Filthy Rich (8 page)

It occurs to
me that I haven’t told you yet about Ellewina Nash Goldberg, my all-time favorite Personal Life Coaching client. Ellewina, as readers of the society pages may already know, was the daughter of Aldous Nash, the rabid right-wing industrialist and mortal enemy of Franklin Roosevelt. Her rebellion against her family took the form of marrying a Jewish socialist from Queens, Myron Goldberg, whom she met at a Norman Thomas rally in the thirties. Their marriage, which lasted half a century and produced three daughters, all of whom live in big mansions in Greenwich, ended when Myron quite unexpectedly ran off with the nubile eighteen-year-old waitress who served him fruit cocktail at a buffet fund-raising dinner he attended with Ellewina at Donald Trump’s Mar-a-Lago in Palm Beach.

Well, to say Myron “ran off” is actually something of a misnomer, as by then the cad was in the early stage of Parkinson’s disease and got around using a walker. But, of
course, that made the situation no less painful for poor Ellewina.

By the time Ellewina reached out to me for coaching, her father was long gone, and she herself was a widow. Myron, not long after dashing off with his young cutie, had expired from a heart attack brought on by the mysterious Chinese herbs he’d taken to boost his libido. Well into her seventies, Ellewina was hampered by poor eyesight and slowed by advancing arthritis in her joints, but was otherwise in decent health.

Moreover, unlike a lot of oldsters, Ellewina did not have to worry about money. As her father grew older, he became quite fond of Myron and put Ellewina back in his will. Indeed, near his death at the age of ninety-two, old Mr. Nash wrote a much-admired op-ed piece for
The New York Times
in which he expressed regret at his previous anti-Semitism and publicly resigned his membership in several exclusive clubs, all as a prelude to explaining his recent decision to convert to Judaism.

Anyway, Ellewina sought my help to get rid of the terrible depression she’d fallen into as a result of hanging out with people her own age.

“All they do is sit around and complain about their latest ailment,” she said. “Isn’t it possible anymore to have a friendly conversation where no one uses the words bowel or bladder? I can’t listen anymore. I know it sounds silly at my advanced age, but I need to change my life.”

My strategy was to get Ellewina actively engaged in the
various charitable causes she supported instead of simply handing the money to the New York Community Trust to dole out.

The going wasn’t always smooth. There was the time, for example, when Ellewina threw a party at her vast seaside estate in Southampton to raise money for impoverished Native Americans out west. “We must help our Indians” was her mantra as she greeted each new arrival, most of whom came clad in elaborate beaded outfits, thinking the soiree was a costume party. But the event probably wouldn’t have generated so much bad press had it not been for the decision to hand out fuzzy dice in authentic Native American hues as the party favor. What can I say? I was young, and just starting out in the Personal Coaching game. I take the blame, totally.

But I more than made up for that travesty by my next move. I persuaded Ellewina to endow a new charity for inner-city youth, the Groucho Foundation, she called it. She came up with that name, she told me, having read that Oprah Winfrey called her company Harpo Productions. I explained that Harpo is only Oprah spelled backward. I suggested instead the Ellewina Nash Goldberg Foundation. But there was no moving Ellewina when her mind was already made up. “Groucho was my favorite of the brothers,” she said.

What matters is that the Groucho Foundation has helped a lot of kids. It also helped Ellewina by giving her a new sense of purpose, as well as a dandy excuse to eschew her
crabby contemporaries and hang out with the energetic young staff members we hired for the program.

She frequently thanked me for getting her off her “lazy duff.” But after those first few productive sessions together, it was never clear to me which of us was the coach, and who was being helped more. We had become friends.

One day, I accompanied Ellewina when she visited a daycare center, supported almost entirely by her foundation, in a poor section of the Bronx. By now her charitable activities had made her a well-recognized New York icon, and she always made it a point not to “dress down” when she went on one of these inspection tours, so as “not to disappoint.” For this occasion, she wore a turquoise-and-gold brocade number that was elegant in an Old World sort of way, and could have passed for drapes.

