I would usually take the metro to get to Michigan Avenue, but since I am filthy rich now, the time of taxis has come. I even decide to call one instead of waiting for a random cab downstairs. It may not seem like much, but believe me, for someone who has lived on a budget for a long time it is a big deal.
“How does this money thing work?” I ask the genie in the elevator on our way down.
“It is complicated magic. However, since last night a number of bank accounts have been opened in your name.”
“Is it legal? I will not get indicted or anything, right?”
“Do not trouble yourself, milady. As I said, it is complicated magic. Your money will keep investing itself—you will have profits and losses, but the profits will always exceed by far your losses, and your wealth will keep building itself perfectly legally.”
“Cool! How do I access all this new richness?”
“Your purse should be filled with whatever method of payment is current these days.”
When I open my wallet, I find four new shining credit cards plus a wad of cash.
When we exit my building the cab is already there waiting. I quickly jump in and beckon the genie to follow me. I give the destination to the driver, and as soon as the car speeds away, the genie grabs onto the seat and holds on for dear life.
“This carriage is moving extremely fast,” he observes, stupefied. “How is it possible? I did not see any horses attached to it.”
“I know, right?” the driver says. “It’s just a hybrid, but it still has eighty horsepower.”
“Eighty horses!” the genie exclaims, shocked. “But I did not—”
I kick him in the ankle to cut him off. Luckily we’re not alone, so the freezing-when-I-touch-him rule does not apply. “Wonderful car,” I say to the driver. “Good for the environment, too.”
“Saves me a ton on gas,” he replies cheerfully.
“Genie,” I whisper. “We are in a car, not a carriage, and the horsepower is in the engine.”
“They have eighty horses hidden inside this car thing?” he asks, nonplussed.
“No,” I shoot back, amused. “The engine is a machine that has the power of eighty horses, but there are no horses anywhere.”
“And how does this engine work?”
“What do I know? I am not an engineer! Listen, I think we’d better buy some books for you. History, engineering, informatics, etc.…”
“What is it informatics?”
“See what I mean?”
When we arrive, I tip the driver a humongous sum and exit the cab, anticipating the most outrageous squandering of money I’ve ever had.
The day is extremely clear and warm. The sky is a deep shade of blue; without even the smallest cloud, and the sun is shining brightly, its reflection bouncing off the tall glass buildings. Chicago in late spring is incredible. I notice that the genie seems a little bit overwhelmed. He is walking slowly, staring upwards in awe. It must be the first time he sees a skyscraper. He also seems mistrustful of concrete, and a bit frightened by the cars zooming past us.
“These buildings,” he comments with his nose still up in the air, “are pretty magnificent.”
“Are you liking modern architecture?”
“Very much, very much indeed.”
He also appears to be enjoying the amount of limbs on display on this fine day. Let me just say that even I, who am used to modern customs, find some of the shorts and skirts we encounter today to be quite scandalous. It must be some sort of retaliation against the harshness of the cold season; in winter girls have to cover up so much that they most likely feel the need to compensate in warmer times.
Usually on a day like this I would love to simply walk up and down the Magnificent Mile, indulging lazily in window shopping and enjoying the hot weather. To be honest, most of the time window shopping would have been the only option available for my finances. Ah, but today is special. Today, besides the means, I have a purpose. So I need to be smart and efficient, as I will have plenty of time for leisure shopping in the future.
I decide that the best solution is a luxury department store; this way I’ll have many different brands of clothes, accessories, and shoes all in one place. I opt for Barneys New York, which I had always drooled over in my poverty days. When we reach it, I pause in front of the entrance, bursting with anticipation. I take a deep breath and then push the heavy revolving doors, thrusting my way into a world of luxury long forbidden to me. No wonder we are in the Gold Coast. Everything in this store seems to shine with a golden sparkle. Even the air smells expensive.
As soon as I step into the women’s department, a friendly sales assistant approaches me.
“Good morning, welcome to Barneys New York,” she says, smiling. “Can I help you with anything?”
I usually like to do my shopping on my own without pushy clerks around, but having some help today could be a winning idea.
“Mmm…actually, would it be possible to have a personal shopper?” I try to sound self-assured, like this is something I do every day.
“Did you have an appointment with us?” she asks, with only a trace of condescension audible in her voice.
“Hmm, no. I didn’t.” Stupid, of course you take an appointment if you want a personal shopper.
