The Upper East Side.
The green light across the dark dock. A world real enough to provoke torture, and yet so far away, it may very well be fictitious, a castle on the clouds that can only be accessed through the impulse of an inheritance.
Spreading from 5th Avenue to 59th Street, housing everything and more, the Upper East Side is not inly the most exclusive neighborhood in all of New York, but a symbol of wealth and power. If you're in the Upper East Side, then you're inside; there are no further tests to pass, no more doubts or concerns. Being there is belonging, once and for all and absolutely.
The Upper East Side is like a dream, a fantasy taken out of the most expert and distinguished mind. Famously hermetic and weary of strangers, this community is like a mirage, a generic dream everyone has at one point in their lives, before they abandon it and replace it with a more achievable and realistic one.
To me, this place is more than a dream, it's a challenge, a dare that often seems unreachable. It's not about the money for me, or acknowledgment, or success. For me, it's a matter of acceptance. I can triumph anywhere. Hell, I could go back to Mexico and I'd surely find success faster than in this treacherous and dismal city, but it would be a hollow victory. This place beckons me, as if it was tempting me, anticipating my failure. And I need this place, as much or even more than I'm willing to admit. There's no way my life will be complete, unless it's here.
I want in. I have to get in. I have to be one of them. Nothing can compare. It's a matter of pride, a struggle against my own limitations. It's a war on which I'm the hero and the villain, and the battle field is this, today and now. And the prize? The next year.
The next year, when I publish my novel and sell millions of copies, and all these people see me, at last, as an equal, as someone to be respected, and envied, and feared. The next year, when I have millions of Instagram followers and I sell the rights of my novel to a talented and up-and-coming producer that'll pay generously for them, and I buy my second house, a vacation spot on the Vineyard.
The next year. Or maybe the next. Or maybe the next. I'm sure it's before my thirties.
It has to be before my thirties.
My life has been more dream than life, and my mental health is proof that nothing good comes from dreaming your life away.
And with every dream, bright and sweet, reality becomes gray and bitter. Who'd want to live in meaningless Queens apartment when the dream is the Upper East Side? Even the best of the best turns to nothing when compared to the Upper East Side. I've known the penthouse that I wanted since I was fifteen and saw it on a magazine, photographed by Karen Eillings for Architectural Digest. A 5th Avenue wonder with five bedrooms, three terraces, ten chimneys and 1,900 square feet, with an unbeatable Central Park view, nine-foot-tall ceilings that let the glorious light in, eight marble bathrooms, rooms with French doors and a chef's kitchen that would make my late mother die again.
This place is the place.
My place.
I've known this is the penthouse for me since I was fifteen, and today, I'll visit it for the very first time.
This very night.
My vulgar identification tag lets me in through the glass doors, and the doorman smiles at me, sincerely, that feels like a slap to the face. We're not the same, buddy, even though it may seem that way, while we're both wearing the uniforms that identify us as "staff" to each of the invitees of tonight's party. In typical fashion, and after the numerous leaks the Upper East Side has suffered, I leave my phone with the people behind the table counter located just outside the private elevator doors. After giving them my name and making sure they've correctly labeled my phone, I take out my quill and paper, very old school-y, and I enter the elevator, ready and yet not.
The space is wide, enough to fit at least ten people, but we're only four. Two of them are reporters, same as me, one of them from Vanity Fair, and the fourth seems to be a guest. We exchange polite smiles, and I linger a bit longer on the cute blonde in front of me, who smiles back, flirtatiously, before I turn and face the elevator doors, wanting to be the first one out.
The way up lasts about three minutes, and I can feel my hand moving anxiously, playing with the pen it holds, like a child on a test. My neck moves involuntarily, as if it was trying to relieve some tension, and suddenly, I feel more vulture than man. My teeth bite my lower lip, just like they do when they want to harm, and I feel it, but as soon as the elevator stops, I've already walked out, unable to remain a second longer within the confinement of that steel trap.
My first impression is disappointment. The space itself is everything I hoped for, but the contents are atrocious: the paintings, the furniture, the flowers... the taste is generally terrible. It'd be so much better on my hands.
"The things I'd do", I think to myself as I walk around the sitting room, soaking myself on the views.
The décor is modern and minimal. It's not a classically elegant home, there are no chandeliers hanging from the ceilings, or a great piano on the sitting room; there are no flowers on every table, nor carpets on every hall. No, instead it's decorated with bizarre art, that'd surely qualify as "modern"; the lamps are basically jars with round lightbulbs inside, hanged at uneven heights, some so low they'd be able to graze the tallest of men; the bannisters, wooden in my memory, are glass now, making the whole place look like a cheap department store; the windows are exposed, revealing one of the apartment's three terraces, that today is home to an army of waiters and bartenders, who run around, making final preparations to the cocktails that have already begun to be served; and the paintings on the wall are the most random, and include a portrait of a blonde woman behind several multicolored frames, and a London subway ad that cheapens the whole scene.