The staff of the center, who greeted her like a movie star, had obviously gone to a lot of trouble to prepare a special lunch: inexpensive packaged bologna and other choice cold cuts on Wonder bread. When the platter was presented to her, I didn’t know what to expect. Honestly, I wasn’t sure whether she’d ever seen white bread with crust before. She could easily have declined the fare, pleading another engagement, or that she had already eaten. Instead the spunky doyenne surveyed the jars of mustard, ketchup, and mayonnaise proudly arrayed on a drab metal table, and then took a little of each before biting enthusiastically into her bologna and American cheese sandwich. “My,” she said, her mouth still full of cheap processed meat, “what lovely sauces.”

I remember thinking at the time, I wish I could be like Ellewina and see “lovely sauces” in crummy store-brand jars of condiments.

Ellewina died peacefully in her sleep shortly after that trip, her demise totally unrelated to eating the sandwich. Back alone in my apartment and nervously popping chocolates after my pleasant, unexpected outing with Cliff Jentzen, I had a vivid flashback of that day with Ellewina. She would have liked him, I thought, even though he had ended an otherwise swell afternoon on a crummy note of vagueness by mumbling the three most dreaded words in the male vocabulary: “I’ll call you.”

I casually flipped on the TV, catching the tail end of
Entertainment Tonight
. I was just in time to hear perky Mary Hart pose a disconcerting question—“Where’s Marcy?” As the screen showed the well-worn tape of me angrily throwing the ring at Neil the other night, she provided viewers with this gripping status report:

“Offers of television deals and commercial endorsements keep pouring in for Marcy Lee Mallowitz, the thirty-four-year-old Personal Life Coach whose feisty response to getting ditched by her orthodontist boyfriend on
So You Want to Be Filthy Rich!
the other night won the nation’s hearts and admiration. But in a puzzling first that is said to have even close friends scratching their heads, this television natural seems reluctant to step into the spotlight, choosing, at
least for now, to remain holed up incommunicado in her Greenwich Village apartment. Mental health experts consulted by
ET
were divided on whether her aberrant behavior indicates a pathologically weak or strong sense of self. Among the many offers and invitations awaiting her response is one to appear at a star-studded cocktail fund-raising reception in Los Angeles next month for BIG TV’s NOW, a charitable group working to bridge the nation’s entertainment divide by selling name-brand projection television sets on a discount basis to poor families whose present TV is more than two years old and has a screen size under thirty-six inches. Tomorrow, in an
ET
exclusive, we will examine this new phenomenon of reality-show fame, and delve into the history and implications of the ongoing story some leading media critics are now calling ‘Marcygate.’”

Marcygate?
I said to myself as I reached for the remote and pressed the off button in disgust.

Watergate and Monicagate I get. But what did I ever do to deserve Marcygate? I’ve never taken part in a burglary or abused people’s civil liberties. Nor have I ever had sex with a president inside the Oval Office. Ditto outside the Oval Office. Of course, I don’t claim to speak for my good friend Lois.

When I got
up the next day, it was already well past noon. My delay in rising let me enjoy a vivid dream that I was back on
Filthy Rich!
with Neil, the creep, and everything was unfolding just as it really had. I still messed up on Teri Garr, only instead of harmlessly throwing the piddling ring, I threw Kingman’s bulky game monitor, which Kingman ripped off its base and kindly handed to me, saying, “I don’t like that guy.” In my dream, I effortlessly hurled the monitor at Neil’s rotten head, instantly causing him to drop to the ground, dying, as the audience stood in unison wildly applauding my bold gesture.

The downer was awakening to find that it was only a dream, and that my overflowing message tape contained no messages from my eBay savior, Cliff Jentzen—the one potential bright spot on my otherwise bleak social horizon. It left me feeling as dark as the deep gray areas that now dotted the once pink Rosie sweats I was still wearing, and I responded in the same mature way I usually do when I’m
feeling that depressed. I ate everything fattening in sight, and that was a lot, given the week’s still-mounting haul of gourmet freebies. Then, I crawled back into bed and fell into a comalike sleep, which, disappointingly for me, produced no new dreams of Neil’s violent death.

