Only a few years following her COMING OUT party, first in Cincinnati, then in New York, then in Palm Beach, at which the rich and famous from all over the universe came to pay homage – old money knew no boundaries – only a few years after that Stephanie Eaton came to work for me at Harry’s Carpet City as a PHONE SOLICITOR.
Go figure.
The ad was in the paper and she responded. She’d had a fight with her parents, one of many, and to prove she was INDEPENDENT, to hell with Daddy’s millions, she was going to get a JOB. Not a debutante job. But a job. A job job. She called and from the voice alone I knew I’d hooked a rare one. She asked me where we were located. I wanted to say Fifth Avenue, New York. Or Rodeo Drive, Los Angeles.
“Vine Street,” I said.
I thought I heard her gag.
“Do you have any other locations?” she asked politely.
“You mean like Paris, London, Rome…”
She laughed and it was a good, honest happy laugh. “My only concern is that you’re too far from me.”
“Where do you live?”
I knew she’d say Hyde Park.
“Hyde Park,” she said.
She heard me laugh and said, “Did I say something funny?”
“No, I’m just wondering whether you’ve called the right place. This is HARRY’S CARPET CITY.”
“I know.”
“Are you aware what we pay an hour?”
“It says in your ad.”
“And you still want to apply?”
“I’ll be there tomorrow morning.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’ll BE THERE,” she said with uppity resolve.
“This isn’t the Riviera.”
She laughed. “See you at nine. On VINE Street.”
But nine o’clock came and she didn’t. Usually I didn’t bother when they stood me up like this, they were, after all, a dime a dozen, but this was different. I knew because sometimes you just know. So I found Eaton in the phone book, on Rosebush Lane – where else?
“Did you forget?”
“Oh God, yes. I did. That’s POSITIVELY unforgivable. I’ll be right over.”
“You must not need a job very badly.”
“Oh yes I do. Please. I’ll be right over.”
“You remember where we’re located.”
“Yes. Vine Street not the Riviera. Give me an hour.”
I gave her three, before she pulled up in that silver Jaguar.
Fat Jack had taken notice. As she made her way up the steps, he called up to ask. “Are we hiring royalty? That car’s worth more than you’d make in ten years, fifty years, a hundred years – and look what’s walking up into your lousy boiler room! Will you look at this! Eli, this girl’s a DREAM. Marry her.”
“I’d like to meet her first.”
“I give you two weeks.”
She arrived wearing a frilly, billowy top and tight skirt, which didn’t go together, in fact didn’t go at all, and I figured she had dressed for the occasion – for Vine Street. She had too much rouge on. Hardly any lipstick. On the thin side, but great breasts, which were being held in reserve. Beautiful? Oh yes. But I didn’t fall for her the minute I laid eyes on her. Took a good five minutes.
I had expected her to be cool and classy, which she certainly was, but you could tell that she was a socialite in the making, not quite finished yet, something too gangly about her still, a bit unsure of herself, lacking absolute refinement and complete poise, which would come, you knew it would come, any day in fact, any minute.
She sat there appraising me and I wondered which one of me she was seeing – the company man or the artistic rebel. One minute a knowing smile would sweep across her face as though letting me know that the big desk wasn’t fooling her, but the next minute, as I was explaining things, she’d nod reverentially.
I gave her an empty desk to fill out her application but instead of writing she kept shooting me worried glances.
“This isn’t a test,” I said.
I’d never seen anyone tackle a lousy application form with such sincerity and intensity, even fear.
“Ready whenever you are,” I said, but that would never happen, it was plain to tell.
She’d never be ready.
“Whatever you’ve got will be enough,” I coaxed.
Finally she got up and just stood by my desk imploringly. I reached out to take the paper from her hand but she wasn’t letting go of it; as many times as I reached out she pulled back. She finally handed me a sheet that was empty save for her name, address and education. Vassar.
Fat Jack leaped into the room, grabbed the paper, crumpled it up and said, “Forget this. You’re hired.”
Then he vanished.
She laughed.
“That was Fat Jack,” I said.
“I know. I met him downstairs.”
“He thinks I ought to hire you, no questions asked.”
“Oh? He told me we ought to get MARRIED, no questions asked.”
We both laughed.
“I notice that you’ve never held a job before.”
