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THE APARTMENT SEARCH
The commute wasn’t exactly wonderful. Traveling early in the morning and relatively late in the evening. Lorraine had to learn to carve her own place amongst the huddles along the platform, find a seat for the long ride that wasn’t already taken by the lifers. The train was packed with all kinds—a young guy with a heavy thump-thump! spilling out from beneath his studio-size headphones, his chunky hoop earning smooshed against his neck; a woman she vaguely recognized from somewhere she couldn’t place—maybe the bank. The woman did nothing but stare directly across at something far beyond the window for the entire ride. But the commute wasn’t the reason she’d really started looking for an apartment in the city.
The reason was her mother, and the fact that she hadn’t stopped bugging her about it. It wasn’t exactly that Lorraine wanted to please her mother, but she was sick of facing the disappointment in her eyes, in the slight downward turn of the mouth, every time she came home from work. After all these years Lorraine thought she’d grown used to being met without praise or warmth from her mother. But now she was doing something to change herself for the better, and her mother still wasn’t happy. It seemed she’d never be satisfied with Lorraine. Each smirk, each tsk cut her deeper than the last. And to be honest, she was feeling wonderful in general about the changes in her life—every day a new person to meet, a new store to peek inside, another street to explore. If she wasn’t meeting a new life with “open arms,” at least she was meeting it—making the effort to have an open mind. She couldn’t stand to be hit with her mother’s negativity on a daily basis. So she agreed to start looking.
“Why won’t you just take this apartment from Mrs. Romanelli! Mama Mia! It’s waiting for you!” Her other raised her hands to heaven, looking for an answer.
Why wouldn’t she? Well, maybe she didn’t want to take this advice from her mother. Maybe she thought, like many of her mother’s lofty romantic dreams, that it might turn out to be nothing like her mother had thought. It was possible the woman hadn’t even mentioned Lorraine could have the apartment. It was also possible that in her mother’s dreamy mind, she’d transformed the idea into something it wasn’t. Then again, it was also possible Lorraine’s mom did have it right—then Lorraine would be forced to listen to her mother’s opinion on everything in the future. Otherwise she’d be met with, “You doubted me about Mrs. Romanelli’s apartment, and look how great that turned out! See, now listen to me about Mrs. Stephano’s grandson Jimmy.” Either way, it wasn’t a fantastic scenario. Besides, wasn’t it better to do this on her own?
She’d been doing it on her own at Guido’s through the week, and that seemed to be going well enough. Like any salon, there was a pattern, like the borders on a kindergarten bulletin board, that stylists fell into. Lorraine was used to patterns, that was for sure, but she wasn’t used to watching other stylists do the work while she held out clips, gripped sections of hair to pass over to someone else’s fingers.
Lorraine hadn’t gone in blindly, though. She’d known about the assistant duties—she’d been given the entire book! But it was tough, this holding back your potential, not being all that you could be. However, she was determined to see this experience through, to see if maybe there was more for her outside of the Bay.
That was the spirit Lorraine held fast to on Saturday, her first day off, when she and Chrissy drove into the City to meet up with Don and check out all the open houses listed in little boxes in the Village Voice.
The “Aquatic Honda” (Chrissy’s description) made its way up to the FDR, and over toward Park Avenue. Floating through the Upper East Side in the vehicle, it occurred to Lorraine that the whole place looked different from this perspective, as if she wasn’t quite in the midst of it, but looking into a giant fishbowl Manhattan. And she smiled at that idea—that she now knew the City enough to know what it was like when you were really swimming around.
“That place is great for sticky buns,” she pointed out to a blasé Chrissy as they pulled up to Don’s apartment. He lived in his brother’s humungous place on Park Avenue, and was leaning against the stone building casually, holding a foam coffee cup. Lorraine loved how he looked simultaneously out of and yet exactly in place. She knew just what that was like.
Their vessel was a two-door coupe, and so Chrissy opened the door and stepped out to pull her seat forward for Don.