It was three days since Neil had dumped me, and I was going to the dogs.

I suspect, though obviously I have no way of proving it, that it was Ellewina’s ghostly spirit rather than an urgent need to relieve myself that caused me to reawaken suddenly at around eleven-thirty that night, and grab for the remote to tune in to
Late Show with David Letterman
. Normally, I do my best to avoid David Letterman. His much publicized bypass operation was supposed to make him nicer, but it hasn’t happened. Plus, not to seem mean myself, I don’t get what he’s up to with his hair—what there is of it, I mean. My mother, for what it’s worth, thinks his bandleader, “that sweetie” Paul Schaffer, should have left the show long ago.

Anyway, there was yucky, disgusting, double-crossing Neil on
Letterman
.

He appeared near the beginning of the show, dressed in his crisp, ultra-white dental jacket, which amused Dave and led to one of his snide asides: “Hey, help me out here. Is this guy really an orthodontist? I’m asking, because to me, anyway, he looks like the Good Humor man. Am I right on that, Paul?”

“Definitely,” replied the bandleader. “Pretty groovy.”

Maybe Letterman isn’t so bad after all, I decided. He was right. Neil did look like the Good Humor man.

But Letterman’s ribbing didn’t seem to be spoiling Neil’s good time. My oblivious ex was still smiling broadly as he stood in the spotlight, his apparent joy in being included on the hip nighttime show totally undiminished. He was there to read the evening’s Top Ten List.

TOP TEN REASONS TO CHOOSE MARCY LEE MALLOWITZ AS YOUR LIFELINE

• 10. You’re a masochist and just love losing $1.75 million.
  
• 9. She’s great in bed.
  
• 8. She has the same initials as Marilyn Monroe, the Greatest Lifeline of All.
  
• 7. You got the show’s name wrong. You thought it was
  So You Want to Go Down the Toilet!
  
• 6. Kingman promised no questions about Sonny and Cher.
  
• 5. Your real Personal Life Coach was busy that night.
  
• 4. You had no choice. You were told it was either her or the insane Australian guy on cable who plays with crocodiles.
  
• 3. It may be a cheap ring, but you want it back really, really badly.
  
• 2. When Kingman said choose a Lifeline, you thought she’d just be reading palms.
  

And the Number One Reason to Choose Marcy Lee Mallowitz as Your Lifeline?

1. Her mother’s fat-filled cooking, stupid.
   

“Nicely done,” said Dave.

Nicely done, indeed.

I was not amused. Neither, let me assure you, was my mother, who was watching—but with none of the customary kvelling—back in Brooklyn.

My first reaction was horror and disbelief. I must have sat there in bed, completely frozen, for a full five minutes.

My second reaction was to dip into the giant tin of dark chocolate butter-crunch squares, which Mike Wallace and his
60 Minutes
producers had collectively sent over earlier in the day, no doubt hoping to gain an edge over the upstarts at
60 Minutes II
, whose skimpy offering of a few Pepperidge Farm cookie assortments served merely to reinforce my long-standing worries about the future of TV news. In less than a minute of devouring the Mike Wallace butter crunch, my back teeth were pretty much stuck together, and a brown, nutty drool began cascading from the right corner of my mouth. It ran down my chin, until a big glob fell on my once-pink sweatshirt from Rosie O’Donnell, all but obscuring the distinctive Rosie logo. For the first time since losing Neil on
Filthy Rich!
I began to cry, and couldn’t seem to stop. It was my lowest moment.

Then something remarkable happened. Something I
thought only happens in low-budget movies when the screenwriter has had a bad day and is rushing to get home. A faint voice inside my head—old Ellewina’s, I presumed—told me this was no time to be crying and drooling. Why let that tooth-moving piece of decay, Neil, have the last word, and ruin your reputation? Don’t sit around feeling sorry for yourself, kid. Wake up and sniff the sauces.