She shrugged and began smoothing the boxing trophy that was on my desk. She blushed when I said she didn’t have experience.
“Are you aware that people down here can be awfully crude?” I said, thinking of Fat Jack in particular.
“Am I hired?” she said impatiently.
She had switched gears on me.
Of course she was hired. But I still had to do the interview!
I said the only skill required in this job was the ability to read a script into a telephone 100 times a day, and perhaps be persuasive, that wouldn’t hurt; come up with one or two leads a day. That was the easy part. The hard part was the atmosphere of a boiler room, not to mention Vine Street, which was really not the sort of boulevard she was used to, if I judged her correctly.
“I’m not THAT sheltered,” she said, seemingly amused by my paternal attitude.
I said muggings were not uncommon on the street.
“I’m a big girl.”
I said she’d be wise to have her chauffeur drive her over.
She laughed. “What makes you think I have a chauffeur?”
“Everything about you.”
She blushed.
“Most people hang up on you,” I explained about the job. “Everyone you talk to is a stranger.”
“I’m sure I can handle it,” she said playfully but decisively.
She wasn’t taking me seriously and continued toying with my boxing trophy. That was the only thing there was of me around the office and she did comment about it, about how I obviously wasn’t much for décor. There were no photos here of me or of my family, no trinkets, no mementos, other than that boxing trophy. She said that people who don’t nest in obviously intend to move on.
“Your job is to get leads,” I said.
“You told me.”
“Do you know what a lead is?”
“I guess it’s an appointment you try to set up for a salesman.”
“Absolutely. You know much more about this business than I thought.”
She thought I was joking.
“What does your father do?” I asked.
She shrugged. “Daddy? I don’t know. Well I do know. But I really don’t know.”
“I just wondered if you knew anything about sales. Because that’s what this is.”
“No I don’t.”
“You’ve had pests calling you on the phone to buy this or that, and you’ve probably hung up on them.”
“Probably.”
“Well that’s what you’d be doing. You’d be one of those pests.”
“Good.”
“As you know, you’re vastly, ridiculously overqualified for this job…for any job.”
“I don’t care.”
“You are a debutante, aren’t you?”
“Oh there was some silly party.”
“So I’m not far off. Why do you need a job anyway?”
“That’s personal. Oh all right. Mother was being IMPOSSIBLE, as usual. Or more than usual.”
She said that as if I knew MOTHER. Doesn’t everybody know MOTHER?
“Since Fat Jack walked away with your application form there are certain questions I must ask for the record.”
She turned very serious for these important questions.
“Are you married?”
“No.”
“Do you have children?”
“NO!”
“Are you engaged?”
“No,” she said, catching on.
“Are you going steady?”
“This is for the record,” she said.
“Official business. It’s for the FBI. Clearance.”
“No I’m NOT going steady.”
“Are you in love with anybody?”
She blushed but quickly recovered. “This is for the FBI.”
“No, the CIA.”
“You can tell the CIA I’m not in love with anybody. Am I CLEARED?” She was still playing with my boxing trophy.
“Can you start tomorrow?” I said. “Or do you have to go shopping first?”
She sighed and gave me an exaggerated brush-off. “No I don’t HAVE TO GO SHOPPING. I’ll be here tomorrow.”
For the first week we kept our distance, playing it formal; the second week we started talking books; the third week she confessed to being an artist; the fourth week I confided that somewhere deep inside I was an actor; the fifth week she started to skip lunch with me; the sixth week she began staying late; the seventh week she asked me to box with her. Then we wrestled. Then we kissed. Then she started coming over to my apartment and sighed a lot.
She made up with her parents, which meant she didn’t need Harry’s Carpet City anymore.
She could BUY Harry’s Carpet City, as Fat Jack kept reminding me.
But she stayed. I asked her why.
“Guess,” she said.
The other girls took to her. She played no uppity games with them.
Mona loved her.
Fat Jack came up regularly, dragged us out into the hall, and said: “When are you two kids going to quit fooling around? Get married.” To Stephanie: “You love him, don’t you?”
“You’re embarrassing her,” I said.
“No he’s not,” Stephanie said. “Yes I do love him.”
“So what’s your problem?” he said to me.
Downstairs Fat Jack grabbed me by the tie. “Don’t let this one get away, you YUTZ!”
But I did.
Maybe I did.