“Holy shit! You guys are like the friggin’ Bobbsey Twins!” he commented before even introducing himself.
The girls laughed and shook their heads. Sometimes it seemed as if there was no escaping the past.
“Yeah, well, you’re already talking like her, stealing Lorraine’s friggin’ like that! I’m Chrissy, Bobbsey Twin Number One.” Her tone was bubbly.
“Hey, I’m number one!” Lorraine yelled out to them. “Chrissy, Don; Don, Chrissy. Now get in the friggin’ car and let’s go.”
They started uptown over by Columbia and worked south to the Lower-Lower East Side. Everything was either taken or sucked beyond belief—no sink in the bathroom, or even no bathroom at all. Forget about the condition of the walls, ceiling, fuse boxes, and of course, the smaller-than-Lorraine’s-bedroom-at-home-sizes.
“Oh, look, a walk-in closet!” Chrissy exclaimed at one apartment on Eleventh Street on the West Side.
“That’s the bedroom,” Lorraine said.
“Well, at least you won't have to spend a lot of furniture,” Don offered with an easy smile.
But even that one was taken by the time they got through looking at it.
Zero for fifteen, Lorraine crossed off the last highlighted box on her Village Voice page. To lighten the mood, Don insisted they take Chrissy to the dining room at Bendel’s for lunch, since he had a tab there and could therefore treat the three of them. It sounded good, so they both agreed.
“What the hell is foy grass?” Chrissy wanted to now, scanning the dainty menu.
“I think it’s like the new thing after the slimy green wheat-grass crap. Those Park Avenue girls will drink anything if they think they’ll lose an ounce,” Lorraine said, thinking of the bright orange, and even worse, muddy-colored drinks she’d seen them sipping from clear plastic take-away cups.
“You guys seriously crack me up,” Don said, wiping tears from his eyes and holding his belly.
The Bobbsey Twins were firmly holding furrowed brows. They didn’t enjoy being funny when they didn’t intend it.
“It’s called foie gras, and it’s goose liver. Like chopped liva, Funny Girls. That’s a good one, you really sounded just like Babs, exactly. You gotta do that for Guido—honestly, he loves that shit.”
They hadn’t been joking, but whatever. They both hated chopped liver anyhow. Don ordered the foy grass, just to be a little funny, and admittedly it was. Chrissy went for the gourmet macaroni and cheese and Lorraine opted for the roast chicken with lobster mashed potatoes. Since the whole thing was free, she ordered a glass of the house red.
“Mademoiselle,” the waiter said after Lorraine had given the final order, “zee chef recommends zee vino blanc wit zee rrrroast chiiick-en.”
There was nothing, and she meant nothing, that pissed Lorraine off more than pretension. And the more time she spent in the City, the less patience she had for it. “Well, you can tell zee chef zat Mademoiselle will be sticking with zee red.”
The waiter looked to Don, a regular, for some kind of aid, but Don just shrugged his sounders and said, “you heard zee Mademoiselle.”
“How the frig did you know that?” Chrissy wanted to know when the waiter retreated to input the order and probably spit on it.
“From that Sonoma trip for Frankie and Samantha’s wedding last year. Remember we went to tour Chateau St. Jean, but you were too mad at Big Bobby to come with us?”
Chrissy quieted at that, grimacing before turning a deep shade of eggplant.
“Who’s Big Bobby?” Don wanted to know. He was two years younger, but you might guess more from his sweet, innocent nature. He never thought twice about saying anything, and even if he was being sarcastic, you never took it to be nasty.
Chrissy breathed, and surprised Lorraine with her answer. “He’s the f’er I should break up with but can’t. Same old stupid story. Just like Lorraine.”
“Whaddya mean, just like Lorraine? I didn’t think you had a boyfriend, Lorraine.” Don looked confused as the waiter came by, white-faced, to place the red wine in front of Lorraine.
