The Coaster (6 page)

Chapter Seven

Despite the weeks of tedious trustee drudgery looming ahead of me, I woke up the next morning in a good mood, no doubt caused by the rare weeknight sex I'd experienced the night before. Who knew being one of those work-focused guys too busy to help out with his family would get me laid? If I'd realized that fact years ago, I'd probably be a titan of industry by now. But despite her brief little housewife fantasy, Sarah is no more suited to a life of taking care of home and hearth than I am to a life of boardrooms and power ties. This was a one-time turn-on for her. Women are “in the mood” for their own indecipherable reasons. You can't explain it and neither can they. You take what you can get, and last night I got some, so I was happy.

I got to Madison's office at eight a.m. sharp. Yesterday we had laid out a tentative plan that included more appointments and meetings over the next few weeks than I'd had in my entire life up to that point. I don't have a secretary who fills in every available time slot in my calendar because my days are so fucking full. Not only am I not that much in demand, I'm physically incapable of doing it. I could never meet with and talk to different people all day long. There is admittedly very little actual preparation
for
the meeting, but there is a lot of time spent
dreading
the meeting, hoping the meeting will be postponed, and thinking of reasons to cancel or reschedule the meeting myself. Afterward, I feel a tremendous sense of relief, like when your plane lands after a bumpy flight or you reach the end of a Catholic wedding:
Thank God that's over!

The receptionist was already seated at her throne, but all the joy had gone out of our relationship, so I pointed down the hall toward the conference room and started walking. “Sir!” She shouted. “Sir!! You can't go back there!”

I had clearly made quite an impression on her. I stopped and turned so she could see my face. “Remember me?” I looked at my watch. “From, let's see, about fourteen hours ago? I'm using Madison's conference room.”

“Oh, right. Mrs. Bennett's husband.”

“Her name is Mrs. Patterson. I know it's hard to believe, but she actually took my name when we got married, instead of the other way around.”

“Oh, sorry. I assumed she went by Bennett.”
Who wouldn't?

Madison was waiting for me in the conference room this time. We had meetings scheduled, so he didn't have time to be an asshole. “The first couple of days are meetings with the various charitable organizations with which Sam was involved. They're understandably nervous about the effect Sam's death might have on the continued beneficence of the Bennett Foundation toward their particular causes.”

“Beneficence?” I asked. “Could you try to use simple English? You don't need to impress me. You've already got the job.”

Madison smiled thinly, although his face remained fat. “Generosity, then.”

“That's better,” I said. “These people don't have anything to worry about. I'm not going to stroll in here and kick Sam's pet projects to the curb.”

“They just want to be reassured. And they want a chance to show you all the good work they do and will continue to do with your support.”

“So we're talking about two full days of listening to pitches from charities.”

“Pretty much, yes.”

“Maybe you could have a beggar accost me out front so I don't get rusty over lunch.”

His smile was so thin it might have been a grimace. “We do not allow street people to loiter in front of the building.” He was hiding it well, but I could tell he was warming up to me.

***

Suffice it to say that a pitch is a pitch is a pitch. Most organizations brought their leader and a community bigwig that sits on their board. The community types either knew me or didn't, but all saw this exercise as demeaning somehow. I'm sure I'd have felt the same way, going to solicit some son-in-law for a contribution you had already secured with the real man of the family, only to have him up and die on you. Bad break!

The droning voices in all unnecessary meetings blend into one for me, but it was literally true in this case: They were all saying the same thing. Each team of charitable solicitors could have picked a name out of a hat right before our meeting to learn what organization they'd be pitching for and there would have been no difference. The Boy Scouts guy might have had to pitch for the Special Olympics. The home for wayward girls would have had to convince me of the worth of the local crime stoppers organization. The end result would have been the same but it might have spiced things up for me.

I sat in that conference room for twenty hours over two days and had to endure the spiel of every kind of philanthropist, solicitor, bleeding heart, flimflammer, benefactor, charlatan, Good Samaritan, fairy godmother, and snake oil salesman you could imagine. They all had one thing in common: They wanted to preserve the gravy train that was paying them an exorbitant salary to suck up to people like me and justify it in their hearts as an altruistic act because they work for a 501(c). I wanted to tell every fucking one of them I'd double whatever Sam had been giving to the organization if they'd cut their own salary in half.

I know how these charitable organizations work. I know how inefficiently they use their money, partly due to the lack of effective oversight by boards of directors filled with people like me. Of course, unlike these professional money solicitors, I wasn't being paid a handsome salary to screw up your charitable donation. These guys had made a career out of it, but they were all members of that group of charity-mongers who are so busy patting themselves on the back for all their good works that they don't notice that what they're doing isn't really helping. It's a constant atmosphere of “aren't we superior to other people?” Their charitable efforts aren't about the particular disease du jour or protected class of the month. It's all about
them
. They don't really care about the genocide in Rwanda—they care about
caring
. It doesn't matter if their new Prius has no effect on the environment; the only thing that matters is it makes them feel good about themselves. It doesn't even matter if they neglect or treat their own families like shit in pursuit of their causes, because they're
good people, dammit
, and they prove it with all the charitable work they do. As long as they can look in the mirror and see a “good” person staring back, they're happy. Actually improving the world or helping people? Not really relevant.

While I listened, I couldn't help but think of the
Seinfeld
episode where Jerry butted into the life of a Pakistani restaurant owner named Babu in order to “help” him. Jerry patronizingly recommended that Babu make his restaurant into an authentic Pakistani restaurant. It turns out that's not the kind of restaurant New Yorkers want. It is, however, the kind of restaurant a do-gooder would want New Yorkers to want. Of course, Jerry's “help” eventually destroyed Babu's business, not to mention it was pretty condescending and possibly racist for Jerry to assume he knew more about the restaurant business than Babu did. But all in all, it was a successful do-gooder experience because it made Jerry feel better about himself. The rest is only background noise.