"This table shouldn't be here", I think as I circle the tall and round table in front of the elevator. "And I'd never put that stupid couch here. Who in 2019 has a sectional couch?"
I walk towards the blonde woman portrait and examine it, closely, trying to find some redeeming quality, but I fail. I'm sure this thing is worth more than my apartment, and I hate it for it. Such a waste of money on such a disgusting thing. Money really can't buy taste.
"I love it, don't you?" a voice behind me asks, and I turn to find a small and thin red-headed girl. Her face, full of freckles, is a familiar one. I've seen her before on these same events, but I can't be certain if she's a guest or if she, like me, is a member of the staff.
"Of course," I lie, flashing my rehearsed smile and turning to face the ugly and self-important portrait again. "I find it very ambitious and visually rich. Despite being rather simplistic in composition, I really love how it commands your attention, without even trying. It almost screams at you, demanding you full commitment. The owner has certainly made it the centerpiece of the room."
"I love the contrast of colors," she says, as she grabs a glass of champagne from a nearby waiter. "I think there are so many different interpretations achieved with so few elements. Cassela is a true genius."
"This is a Marcello Cassela?" I ask, raising my eyebrows. Now I know this shit is worth more than my apartment.
"Lucia bought it just a couple of months ago," she answers, nodding with her hear before taking another sip. "She was the talk of the auction. She offered double the price before the bidding even began, to make sure no one else would even have a chance. Not even Cassela himself saw that coming."
"Leave it to Lucia Ludlow to win by making sure nobody else competes."
I drink from my glass and stop to analyze the situation. The girl said "Lucia" with such ease, so nonchalant, as if the hostess of the party was just another acquaintance, and not the distant and fascinating figure she is for me. However, that doesn't mean they are necessarily friends. The girl doesn't look like someone Lucia Ludlow would be friends with, but like an assistant of some sort, or maybe an employee on one of the numerous charities Lucia is part of. Then, my eyes find the painting again and I understand.
"She was the talk of the auction", the girl said, and her words make sense.
"Art dealer".
I politely smile, before turning around and escaping that pointless conversation. I have no use for art dealers. I have no art to deal. In these sorts of events, I don't like starting conversations without a clear purpose. I'm not here to make friends, and the relevant people would surely not want to be friends with me. The friendship of those like me, reporters and assistants, employees and art dealers, is meaningless and a waste of time. The won't get me anywhere. Those on top of them are the ones that matter. My time here is limited and measured, and I have to make it count. In times like this, the now becomes far more important than the next year.
My attention must be in finding Charles Anton. I need this interview. I need something that will take me out of Socials and into the front page. Being on the cover of the "New York Eye" is the first step in the road to leaving the "New York Eye".
Around me, the reunion begins taking shape. Figures of politics, entertainment and Wall Street are scattered around the sitting room, chatting among them, laughing and making small talk in small groups, that exchange members every five minutes or so. Tonight, the crowd is bigger than the times before, and I'm not surprised. I've covered a lot of events, but never one on this apartment.
Never one hosted by Lionel and Lucia Ludlow.
One of the golden couples of high society, Lionel and Lucia have been married for twenty-five long and happy years, or at least that what they say. Those couples are never happy. He is a successful banker, a financial shark famous for ripping his victims out and pouring their blood on the water, where everyone else can see it. She is a socialite, daughter of one of America's most important families, debutante and New York celebrity for over thirty years. They are both heavily respected in Manhattan, something that has to do more with fear, than with any sort of behavior worthy of respect. The Ludlows are cold and distant, even on these events. The of course mingle and have idle chitchat with the rest of their so-called friends, and toast and eat and pretend they're having the time of their lives, but we all know that, to them, this is nothing but an obligation, a commitment to be crossed off a list that's full of them.
Truth is, the Ludlows would rather be anywhere else. They'd prefer, I'm sure, that no one was in their apartment, and I don't blame them. Why would they want to open their doors to a thousand opportunists who, like me, will only gossip and trash and judge everything, but would never dare to do it to their faces? If I owned this apartment, I would never use it for these kinds of events.
