Chapter Thirty-One - Sarah Felsen
Jesus Christ. I love those two words. Not for any religious reason, JC was a nice man, I suppose, not very Jewish, what with the celibacy and all; but as an outburst those words are unsurpassed – so meaty and chewy in English when used as an expletive. I think it's the long E followed by the long I; they make it sound almost like a double scream. Jeeeesus Chriiiiiist! Can you feel it? So very expressive.
“Jeeeesus Chriiiiiist, Yakov!” See what I mean? “He's using you as his bitch, you fucking fool!” The Jesus Christ part is so concise and self-contained, much better than you fucking fool. It really ripped into Yakov.
“Can't you call me Paul when we're alone?” was his mewling reply. “I thought he could help with the furniture and he'd like to be part of the company.”
“Sarah Felsen, Yskov Katzoff, and Vincent Martin, Inc. It sounds like a law firm that's trying to be inclusive. And you're staying at his apartment? How sweet for the two of you. I thought you were straight. Now you're into men?”
“Not men, just him. It's not Vincent, by the way, it's Vincennes. It's the way he looks … All I see is blond hair and naked shoulders. It could be Brittany Sp...”
“Oh, shut up about your bent love life for two seconds and tell me about the delivery. I thought they promised us the Madison Avenue store.”
“Seventh and Thirty-third isn't so bad. It's near Macy's and ABC Carpet and Barney's. Lots of exposure.”
“Of the wrong kind … they're gonna want VOLUME in that location. We're going for quality and waiting lists … not two gross by Tuesday. At least you're fucking him, right?”
“Not very often. I think there's a new sensibility south of Thirty-Fourth Street. It's going more upscale ...”
“It's cut-rate cut-throat, even when it is upscale. We want exclusivity. Not very often means what?”
“It's mostly blow jobs. I can talk to them, emphasize the production volume.”
“BLOW JOBS! Jeeeesus Chriiiiist! I could have done that.”
“But we're cousins … at least you say we are.”
“Blow jobs don't produce imbecile children! We have to talk to Mike.”
“About blow jobs?”
“About how much he can produce! Is he brain-fucking you?”
“He's amazing, Sarah, and that's all I'm saying.”
“He's a shaygetz - a shiksa - some twisted combination of both.”
“He's pretty sweet actually.”
Sweet??? Jeeesus Chriiiist! How could my little cousin go so far off the rails? He used to be perfectly normal, in an unappealing way, of course. I think it is the clothes mainly. I've never known anybody to own and wear such industrial clothing. He always looks like he is dressed for a nuclear disaster. Paul and the cockroaches will be the only survivors.
So we drove over to Mike's in the Paul's van. I could see sunlight through a couple sections of the roof. I asked him what the blankets were for and he gave me a look. I should have known they weren't for covering furniture.
We arrive and Paul's heart went pitter-patter when he saw the mop of blond hair. The shiksa was standing talking to Mike. Paul actually ran over to them. I was more self-possessed, of course, walked carefully, and took my time. Plus, the yard was soggy wet and I was in new Tory Burch platform espadrilles. A little early in the season for espadrilles, I guess, but I wanted to break them in and mud squishing between my toes wasn't in the plan. Refo said I looked like Carmen Miranda, but what does he know? I'm not wearing fruit on my head.
Mike, Yakov, and the shiksa. Could there be three more different men? At least I could rest my eyes on Mike. It was easy to see why all those women made fools of themselves over him. If I had more money, I might even part with a bit myself. He looks like the perfect fit, you know? Every nook and cranny would fit together perfectly and there's something about his hands; looking at them I could feel a little tightening in my sensitive places. Whew! Enough of that! On to business!
We talked about possible volume of production. The shiksa paid close attention, perhaps even understanding a little. Yakov, the putz, mostly paid attention to the shiksa. Mike thought he could turn an abandoned shed into a shop, but that still meant it was Mike doing all the work, just in a bigger space. The shiksa piped up and said what about hiring an apprentice or two. Then he added, “Like the Italians … Leonardo and Michelangelo didn't do all that stuff themselves. They had workshops.”
Yakov was in awe and I thought he was going to kiss the shiksa's feet, but he didn't. Mike nodded and said he think about it. The shiksa got animated and talked about recruiting from some community college. I couldn't help but notice how basically ordinary looking he was. In ten years, with darker hair and a ballooning waistline, he'd look like Vince Vaughan, you know, somebody who used to be hot.
“So what would that do for production numbers?” I astutely inserted into their little reverie.
“We'd have to try it. It could work if we found the right man or two.”