In the end, I just sat there. I didn't want to argue with these people about the merits of their particular organization or cause. I had no intention of changing anything Sam cared about. I felt like my job was to do what he would want, whatever that may be. I adopted my “seriously listening, though rarely making eye contact” face. I also added my “appearing to be taking notes on my laptop with the occasional head nod.” Basically, I feigned interest in whatever they were saying.

***

When I got home Wednesday night, I was as exhausted as my wife always is. I was even reconsidering whether she in fact was legitimately tired all the time from hard work instead of my previous theory that she was a raving bitch.

Sarah was cooking dinner when I came into the kitchen and kissed her on the cheek, normal for everyone else but a role reversal for us. The difference is I didn't complain about my hectic day or how tired I was like she would have. Not because I'm a better person than she is. I wanted to bitch about it, but I didn't want her to think actually working all day was a new thing for me. Plus, did this even count as “working” or just enduring something incredibly boring? People frequently confuse these concepts.

“How was your day, honey?” Sarah asked.

“Fine,” I said. “I learned a lot about the amazing work people are doing in the community.”

“I'm sure you're doing a great job. Daddy always knew what he was doing.”

If Sam's plan was to torture me from beyond the grave, then he knew exactly what he was doing. It was the worst kind of day for someone like me, an unusual combination of moments of nervous tension caused by having to make small talk with these people, followed by the mind-numbing boredom of listening to their rehearsed pleas for money. It was similar to attending one of their crappy benefits, only if it lasted twenty hours and there was no booze.

The rest of the week was a blur, a steady parade of introductions and updates for each of Sam's business interests. I don't know how he could have possibly kept track of it all, but Madison assured me that Sam was no passive investor. He was involved in everything. I didn't have the passion or the intellectual capacity for it, but I was starting to realize how a hard-working person gets through the day. If you're that busy, there's no time for your mind to wander and think about what you'd rather be doing. Because you never stop, the day actually flies by. The totality of the experience isn't awful because you have no time to think. At the end of the day, you're beat. I don't know how Sarah does that all day and then works on her laptop at night. Some people aren't happy when they're not doing something, I guess. I'm not one of those people. I love doing nothing. Nothing is my favorite thing to do.

***

Nobody told me to, but I'd even started wearing a suit every day. My office was business casual at best, but Sam always wore a suit and I knew he would have appreciated my effort to be professional. Personally, I hate to wear a suit, and the stupidest part is the tie. Who the hell thought it would be a good idea to cinch a colorful noose against your throat right before you go to work? I always feel like I'm being strangled. A tie is just a leftover vestige from an earlier age that now serves no purpose. In the old days, silk came from halfway around the world and it was important to show people you were a man of means and worthy of respect. Apparently this is still true in the 'hood, based on the dollar-sign necklaces the rappers wear, but for the rest of us there's no point. Billionaires wear tee-shirts now. There's a theory that a tie is really just a colorful arrow pointing at your crotch. A power tie says “My dick is bigger than yours.” The tie may say it's bigger, but the Porsche parked outside says it's smaller, so let's just call it a wash.

***

On Friday I met Joan for lunch at one of those places that prides itself on being a bistro and not a restaurant, meaning, in my experience, it would be full of women eating salads. I got delayed by a guy who didn't realize you're supposed to leave immediately once the meeting is over. I finally walked out while he was still talking. Joan was already seated when I arrived at the restaurant.

“Well, don't you look nice?” Joan said as I sat down across from her. “I didn't know we were dressing for lunch.” She gestured at her light blue pantsuit, which was casual for her but would be appropriate for most mothers of the bride. Well, maybe grandmothers of the bride.

“We're not,” I said. “I'm trying to project a professional air when I'm representing Sam's estate as trustee.”

“You're doing a fine job.” Joan smiled. “If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were one of those high-priced lawyers who bill us hundreds of dollars for every e-mail and phone call.”

“I'm working with those people all day. Speaking of which, feel free to order the lobster. This meal is on the Trust!”

Joan's eyes twinkled mischievously. “You mean I won't need to make a written request for a distribution?”

I laughed. Joan had always had a sly sense of humor underneath her grande dame persona. “Not this time. But seriously, it must be galling to have to ask someone like me for access to your own money.”

“Someone like you?” Joan asked.

“You know, someone who's never really achieved anything.”

“Now, Bob, that's not true,” Joan said. “You have a business and a beautiful family.”

“I know. But what I do is such small-change compared to Sam and Sarah.”

“That's the way it has to work, Bob. You can't have two Type-A career-oriented spouses and raise a proper family. One of you has to sacrifice.”

“I don't consider it a sacrifice.” I thought I was just lazy.

“But it is. Who knows what you could have accomplished if you'd put all your energies into your career? You know, I was going to go to law school before I met Sam. Maybe right now I'd be Ruth Bader Ginsberg. But I did what was best for the family.” She reached out and put her hand over mine. “Just like you do.”

“Thanks for saying that, Joan, but I've always had the feeling you and Sam felt like Sarah could have done better.”

“Are you kidding?” Joan widened her eyes in amazement. “We hated those Ivy League investment banker jerks she used to bring home, always sucking up to Sam. To you, we were your girlfriend's parents, not some potential shortcut to the top of the business world. The only thing you wanted from us was Sarah.”

“You don't wish I was more ambitious?”

“We love you
because
you're focused on Sarah and your family, not in spite of it. Sam talks about it all the time.” Joan's voice cracked and her eyes welled up. “Look at me, still referring to him in the present tense.”