Friday, October 26, 2007

Le Chic, le Choc, le Chèque


Something that could be translated by "the Class, the Clash, the Cash." This was the title of a documentary about famous soccer player's wives I had seen on French public TV a while ago. ie: something that had probably been made in 1981, bought by the public channel in 87 from the "on sale/ useless" department of a private TV channel, and broadcast in 94 to avoid paying the raging 0.2% copyrights to the film's director. In short, a great up-to-date documentary about modern day society. I remember being stricken by the lush gardens and humongous properties in which these wives lived, their latest Chanel leather hats à la YMCA (aaaah the 80's), and their complete lack of interest for the world outside their husband's press clips and wallets. In those days, it seemed that happiness rhymed with the much sought-after "double C" insignia, according to your gender alternatively taking the shape of entwined gold letters on a sweater or announcing some promising full cup size underneath.

The unemployed women would meet up to shop on any given day of the week, batting their electric-blue lashes at the high-end department store's windows. They talked constantly, babbled, and sometimes even screeched at a fur coat on sale. Besides bearing similar half tamed S&M outfits, they also all yapped with a strong southern tint in their voice, bearing the very same accent I once sported, before moving to Paris and being regularly bullied by cruel junior-high morrons until it eventually disappeared.

But anyways, these women had everything they had always dreamed of: according to their standards they were classy, vicariously part of the media clash thanks to their husbands' glorious careers, and, well, full of the latter's cash as well. Bliss was their companion. Still, I remember feeling that somehow, something was off with this Stepford Wives picture. I really did not care that none of them had gotten an education, nor that they proudly declared "re-heated plain pasta" their best recipe by far. Rather, what made me uncomfortable was that they seemed to struggle to find a way to spend this huge amount of wealth they had done nothing to deserve. Past its capacity to grant almost every wish, the flow of cash had not sparked their imagination enough to open it to a world of newly accessible wonders -I mean really, how many leather Chanel hats can one own anyway? Basically, they had a thick check book and no idea what to do with it. The simple fact that it was there made them happy, and so passed the days of the famous busy husbands and their overwhelmingly rich simple wives.



Fast forward 20 something years later in present day New York City. Chanel leather hats are thankfully out of style, and soccer players now date strong independent women such as models and former teen pop singers (see Adriana Karembeu, Posh Spice or Elsa.) The almost endearing southern soccer player's wife and her overcooked pastas have been eradicated and replaced by a much more dangerous kind of symbiotic form: the Investment banker and the Mishkin Double D (ie "Gold Digger" in the hip Yiddish language used in NY these days. DD bra cup just marking the CC inflation since the 80's) One day, our kids will bump into a TV documentary about today's society that might look like this -granted of course that public TV still exists, which is actually quite doubtful:

Opening credits. Title. Addictive poppy music playing. A group of well groomed girls sip litchi cucumber martinis in a posh bar. They wear high heels, a t-shirt barely reaching the thighs and a Colgate smile. Scattered all over, a fauna of badly cut Brooks Brothers suits (sorry for the pleonasm and the Eurocentric comment here. I had too.) The girls look at the guys. The guys look at the pantless legs.

- Hi. (him)
- Hiiiii. Hihihihihi (her)
- What's up?
- Hihihihih

The story looks as old as Humanity itself. Until this. Our post post-modern era(tum):
- You come here often? (him. chances of getting laid 1/10)
- What job do you do? (her)
- I'm an investment banker. (chances of getting laid 7.8/10)
- What bank? (uncrossing her legs. Crossing again)
- Super Rich Bank (chances of getting laid 9.2/10)
- Where do you live? (pouting)
- Chinatown (chances of getting laid 3.1/10)
- …
- but this is only until the brand new condo I bought in Chelsea is finished (chances of getting laid 11/10)
- Hi, what's you name? hihihihiihihih

Ahhh… love.
But don't get me wrong, this is of course something only seen in a certain type of NYC bars. For other types, just replace the Him/Her conversation by a more straight forward questionnaire and a Him/Him interaction. Let the one who claims to have truly never witnessed this join me for a party with business school students where people literally walk away in the middle of your sentence the moment they realize you are of no apparent use to them. Even immediate lust for sex seems to have become a secondary concern after the color of your credit card. Call it racism of the 21st century.

