kimberly M. stands alone in the airline terminal. A solitary figure. Staring as the empty luggage carrousel goes round and round. She knows it is to no avail. She has been there for hours. She has waited. She has talked to them all: the
representatives, the ground crew, even, in her blinding panic, the stewardesses. She has had her hopes lifted only to be dashed. Her luggage, she knows, is gone. All seven pieces. All a gift from her grandmother. All Louis Vuitton. All the old stuff. The real stuff.

When it was still leather.

She cannot quite believe this is happening to
her.
It must be some dreadful nightmare from which she will soon awake. It cannot be real. But as Kimberly M. hears the metallic voice announcing the delays and cancellations, she knows this is no hallucination, no dream. They have indeed lost her luggage. Where it is she hasn’t a clue. Taken by mistake? In a taxi on its way back to town? En route to Cleveland? Checked through to Hong Kong? She may never know.

Gone, her Sonia Rykiel sweaters. Her favorite Kenzo shirt. Gone, her new supply of Clinique. Her Maud Frizon shoes. Gone, her Charles Jourdan boots. Gone, her address book. Yes. Her address book. Gone. Gone. Gone.

Kimberly M. stands alone in the airline terminal. A solitary figure. Staring as the empty luggage carrousel goes round and round.

Kimberly M. has lost her luggage. Certainly you can spare some of your own.

REMEMBER THE GREEDIEST!

A
s the title suggests, this piece is intended for those among us who have taken on the job of human reproduction. And while I am not unmindful of the fact that many of my readers are familiar with the act of reproduction only insofar as it applies to a too-recently fabricated Louis XV armoire, I nevertheless feel that certain things cannot be left unsaid. For although distinctly childless myself, I find that I am possessed of some fairly strong opinions on the subject of the rearing of the young. The reasons for this are varied, not to say rococo, and range from genuine concern for the future of mankind to simple, cosmetic disdain.

Being a good deal less villainous than is popularly supposed, I do not hold small children entirely accountable for their own behavior. By and large, I feel that this burden must be borne by their elders. Therefore, in an effort to make knowledge power, I offer the following suggestions:

Your responsibility as a parent is not as great as you might imagine. You need not supply the world with the next conqueror
of disease or major motion-picture star. If your child simply grows up to be someone who does not use the word “collectible” as a noun, you can consider yourself an unqualified success.

Children do not really need money. After all, they don’t have to pay rent or send mailgrams. Therefore their allowance should be just large enough to cover chewing gum and an occasional pack of cigarettes. A child with his own savings account and/or tax shelter is not going to be a child who scares easy.