“Let me see what I can do for you, can I have your name, please?”
“Ally Johnson.”
“Nice to meet you. Please give me a moment to check our schedule.”
She turns on her heel and goes back to her station, where she picks up a phone, talks into it for about two minutes, and then quickly heads back toward us.
“Brittany will be able to assist you, Miss Johnson,” she announces, satisfied. “Please wait here. She will be down in just a minute.”
“Thank you.”
I do as I’m told and stay rooted to the spot. Less than a minute later, a short, blonde girl walks over to me.
“Hello, I’m Brittany,” she says. “I’ll be helping you out today.”
“Hi, I am Ally, and this is my friend th—”
“Arthur!” He steps in, cutting me off.
Hmm, good point. I probably shouldn’t call him “genie” in public.
“And what are we looking for today?” she asks, eyeing my attire suspiciously. “Anything specific?”
Well, I guess I don’t exactly look like the average Barneys’ customer. My clothes are pretty cheap, and the genie’s must be quite a sight. Brittany here is probably thinking she has been given a raw deal, but she is in for a big surprise.
“I need a total wardrobe makeover: clothes, shoes, and accessories,” I reply smugly.
“And what kind of budget are we looking at?” she inquires even more skeptically.
“I don’t have a budget.” Never would I have believed it possible to utter such fabulous words. “You can go crazy,” I add, beaming at her.
And crazy we went. I spent a couple of years’ salary in a single session of shopping. In fact, after styling myself with new outfits for every possible occasion, I informed a by-then ecstatic Brittany that we would be needing some complete outfits for Arthur as well, because he’d just arrived from London and his luggage had been lost on the plane.
Once the shopping was over, we had a late brunch on the rooftop, and afterwards we went book shopping. When he’s done reading, the genie will have an encyclopedic knowledge on modern civilization. I think we covered all the basics, from history to technology to politics. At least, I hope the important stuff is included, because the volumes weren’t exactly cheap!
After the bookstore we returned to my apartment with too many shopping bags to carry and ready for a quiet night in. So, right now, the genie is immersed in his new books and I have some serious strategizing to do.
I glance down at my pad to recap what I have written so far:
Not very helpful!
Ok, the first thing I need is to have more facts. I have to find out how long James and Vanessa have been together and how serious they are. I hope not very long and not very serious. Did they have sex already? Oh my…I want to gag. My heart is back to one hundred and fifty beats per minute. Focus Ally, you need to focus.
Okay, okay. I am focused. So, the key to winning a war is to have the right information. But how to get it? I could ask the bitch directly, maybe using an indifferent conversational tone. Who am I kidding? She’d bust me in two seconds. Do I care? If it gets what I want, no. I bet she will enjoy providing me the sordid details of her new (I hope), perfect (I hope not) relationship with my ex.
Ok, and once I have the info? Well, it depends on how bad-slash-good it is. One thing I should probably do, regardless, is to introduce the “new me” to James. Excluding Friday, when I didn’t exactly look very charming and I’m still praying he didn’t see me at all, we haven’t seen each other in over a year.
After I had one…okay, a couple…let’s just say some embarrassing episodes of drunk texting/calling/stalking him, I came to the decision of utterly avoiding him at any cost. I made all of his usual hangout spots taboo, even if some of them were my favorites too. I changed gyms, not that I went that often anyway, and even renounced deep dish pizza completely.
Maybe seeing me in such good shape could stir something for him, or I could finally man up and ask him why the hell he dumped me, which remains one of life’s greatest mysteries.
“Who is Vanessa?” the genie asks, startling me. He came up behind me without me noticing, and he’s peeking at my notes.
“None of your business. And please, would you mind not spying on me?”
“And who is James?” he presses on, as if I hadn’t said anything.
“None of your business either.”
“I see.”
“And what is it exactly you see?”
“Have you ever wondered why the coffer chose you?”
“Do you always respond to a question with another question?”
“Do you?”
“What do you mean, the box chose me?”
“It is not a fortuity that you came into its possession.” He finally breaks the questions game and gives me a straight answer. “It was driven to you.”
“Driven to me by what?” I ask, irritated.
“By your pain.”
Ouch! Genie-1, Ally-0.
“The coffer can only be opened by women,” he continues. “Did I already tell you?”
“No, you didn’t tell me anything!” I lash out.