“Wouldn't need to be a man,” the shiksa added and Paul and Mike nodded solemnly like it was a cabinet meeting at the White House or something. “In fact I might know somebody … Roy knows her, too.”
“Who?” I asked, looking at Roy who had joined us.
“Vicki La Gerbille,” the blond said. “She's quite an artist and she's wasting herself at UVA.”
“Vicki, huh,” Mike said. “We have a history. That might be a problem.”
“How many chapters in this history book?” I asked.
“A couple. Her mother and I …” Mike trailed off.
“Uh-huh. What's chapter two?”
“Vicki and me … and Roy … kinda hung out for a while.”
“By hung out, you mean ...” He ended my speculation with a sheepish glance.
“Ok, it wouldn't have to be Vicki,” the shiksa said briskly - like he's running this meeting! Chairman of the board or something.
Roy, who had joined us late, commented, “She's currently dating my best friend.”
Mike said, “I thought I was your best friend.” I swear Mike could stop traffic; I took a breath. Mike said it jokingly, but I could sense a little hurt.
“My other best friend, Willis,” Roy amended and gave Mike a look that guaranteed fabulous sex later.
“Is there a shortage of people around here?” Yakov asked. “The more I hear … You all seem … involved with each other.” The shiksa laughed in a way that said he liked Yakov's jokes, like they'd been laughing a lot. Together. “Like I'm not getting to be part of it,” Yakov added with a look at the shiksa that excluded everyone else present.
Actually I was maybe the only one who felt excluded. The only one without a lover like Mike and Roy or even a regular hook-up like Yakov and the shiksa. The four of them just exuded this feeling of sex. Men! Jeeesus Chriiiist! I felt hurt, excluded, and marginalized. Well, I did, a little. I know I'm sounding like a home-printed pamphlet on women's issues, but I was the one who put all this together. Where's the love? Or even the respect?
“You know,” Roy said, “If we're going to invest in workshops and material and employees and stuff, we should probably define things more. Refo has a friend, Charlie, who's a lawyer in Harrisonburg … Maybe we should get him in on it.” And he looked to me for consent! Well, at last! A little recognition!
“Of course, great idea,” I said putting a grin on Roy's face. Roy and I had a little shared experience involving him catching me in my room at Refo's wearing just my bra. I think that child is not 100% gay, if you want my opinion.
“Charlie is married to Jody, my wood supplier,” Mike chuckled looking at Yakov.
“Oy!” Yakov laughed. “It's incestuous, the way you gay guys work. Does that include me?” He looked at the shiksa for an answer.
“Honorary.”
What pissed me off was the way the shiksa almost hugged him. It was nominally a simple shoulder squeeze, but looked like way more, you know? Like he didn't let go right away and when he did his hands trailed down Yakov's back to his ass. I didn't even know he had an ass! And then he puts on a nice smile. Who, you're wondering? Yakov or the shiksa? Jesus Christ (used in the sense of verbal parentheses), both of them.
But that smile, it's exclusive, you know. I'm on the outside again. ME! With the nice rack! And I'm quoting Refo on that. Maybe I should try fruit in my hair. Driving me home, I let Yakov have it. I probably used a dozen Jeeeesus Chriiiists on him. In reply he shocked me.
“The shiksa, as you call him, is who got us in the store on Seventh.”
“What do you mean?” I demanded.
“The negotiation wasn't going all that well until Vince promised them exclusive rights to his cosmetics line.”
“Cosmetics line?” I was flabbergasted, a rare condition.
“He makes a cold cream kind of thing. He called it a moisturizer. In New York they are planning to call it a personal lubricant and ordered four cases. He wouldn't sell it to them unless they also took Mike's stuff.”
“Jesus Christ,” I sighed, signaling defeat.
He's going to package it in a cylinder with little holes in the end, so you can squeeze the cream out, like a deodorant stick.”
“Jeeesus Chriiist! Like a dribbling
dildo!”
“The store rep wanted a vibrator built in, but Vince talked him out of it.”
“Why would they even want Mike's furniture?” This was all so not what I had planned.
“The one store partner, who might even be a little gay - I mean, we were almost in Chelsea, not Twenty-Third Street, but getting close, you know? Where everyone's gay?”
“Get to the point!”
“He thought Mike's plainer chairs might appeal to an S&M crowd. There is a severity to the design, don't you think?”
Some days I think I'm the only one on the planet with even a piece of a brain. JC's name wasn't enough. I called down lightening bolts on Paul, but justice and karma failed; none came. Sola, perduta, abbandonata … you know?