“Never mind about that,” Lorraine said, and picked up her glass.
The other two held their Cokes in the air.
“To Don, thanks for a sweet lunch,” she said, tipping her glass, wanting to change the subject fast. You didn’t come all this way just to have the same reputation.
“To Don,” they both said, laughing.
“Damn, that’s good stuff,” Don said of his soda.
Lunch was long, filling, and fun. It looked as if Chrissy felt just the same bond with Don that Lorraine had when she’d met him. In fact, she couldn’t stop talking about him on the way home.
“Whaddya love him or something?” Lorraine said after they’d crossed the Brooklyn Bridge and maintained the moment of silence they always did, following the loop around to the Brooklyn Queens Expressway, where the best views of the diminished skyline were to be had.
“Yeah, I’m freakin’ in love with him. You found me out. I wanna have his kids, with little pink mohawks. We can make a million doing perms on Eighty-sixth Street. Just think how we’ll all fit in at the Bay Ridge Bowl.”
Sounded to Lorraine like someone was being a little sensitive, but it had been a long day, so she let the subject go. Besides, Don was younger and there was no way Chrissy had a thing for a guy with a pink Mohawk who styled hair. Did anyone? Furthermore, Chrissy was an account. She did the books at the Waldbaum’s supermarket over by Fort Hamilton. She had a 401K and retirement benefits. The second Big Bobby asked Chrissy to marry her, she’d change to part-time status and start popping out kids. That had always been her plan. Unfortunately, Big Bobby kept sleeping with skanky blond hoes.
The following week, all Lorraine’s mom did was drop hints about the apartment in the city. On the list of Pork Store items she handed to Lorraine one evening, number 10 read, Call Mrs. Romanelli about the apartment before your mother dies of a heart attack thinking of you in some hovel in Alphabet City.’
Lorraine had always done her best to ignore her mother’s schemes and ideas, but after the fruitless weekend search, she was feeling a bit more amenable. So, when her mother burst into a theatrical display of tears, hanging on to the painting of the Virgin Mother and begging of it, “Why me? Why me? Perché me? Perché me?” Lorraine figured she might as well take a look on Monday, if only for the peace it would restore to her family home.
“Fine, Mom! I’ll do it! Would you get up already, please?”
“Oh, Santa Maria, thank you! Thank you!” Her mother kissed the Virgin Mother’s face.
Lorraine, her brother, and her father rolled their eyes. Lorraine’s brother delivered the code phrase they used in place of she’s crazy. “Can you pass the bread?” he said with excess blinking.
Lorraine nearly spit out her cavatelli. Yes, please pass the bread,” she said.
“BREAD! PLEASE!” her father confirmed before they all broke into hysterics.
“What’s wrong with all of you?” her mother asked. When they didn’t answer, she said, twisting her own piece of bread into two pieces, “You’re all nuts.”
That night in bed Lorraine determined that, whichever way it turned out with Mrs. Romanelli, she was done looking for apartments. Even in dreams, she couldn’t stop thinking about how badly they sucked. In the dream she couldn’t fit her bed in the bedroom and wound up throwing it out the window, only for someone to cart it off with her screaming out, “Hey, that’s my bed!” which pissed her off. Not because she lost her bed, but because normally, Lorraine dreamed about Tommy. It was a time that he would always be hers. And now, it seemed clear to Lorraine she couldn’t even have him in her dreams.
On Monday at two p.m. there was a free hour in the schedule of senior colorist Jacqueline, whom Lorraine was assisting that day. Jacqueline, the only stylist at the salon who even hinted that she thought the whole Princess thing was ridiculous, had told Lorraine she was going to use the hour to “Run up and down Fifth Avenue shooting every fake blonde with an Uzi.”
“Have fun,” Lorraine said nonchalantly, without looking up. It was the perfect opportunity to check out her mom’s kooky apartment connection. As she turned down Fifty-eighth Street toward Park Avenue, Lorraine couldn’t help shaking her head at the pointlessness. Who ever heard of a free apartment? If there was one thing Lorraine knew, it was that you didn’t get something for nothing.