Sniff the sauces. On the word “sauces” I had a revelation. Amid all the deliveries I received the Day After, I suddenly recalled a small but tasty box of imported pistachio nuts. It came with a small card, which read as follows: “Hope you’ll do the show. Dave.” No doubt Neil had received the same package. My ego was so bloated by my own avid courting by the media, it hadn’t occurred to me that Neil, the crumb, was simultaneously getting many of the same invitations and offers, and, worse, might actually accept some of them. At that very moment, for all I knew, Neil was lounging around in a Rosie O’Donnell sweatsuit identical to the one I still had on—except his was probably in navy blue and smelled a whole lot better than mine did at that particular point.

Not Oprah, I thought. Please say Oprah’s personal chef didn’t cook for Neil. But Neil, the scum, had already abused my good name on
Letterman
. Who could say where on the dial he’d show up next?

This was War, and I needed a game plan. So I did what any red-blooded American female would do under the circumstances. I dialed my two best girlfriends, Norma and Lois, and arranged a secret 1
A.M.
strategy meeting at a
favorite East Village restaurant, the Life Cafe, at the corner of Tenth Street and Avenue B. It wasn’t the most convenient choice. But Lois, who was still clad in a long Donna Karan sheath, had just returned from a stirring Democratic Party salute to Buddhist fund-raisers, where they served only meager appetizers consistent with a vow of poverty. She was feeling a craving for the cafe’s vegan nachos.

I could feel my old determination begin to return as I peeled off the Rosie sweatsuit that had been my security blanket for three days, and hopped into the shower. The world looks a lot better when you have clean hair, I thought as I quickly toweled off. It’s one of the first rules I teach my Personal Life Coaching clients—Rule Number Three, to be exact, on the convenient wallet-size handout I call “Marcy’s Magnificent Seven.” Number One, in case you’re wondering, is “Remember to floss,” and was, quite obviously, rotten Neil’s contribution to the enterprise. You can quibble with its placement in the order, but after mulling it over while I finished blow-drying my hair, I decided flossing is still important for both appearance and fresh breath, and downgrading it on my list would just confuse any clients I still had remaining when I finally got back to work, and it would look vindictive besides.

Figuring this was a conspiratorial gathering I was heading to, and wanting to blend in with the night, I opted for an all-black look—elegant, if suddenly hard-to-zip black Calvin Klein slacks, black scooped-neck tee with three-quarter-length sleeves, and a black cardigan with dark
mother-of-pearl buttons that I bought years ago when all the fashion magazines were predicting that the country-club look was coming back. Black everything. Even black underwear. Everything black, that is, except for the purple bandanna and sunglasses that Cliff had left behind, and I decided those still made sense as an antipaparazzi precaution.

“That you, Ms. Mallowitz?” said the night doorman, Al, when I appeared in the lobby. “Feeling better?”

“I think so, Al,” I said. “I’ll know more after my stroll.”

I hadn’t been out this late without a man in three years, and going out the door by myself this first time felt scary, but also strangely liberating. My goal was to briskly walk the seven crosstown blocks from my apartment to the Life Cafe, thereby achieving a mild aerobic workout. Despite the recent drop in crime, I know it’s not prudent for a woman to be walking alone past midnight when the streets can get pretty deserted, even in all-night Greenwich Village. But three days spent mostly cooped up and eating like a sumo wrestler trying to achieve a higher weight class had left me feeling flabby and exercise deprived. I was anxious to make up for lost time.