“You see, the coffer was made with a dual purpose.” He says, ignoring my confrontational tone completely. “The first was to punish me…”
“Punish you for what?”
“We are not talking about me right now.”
“And why should I open up with you if you won’t tell me a damn thing about yourself?”
“Because you can still be helped, whereas I am beyond redemption,” he hisses, enraged.
“You know, talking things through is useful by itself. You’d feel much better afterwards,” I reply tranquilly, reacting to his anger with sudden calmness.
He raises a perplexed eyebrow at first, and then smiles victoriously. Right, I guess I just argued against myself.
“As I was saying,” he continues, “the coffer was also made to help its possessors. It picks only women suffering for love, and in particular women facing a rival.”
“Why?”
“The why is not important.”
“Knowing why would help me to better understand.” Will he buy it?
He is silent for a long while before he says, “The coffer was created by a woman in a similar situation.”
This woman again. What did he do to her?
“What did you do to her? Was she a witch?”
“Not relevant.” He brushes my first question off. “And yes, she was.” he adds heatedly.
“You said witches didn’t exist!” I exclaim, outraged.
“They do not, at least not anymore,” he states in a curt tone that doesn’t allow any more retorts.
I think this is all I am going to get for tonight, but still…I am making progress. My turn to share something.
“James is my ex-boyfriend.”
“You mean you were betrothed?”
“Hmm, not exactly.”
“Did you dishonor yourself with this man?” he asks seriously.
“Meaning?”
“Did you have physical intercourse with him?” he elaborates.
“You mean sex? Duh! We were together for three years—of course we had sex.”
“So he had your reputation ruined,” he concludes gloomily.
“Hardly so,” I comment, suppressing a grin.
“How is it possible? If you were not married, I do not understand.”
“Let’s say relationships are a bit more flexible these days.”
“What do you mean?”
“That having a man asking to marry you is almost impossible.” I reply, exasperated. “First you date, and finding someone you actually like to date is per se extremely difficult. If you’re lucky and find this guy, he has to like you back. If he does, doesn’t have a Peter Pan complex, and he’s not too jealous of his man cave, you may be asked after some years of togetherness to move in with him. Finally, if you are even luckier, after some other years of cohabitation the guy at last proposes to you.”
“Are you saying that women live together with men before they are rightfully married?” the genie asks in astonishment.
“Precisely.”
“And this is socially accepted?”
“Come on, don’t be such a prude. This is the twenty-first century.”
“This is the most contemptible thing I have ever heard. It is something beyond common civility, and as for understanding it, I am surely incapable.”
“It is not so weird after all.” I try to better explain emancipation. “Women are independent nowadays. Many have important jobs; they can be rich, powerful, have key roles in politics…”
“Women can vote?” he asks, shocked.
“Yes. We have a universal adult suffrage.”
“And you do work?”
“Yes.”
“I am truly sorry. I never realized you were in such a state of abjection. Is your family too poor to provide for you? No wonder you were looking for financial security.”
“No, I have a job because it’s normal. It’s what people do today.”
“Even women?” he asks, growing more perturbed by the minute.
“Yes.”
“And what do you do? Are you a maid, a nurse perhaps?”
“No, I am a marketing associate for a company that makes food bars.”
He gives me a blank stare.
I suppose that both marketing and food bars are alien concepts to him, as is the emancipation of women for that matter.
After some other politically incorrect questions, we resume talking about my love triangle. The genie, idiot that he is, keeps maintaining that I should have at least an inkling why James left me. He keeps arguing that truly in love people don’t just leave each other for no reason. I keep telling him that it is exactly what happened, and that before the day we broke up there were no omens whatsoever of the approaching catastrophe.
The discussion goes on for a while, making me increasingly angry and him increasingly skeptical. It gets quite late, and with no productive outcome I become too tired to keep arguing. I take my leave with a weary “Good night” and retire to my room. All his pompous talking is getting into my head.
Before getting into bed, I lay out my outfit for tomorrow: a black Armani suit with slim fitting pants, and a jacket to die for that screams sophisticated.
Once I’m tucked into bed, it’s hard to actually sleep. I have too many thoughts swirling inside my head. What will happen tomorrow? Feeling the need to still do something, I take out my notepad and browse to the “Rules” page to add a couple of things to the footnote before I forget them.
Finally, I run through my strategy list one last time. It is not much, but I particularly approve of the last point.