Still it was a nice day, and the walk to Seventy-sixth Street was pleasant enough. You could almost breathe up here, what with the wider avenues and the trees and the lower buildings that actually afforded a glimpse of sky. Lorraine kept waiting for the neighborhood to turn bad, look like something someone from the neighborhood might know about, but it didn’t. If anything, it got ritzier-looking, with friendly doormen nodding, and one dog tinier than the next trotting happily along in what appeared to be lime green mink vests and matching UGG boots.
At 562, Lorraine asked the doorman if Mrs. Romanelli was in. Through the telephone, Lorraine could hear the voice on the other end change in pitch from its dainty, “Why, yes, who is it?” to “Oy! You mean Lorraine from the Bay? Send that girl up already!”
Even the doorman seemed surprised to hear a tenant at this building speak that way. He cleared his throat and swallowed a smile before saying slowly and with deliberation, “Ms. Machuchi, Mrs. Romanelli says, please go right up. It’s 5P.” And as she stepped inside the ornate gilded elevator with its velvet red bench and its matching sullen attendant, the doorman added, “the big one.”
There was no way this was working out. Where were the roaches? The burnt-out hall lights? The cracked linoleum? Lorraine pinched herself to ensure this wasn’t just a continuation of the mattress-out-the-window dream.
The elevator doors opened to a softly lit hallway that also beheld a soft velvet red bench to wait comfortably on. These people knew how to live. God! How she hated to wait on her feet.
The second she approached 5P, at the very end of the hallway, the door opened as if by magic, without any of that creaking that ordinary doors are known to emit. From behind it, Lorraine was greeted by a rather tall, rather old gentleman in a tuxedo.
“Is that Lorraine?” a tiny, shaky voice asked from somewhere indiscernible, somewhere behind the world’s largest tuxedo.
Finally, a tiny, nearly balding head to match the voice, popped out from one side and said, “Oh! You must be the granddaughter of poor Mrs. Lorraine Morano, my old, dear friend.”
Lorraine was shocked to hear the name of her grandmother, and by the tears that sprang to her eyes at the mention of it. Her grandmother’s death last year was still a fresh wound.
Ten minutes later Mrs. Romanelli and Lorraine were drinking tea by a huge picture window overlooking Park Avenue and all the tiny regal dogs and their jeweled owners who called the block home. From up here Lorraine thought it looked so peaceful, and while admittedly there was an overindulgence to it, all the stopping and chatting and familiarities reminded her of her own little neighborhood on the other side of the bridge. She thought she would definitely like to live here.
Mrs. Romanelli was whispering something in the humungous ear of her humungous butler while Lorraine busied herself watching one rather remarkable little Yorkie Maltese on the street below. Her furry little head poked straight up, and looked remarkably like Queen Elizabeth’s through that ruffled collar. With its pink nose pointed north, the dog’s tail swung ten frantic beats per second, re-angling itself with each wag. Around her miniature neck sat a pink rhinestone collar.
But the most remarkable thing about the Yorkie was her owner—a man! And not the kind who worked at the salon with Lorraine either (excepting Don, of course)! This man was waving to everyone in the neighborhood as if it were nothing at all to be walking this frou-frou dog. In fact, it seemed the women were waiting for him, like characters on a stage, each at their respective X’s. And when, on cue, he approached, each hurried to meet him, growing more animated and shameless, pushing hair back, fussing over the tiny dog, all with chests hoisted.
Lorraine smiled at the scene and turned her head back to Mrs. Romanelli, who’d just finished her chat with the butler and sent him off on some errand which called for his closing them both in the rich oak parlor alone.