As I exited my building on Fifth Avenue, I noticed a navy blue Lincoln Town Car parked right out front. It was just sitting there, its lights out and its dark-tinted windows rolled up tight, as if the big, red “No Standing” sign rising from
the sidewalk did not apply. I didn’t think much of it—there are even more Town Cars in the city than Gap stores, and if God meant man to obey parking rules, as far as I’m concerned, he would have commanded parking-garage owners not to charge as much as $29.50 an hour in some parts of Manhattan. Besides, at that moment I was preoccupied, mentally kicking myself for forgetting the small hand weights I’d meant to carry to turn this little nighttime hike into a legitimate Powerwalk. On the bright side, I told myself, the fact you’re so upset means you’re back to thinking like a Personal Life Coach. In the process, I was again observing Rule Number Three on Marcy’s Magnificent Seven, which is easy to remember because it also happens to be the title of a well-known song: “Keep Your Sunny Side Up.” As I always tell my clients: The best way to nurture your sunny side (apart from clean, shiny hair) is regular exercise, preferably a combination of aerobic and strength training at least three or four times a week. Try it! It’s also great for the skin and staying trim!

Anyway, back to the parked Town Car in front of my building. As I was saying, it barely made an impression. But as I turned the corner to head east on Tenth Street, I developed the distinct feeling I was being followed. I started stepping faster, feeling fortunate I had chosen to wear my black Reeboks instead of the Ferragamo loafers I had forcibly wrested from another customer’s hands at a recent sale, causing something of a scene.

Immediately, I began feeling like an idiot, although not
for grabbing the shoes. (Lest you think badly of me, I should tell you that my competitor had been standing in such a way as to block everyone else’s access to the sale table for at least five minutes, making my aggressive seizure fully justified.) However, I did feel like an idiot for running. Stay calm. It’s just your imagination playing tricks, I told myself. It’s misty out, and wearing dark sunglasses at night can be disorienting. But events quickly confirmed that more was at work here than Cliff’s old Ray-Bans.

The Town Car, suddenly alive, had just headed around the corner and was moving slowly along the curb in my direction.

My walk now became a run. I still held out a hope that it was just my imagination, that the blue Lincoln would make a turn when we reached the corner of Tenth and University Place. Instead, the mystery car kept pace a few feet behind, following my bad example as I crossed the street illegally against a red light. On an impulse, I now turned around and started running in the opposite direction, back toward my apartment. But the Town Car would not be so easily eluded. Whoever was driving just put it in reverse, then slammed on the gas to catch up to me, heading the wrong way down the nearly empty one-way street. When the car was about even with me, the back window rolled down halfway, and I heard a man calling my name in a loud stage whisper.

“Marcy. Marcy get over here. It’s me.”

I stopped to look but didn’t say anything. I still couldn’t see who was talking.

“Marcy, over here. It’s me, Kingman. Kingman Fenimore. I need to talk to you.”

He rolled the window down farther, so I could confirm the ID.

Much to my amazement, it really was Kingman Fenimore. I could see that now. But what was he doing here on East Tenth Street, scaring the wits out of Marcy Lee Mallowitz at this ungodly hour on a weekday night? I wondered. Why wasn’t he at home in bed getting rested to appear live at 9
A.M.
as host of the phenomenally successful daytime gig that preceded his prime-time
Filthy Rich!
success? By that, of course, I’m referring to
Gabbing! With Kingman and Tracy Ellen
. Honestly, I’d never seen it, in keeping with Rule Number Five of Marcy’s Magnificent Seven: “Watching daytime TV is degenerate.” But I knew the imminent departure of Tracy Ellen, who was leaving to bring her special blend of folksy family stories and racy double-entendre humor to a new show the Christian Broadcasting Network was planning for her, had triggered a major nationwide talent search to find a replacement.

Personally, I was pretty sick of hearing about it. It seemed you couldn’t pick up a newspaper without reading something about Kingman and
Filthy Rich!
or the daily ups and downs in the ongoing hunt for a new Tracy Ellen. Goodness, even the new surgically improved Linda Tripp was being considered for a tryout. Who next, Paula Jones? Fawn Hall? Kato Kaelin? After almost forty years in show business, including three demeaning years in the mid-eighties that
saw him eke out a living turning letters on
Wheel of Fortune
when Vanna White was vacationing, Kingman Fenimore’s time had finally arrived.