“Do you ever miss New York?” Tim asked Simon, just to make conversation as they awaited their food at lunch. Sandy was being unusually quiet, and Simon had been showing the stress of too many intense high-level budgetary meetings. Tim was hyper and happy, excited by his big purchase and new romance.
“I did at first,” said Simon. “But the longer you’re away, the more New York comes into focus. It’s a city fueled by the biggest inferiority complex you can imagine. Especially publishing. Everyone is obsessed with his or her place in the universe; it’s a high school pecking order. You think that people in show business are into status? Here, status comes easily. You do well, you make money, and you buy a Lexus. Everyone
sees your Lexus, so they know you’re doing well. Your point is made and you can move on with the rest of your life. But not in New York. Not in the publishing world. God no. Everyone lives in the same area, and everyone makes the same amount of money, so you have to express your status by a constant pitiful attack on everyone around you. It’s who you know. It’s what party you were invited to. It’s who you sit next to at dinner. It’s the location of your table at the Four Seasons. God knows, it’s the fact that you can order something off the fucking menu at the Four Seasons. Have you ever seen anyone order something off the menu in L.A.?”
“I’ve never even heard of ordering off the menu,” said Tim. “Although I can imagine what it is.”
“And you eat with the most status-consumed assholes in this city. Do you know why they don’t order off the menu? I’ll tell you. They don’t have to. They don’t have to define themselves by the fact that ‘chef’ will make them something special. They’re already special, because the valet has put their Lexus in a prime position out front, so they can relax. Or it’s just so well known that they’re rich and successful, they needn’t remind you. That’s why Michael Eisner can wear jeans to the Grill. He doesn’t have to advertise his success by wearing Prada. But you do in New York. In New York, you can never relax.”
“But those guys have a big New Year’s Eve bash, and we’ve got nothing,” offered Sandy.
“That’s another thing that drives me crazy!” Simon was so worked up now that Tim feared he might have a stroke. “New Yorkers brag about their big New Year’s Eve bash in Times Square! In Egypt, they’ll put on an event at the pyramids. In Greece, they’ll have a big event at the Parthenon. Places with significance. Do you remember the millennium show at the Eiffel Tower? And yet New Yorkers gravitate to the seediest
spot in town for New Year’s, a place maybe a notch more interesting than Hollywood Boulevard, and if that’s not bad enough, they’re proud of it. I mean, really, what could be more juvenile and silly than bragging about your New Year’s party? It’s high school, I tell you. And not even a good high school.”
“So,” said Sandy. “I guess it’s safe to say that you don’t miss New York.”
“Oh, I miss it,” he said ruefully. “I miss it every day. I just hate myself for it.”
Back at the office, Sandy was still amazed by Simon’s show of emotion. “Wow,” she said. “If I were a shrink, I’d say that wasn’t about New York at all, but about something else entirely.”
“Like what?” asked Tim.
“Like maybe he’s the one who’s insecure, not the city of New York. Like maybe he’s the one with status issues. How much did that Lincoln Town Car cost, anyway?”
“Is this the wrong time to mention that I bought a BMW?” asked Tim sheepishly.
“Come again?”
“Not a big BMW, just a small BMW. Antonio sort of talked me into it.”
“Is it here? Is it in the lot? Can I see it?”
“Sure, it’s here. We can go take a look. I’ll take you for a drive, if you like.”
“I never took you for a status geek, Timothy,” said Sandy as they walked into the parking lot. Tim marched her directly to his new car. “Where is it?” she asked.
“This is it,” he said. Suddenly, the car looked even smaller and less impressive than it had before. Tim tensed in anticipation.
“This?” Sandy seemed genuinely confused.
“It’s so …” Sandy searched her data bank for the right word. “It’s very—”
“Go ahead, there’s nothing you can say that I won’t hear from my dad.”
“It’s small, isn’t it?” said Sandy. “I guess you could say that that’s a good thing. A lot of people like small cars.”
“Yes, it’s small.”
“I mean, this is the entire car—it almost seems to be missing the back half.”
“It’s a hatchback. It’s supposed to look like that.”
“It’s a lot smaller than your Civic … .” Sandy paused, wishing she could think of something a tad more positive to contribute. Finally, inspiration struck. “I’ll bet it gets excellent mileage.”
“I’m sure it does,” said Tim, crestfallen. “And it handles really well, too. Honest.”
“Well, it’s German,” chirped Sandy. “It should.”
It was quiet on the walk back to the office. Sandy tried to undo the damage the teeny-tiny BMW had caused.
“You deserved something nice,” she said. “It’s like Simon said—now you’ve made your statement and you can get on with your life.”
“I’m not sure what statement I’ve made.” Tim sighed.
“That size doesn’t matter?” offered Sandy.
“Oh God,” moaned Tim. “Do you know what that car cost me?”
“I’ve got it,” said Sandy. “You’re rebelling. You’re not just saying yes to BMW, you’re saying no to Honda. You’re breaking away from parental domination. It’s probably very healthy.”
“I could have said yes to Kia and saved twenty grand.”
“But who wants to tell the valet they have a white Kia?” said Sandy helpfully. “They’d laugh at you. Valets have better cars than Kias.”
“Well, thanks for trying,” said Tim as he slumped in his chair back in his cubicle. “It’s only a car. I can always sell it. I hear even the worst BMWs have great resale.”
“Well, there are dumber things than buying a BMW,” said Sandy. “Look at me, for example. I did something the other night so bizarre that I’ve been afraid to tell even you.”
“Now’s a good time to tell me,” said Tim. “I’m a broken man. Nothing you could say would seem as strange as what I’ve done.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“Really sure? Really, really sure?”
“Hit me with all you’ve got.”
“Good,” said Sandy as she quickly packed all her belongings to make a quick getaway. “Remember last Saturday when I told you I had a date?”
“I remember, but you said you didn’t want to talk about it.”
“Yes, that’s the one.” Sandy clutched her purse and book bag to her chest.
“Go ahead, shoot. I’m bulletproof.”
“I went to a Crosswinds fund-raiser with Perry.” Sandy smiled a small smile and waved her hand. “Gotta run. You call your brother and we’ll talk tomorrow.” And then she vanished. She was out the door before she could hear the dull thud of Tim’s head hitting his own desk.