“So, darling, tell me, does everyone say how much you look like your beautiful grandmother? My God, girl, you could be her at your age. You’ve got her stormy gray eyes, her lips, those long arms and legs, the dark coloring.” Mrs. Romanelli’s mind wandered, with all probability to somewhere decades back, when Grandma Morano hadn’t met her grandfather yet.
“They do. They do.” Lorraine was trying to fight the glum mood setting over her chest.
“Well, I hear you’ve got a problem like your mother—God how she drove your grandmother crazy! What a complainer that one! You’re in love with a neighborhood boy, a pizza boy.”
Unbelievable! Lorraine could not believe how wide the piteous head shaking had spread. It was a friggin’ epidemic. Apparently, there was no escape. But Lorraine was smart enough to know this wasn’t the time for angry responses. Besides, hearing it so out of place like this, the whole thing did sound a little trite—even if she still knew it to be true. Lorraine just shrugged and shook her head, like she couldn’t help her own weaknesses.
“I want to hear, I need to hear your love story, darling; you may not know from looking at my old raisin-y, widowed self, but I am a romantic. A romantic with barely a hair left on her head! But I know about romance. I have quite a reputation.”
There was something about her—the faint fluff of her white hair, her warmth, her open arms with their swingy flesh, the way she refilled Lorraine’s tea with a pinkie held out, even the way she sat back with her legs crossed at the knee, smoothing her skirt and re-folding a scarf about her neck—that was all very inviting and comforting.
And so, Lorraine told her the whole story. Mrs. Romanelli asked questions, and noted answers as if she was committing them to memory for a precise purpose, rather than just casually listening. Before Lorraine knew it, a half hour had passed.
When Mrs. Romanelli saw her glance at her watch, she said, “Oh, you have to get back to work, don’t you, dear? I’m afraid I’ve kept you too long. Come, I’ll show you the apartment. It’s yours a week from today. I’ll be in Italy for a year. All you have to do is watch my dog, Pooh-Pooh. Pooh-Pooh is at the groomer’s right now getting a trim, so unfortunately you can’t meet him. However, I know you’ll grow to love him. Everyone does. And the other condition, darling—you need to forget about that pizza boy. Promise me you’ll forget the pizza boy.”
Lorraine found herself following the woman around a never-ending apartment—a series of room, one more well-appointed than the next, done in the warmest style, making her feel like she could just plop down and make herself at home. There was a deep sofa piled high with pillows in contrasting hues of orange and green, and a large coffee table, stacked with cool-looking art and decorating books in hardback; flickering candles added spicy aromas. Books also lined shelves in many of the rooms, so did games and photos—tons of photos of smiling, hugging, and kissing and laughing people, framed in patterned silver. All the lights were soft and inviting. The bathroom was a full-size spa with a Jacuzzi and steam room and every product you could imagine, stuck with French-looking labels. And when she was shown the bedroom she’d be staying in, Lorraine had to hold herself back from diving right into the deep pile of box spring mattress, feathery comforter and dozens of tasseled pillows.
When, once again, they were at the door, Mrs. Romanelli dropped the keys into Lorraine’s palm and instructed which were for the front door, back door, trash, and mail, and added that a detailed instruction sheet would be laid out for her when she arrived the following week. “The dog is my family. I know you will love him.”
Before she knew it, Lorraine was headed back to work with her home situation all settled. She’d never really been one for dogs, but how difficult could something named Pooh-Pooh be? She thought of that little Yorkie with her unlikely owner, and figured Pooh-Pooh couldn’t be too far off. This was Park Avenue after all.
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MACHUCHI’S GARAGE
Directions to Lorraine’s new apartment
Brooklyn Bridge to FDR North, 71st SE exit
Straight all the way east to Park Avenue
Turn left on 76th St
562 Apartment 5P
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eBay auction block #4
Description: Directions to Lorraine’s first NYC apartment.
Opening bid: $3
Winning bid: $400 by MachuchiDad@aol.com
Comments: Aw, I love you, Lorraine. And I’m so proud of you. You’re good people.