Memoir Entry #3: The Closing Bell
I was about to turn thirty-five. Life was looking really good on paper: Jason and I had moved back to the city because he was now working at Fill-In-The-Blank Bank and the recession was easing. We got a good deal on a high-rise rental apartment in Tribeca with no broker fee and I was producing and performing full time. We had a live-in nanny Monday through Friday who helped with all things domestic and I was keeping-up my end of the marriage deal by staying in the box that was laid out for me. It was fiiiiiiiiiine…the box was from Tiffany’s.
From running to voice-over auditions, sometimes with the boys in tow, and sometimes footloose and fancy free of them, to co-writing, performing in, and producing a comedy cabaret, I had little time to think about the fact that my birthday was looming. I did most of the planning for the family when it came to events and vacations and usually, my own birthday was no exception. But this year was different. Jason said he was taking care of it. That meant that he was having his personal assistant do whatever it is he said he was doing. But I didn’t care who the hell was planning something for me, I was just happy that it wasn’t me doing the planning for once.
Jason’s idea of celebrating anything was go-big-or-go-home and this year, my birthday was on a Saturday so anything was possible. If I had to shoot a short film of this memorable moment, the opening credits would have been rolling during a scene that depicted our oh-so-busy lives ending in a quick convo about my birthday and a hard cut to the following montage with Lizzo’s “Good As Hell” playing in the background: blowout at the salon, nails done, great dress with a drop back and satin bow giving a tease of my Venus dimples, face beat-down with some Kevyn Aucoin and I was ready. Jason ordered a car service. Those were the days before Uber so this was a real luxury. We champagned-it-up on our way to wherever we were heading as it was all a mysterious surprise.
The car stopped in front of what looked like a grocery store in Nolita and Jason said, “We’re here.” I was confused. Then we moved through the “corner store” and down a spooky stairwell into a friggin’ speakeasy restaurant. The movie in my mind fades Lizzo into the musical background of this vibrant underworld. Wait…did I just see Beyoncé and Jay Z cozying up at a corner table? It’s possible. I surely saw Jared Leto at the bar. But they weren’t the stars of this show. I was. And in the middle of the whole restaurant was a giant table with twenty-five people sitting at it already. Holyfuck! I knew everyone at the table! It’s my party! Happy Birthday to meeeeeee!
The list of attendees included, but was not limited to: my acting teacher, our neighbors from Stamford and Greenwich, some NYC friends, my writing partner and his fiancée, and an infamous Broadway producer friend who I had a sneaking suspicion wished that I would run away with him or at the very least, show him my vagina.
Turns out, we were nestled in one of the city’s hottest restaurants at the time; La Esquina. It was the place to see and be seen and drink a lot of top shelf margaritas. At this time, I would like to change our playlist to Edith Piaf’s version of “La Vie En Rose” and take a moment to reflect on the absolute dysfunction that was ensuing across and under the table. Mr. Producer touched my knee in a way that wasn’t an accident. I let him. It was a harmless allowance where I saw a minimal give from me (my knee) getting a maximum give from him (producing my comedy cabaret on Broadway.) Ahhhhhhh Lisa…stupid, stupid Lisa…you know that it never works out that way, even in the movies. Panning to the couple across the table named Amber and Andy, aka Ambs & Ands. Yes, they actually referred to themselves that way which is dysfunctional in and of itself but in a cute way. I caught Jason’s eyes wandering down the crevice of my girlfriend’s ginormous bosom, my acting teacher was checking out my writing partner who may or may not have been checking out my neighbor from Connecticut who was most definitely getting way too drunk to drive home. The second she blurted out, “I live in Grrrrrenwich”, Mr. Producer snatched his hand from my knee to put it on hers. Naturally, he could smell she had money.
After the gluttonous dinner of overpriced street food, the mariachi band sang "¡Feliz cumpleaños!" while the cake came out with sparklers and two lucha libre wrestlers fighting one another on top. (It was a Mexican restaurant after all, despite my attempts to make it French by having Edith Piaf singing in this version of the story.) I tried to make a wish, but sparklers don’t blow out so my wish would have to wait until next year.
Once the cake was devoured, we all stumbled up the stairs like a herd of drunk cows. After a lot of sloppy hugs and fake “I love you’s”, the birthday mob dispersed onto Kenmare and disappeared, except for Mr. Producer who was heading downtown as were we, so we gave him a lift. Somehow, he ended up in our apartment hoping to do a few lines of coke and “accidentally” wake up our nanny in hopes that she would want to party with him. She didn’t. Jason and I were stuck with him until he found the next event on his Saturday night agenda. While waiting for whatever booty call he was waiting for, he started saying things like, “I need a woman like you, Lisa. Don’t you have a sister or a friend who is just like you?” Then he turned to Jason and asked, “How did you get a woman like her?” Jason responded with the perfect Jason response, “She was an undervalued stock who didn’t know her worth.” We all laughed. Let me type that in a different way. We ALL laughed. I actually took that as a fucking compliment. Allow me to cue for you, the final selection on the movie in my mind’s playlist, “Stupid Girl” by The Rolling Stones.
And just like that, Mr. Producer got a text to meet his friend at the strip club across the street from our building. Jason was nearly passed out on the couch so I had to be the one to walk Mr. Producer to the door. I opened that heavy-ass, high-rise porte and said, “Let’s talk about the show next week.” Mr. Producer turned outside the doorframe and said, “Can I just see what’s under your dress, just once?” I was right. He DID want to see my vagina! My knee was one thing, but the whole vajayjay was quite another. I felt slimed, but this was a man who could move musical mountains. It’s not like I would be cheating or anything…right? Against my better judgment, I slowly lifted my silk, navy dress with the peek-a-boo back and the bow that hung just below my Venus dimples. I lifted it excruciatingly slow. It felt exciting and naughty and disgusting all at the same time. And just before I revealed the bottom of my La Perla g-string, I slammed the door in his face. “Stupid Girl” comes to a needle-scratching halt.
As the credits roll of everyone playing “themselves”, there are pop-ups of what happens two years later accompanied by P!nk’s “Fuckin’ Perfect”:
· NYC. Funeral. Day. Mr. Producer turned out to be a massive coked-out pervert who would have probably been #metoo’ed straight out of show business if it weren’t for the fatal heart attack he gave himself.
· NYC & Brooklyn. Night. Jason and I are divorced and living very different lives. The movie in my mind portrays him very sad and drinking scotch. It portrays me very happy, drinking kombucha.
· NYC. Wall Street Trading Floor. Day. Last image is me ringing the closing bell at the NYSE showing my stock at an all-time high.
And then…like a bonus scene at the end of every Marvel movie, the words, “All of Lisa’s wishes came true. No candles necessary.”
In Laughter,
LStL