Now, I made plenty of friends in this city, and obviously I do not recognize any of them in this stereotype. And there are million's of people I have not -yet- met who would rather go on a nightly hunt for dead animals in Chinatown to make beautiful sculptures than spend their Sunday calculating their bonus or let Dr. 90210 implant the "Xtra Volume" package. A lot of these guys even genuinely like trading credits, stocks, socks, or pistachios by the ton. The psycho artist (who really does exist) offers to sew found dead animals with a thread and a needle to make new ones while the M&A banker less offensively only merges companies. I know. But these belong to the estranged minority (thank god for the dead rat artist.) What I have been painfully witnessing is the complete disappearance of sheer spontaneity to the advantage of a practical fact-checking exercise turned into a high profile job interview. Being fair, let's not only blame the mishkin blond air-head for running after the Gold membership card. The banker gets a trophy DD to listen to his stories, including a recent speedboat trip and other heavy-set devices. Big Engines she will hopefully mount soon, they both think.


So, when I offered my friend to join me for a night out to celebrate her short stay in the Big Apple, I knew what I was getting into.

First, there was a formal upscale invitation under someone else's name that miraculously became mine on the guest list. An open bar with top shelf liquor, and that newly symbiotic combination abounding like mold on blue cheese. "Why am here then?" one might ask. Free champagne, friends, stunning venues, good music, and people too busy making sure they don't leave sweat stains on their silky outfit to overcrowd the dancefloor. I admittedly enjoy this display of the proper-crowd luxury because I am not part of it. I can freely be who I am, empty my mind without fear of staining my non-existing reputation. The ultimate freedom sometimes lies in strange places.

After the third glass of champagne -a record while still standing in my case-, what appears like a male mutters something about the fireplace, and some 1974 classical piece being butchered by the DJ. He could be in his early thirties, but I could also be drunk. Tall, blond, blue eyes, and claims he's a pilot who always flies his private jet to go to work. I take a pause and consider this vision. I then look down at my empty glass and politely excuse myself. Back at the bar I order a champagne of glass, with which the barman graciously suggests a plate of food as well. I return to my seat with a drink, cheese, grapes and a full steak filet before resuming the conversation. Because of where we are, and probably of who we are too, the topic quickly reaches the surrounding wealth and its implied rules.

Well, I was raised to become an independent woman, only spending what she earns herself and worked somewhat honestly for it. But in this City when you meet someone, where is the line between letting a gentleman treat you and being labelled a "free loader" (or alternatively a "hardcore feminist hippie who can't relax")? How often can we insist on splitting the bill before looking ungraceful, or agreeing to be taken out before looking ungrateful? What if one has a gold credit card and the other doesn't even qualify for the Ivory free Frequent Flyer Miles membership? How does one balances things out then?

This might sounds like details to some, but it became quite a hot topic among what I would subjectively call "properly raised" people. One could also decide to only date within his/her social circle, but that calls for another debate altogether. So let's face it, New York's young active male population we are likely to bump into is for the most part in finance -this is not a coincidence, this is the very reason why they chose to live here- and if you aren't part of this world you can quickly find yourself facing a dangerous lifestyle gap. Also, even after dating a couple of successful idiots, one has to admit there might be others in finance who inconveniently do not apply as "despicable beings," so we, semi-proud members of the not-for-profit non-sense, should be prepared to face the issue one day. The "Chic Choc Chèque" attitude can evaporate any dilemma and our self-esteem. Our self-consciousness can spoil a treat because of a favour we cannot return. After many pros and cons, theses and anti-thesis, we come to the conclusion that when it's right, things will fall into place. Eternal dating can be a pain anyway and when you are involved and you care, there are other ways of showing it than signing for expensive bills.

It is now late in the bar. I say thank you for the talk and proceed to reach the coat check and leave the party. On the way, a slightly inebriated night owl in a tight business suit looks my way and mumbles: "hey...could I get your number by any chance?  You look like a nice person in this ocean of strange behaviours. I would love to take you out to dinner sometimes." Gasp. Blood rushed to my temples. My mouth was ready to speak faster than my brain could control, but I wanted to enjoy the moment. I wanted to relish these 6 little words as they would pass my lips. Beyond many fears, there was this sentence I had been dying to pronounce, getting a sweet revenge on the City's daily toll. "Thanks, but I have a boyfriend."
Yes, he's in finance and he's certainly not of the "despicable" kind.

The barman snaps me out of my thoughts:
"- One last glass of champagne Miss M.?"
"- Sure, the same please. No reason to change what feels right, right?"
"- Of course. One glass of Henriot, coming right up."

1 comment:

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