That, of course, is a lie. With the status comes responsibilities; a life like this one is never free. The Upper East Side comes with attachments and obligations, only understood once you're in, frivolous to outsiders but imperative to those on the inside. In this world, there's nothing more fragile than a good reputation, and all the money in the world can't buy it. The only thing people enjoy more than seeing a star being born, is watching it implode and die.
I start walking among the people, practicing the game I always play when I'm around them, trying to guess who's betraying whom, and who's fucking whom, and who's hiding what. With these people, the really interesting thing is trying to discover that which is hiding behind the façade. Nobody gives a shit about Gabriel Lewis's son getting into Brown, but we would all love to know how much money was paid to get him that spot. Those sorts of things are only revealed to those on the inside, and they always come out.
The Upper East Side has a life of its own.
The pen and notebook on my hands are getting on the way, and I wonder why I brought them. I'm not planning to write anything, I don't really have to. I know exactly what I'll write, because it's the same thing I always write about these events. I describe them to in excruciating detail, from the pink peonies in every corner, to the black and white tiles on the floor, all so that the readers of the "New York Eye", bored and tired housewives and old men at the brink of death, feel like they were there. My articles are portraits on words, as alive as they can be on a paper prison, but their minds do the rest. My readers know they'll never be able to attend a party like this one, but they settle for the crumbs I give them. I like to think I'm doing some sort of charity, giving them a dose of saccharine to sweeten the bitterness of their lives, like a doctor fulfilling a dying man's last wishes. To them, this is important. To me too.
Maybe, both them and me are settling for but crumbs, but at least I get to taste them.
I find the freckled redhead again, and I immediately change course. I won't entertain that conversation any longer. Instead, I step out into the terrace to check the scene. I take a new glass and meander along the tables, paying attention to the conversations that, so far, have settled into the random and meaningless, covering sports and the weather, and one or two scandals that have already been covered by others.
Waste of time.
The terrace surrounds the apartment completely, so I turn right and I'm now facing Central Park, proud and green, at ease but full of life. I lean on the bannister and the warm summer breeze hits my face, taking me out of my deepest thoughts. What I would give to have this view.
"The next year", the voice in my head says, far more hypocritical than ever.
Besides me, a vulture rests on the bannister and looks at me, challenging and derisive, as if it was expecting some sort of response from me. This one is new. I haven't seen him before. It is large and very fat, and his beak looks far too shiny, almost fake. It's eyes gaze at me and I know what it's trying to say, even though it can't speak.
"Look at you, alone, always so alone. The suit uses you, not the other way around".
Annoyed, I walk away from it, and take a brand-new glass; alcohol is pouring tonight and I'm grateful. I struggle to get away from the vulture, and suddenly something catches my eye. In front of me, a face stands out of the crowd of black and white, one that I've seen before, not on these events, but splattered across Page Six. Her blonde is wild, though I'm not sure if it's intentional or not; her face, gaunt and clearly sleep-deprived, is very attractive nonetheless, and she's wearing a tight and revealing dress that'd be more at home in the front line of a fashion show or a night out, than on a black-tie event.
Anabella Sullyvan, twenty-four years old and more alive than anyone on that terrace. Not too tall but still statuesque, not skinny but well-proportioned, wild and inappropriate, incandescent and unpredictable, with more scandals than achievement in her short and, so far wasted life. Her father owns a shipping company, her mother is a renowned lawyer and she's the youngest and least accomplished of three children. With a brother doing his residence in Columbia Medical Center, and a sister in Harvard Law School, Anabella is not only a disappointment to her family, but also, quite frankly, a waste of a trust fund.
But no one seems to care about that. Anabella is one of them. A Sullyvan, no matter how trashy or tacky, is still a Sullyvan. Names carry a lot of weight on the Upper East Side. But Anabella is flirtatious and lively, and would never resist the opportunity or an interview, even if it's for the "New York Eye".
The vulture is now directly behind her, but I'm already on my way, firmly, until I'm right in front of her.
"Miss Sullyvan? Alec Láster, "New York Eye". Could I ask you a couple of questions?" I ask, decided but delicately.
She turns around and looks at me, and stays quiet, for a while, gazing at me as if she was trying to decide if I was worth her time. After a few seconds, and with an expression more tired than convinced, she shrugs and smiles a pretend smile.
""New York Eye", you said?" she asks, condescending. "I've never heard of a "New York Eye". Is your blog new or something?"
"We're a small but proud newspaper," I answer, well aware of how ridiculous my words sound, but it's protocol. It's not the first time I've been asked this question. "We're local, our circulation is not very high."
"You're important enough to get an invitation to one these things," she says, signaling her surroundings with the hand that holds her drink.
"We've been covering these events for quite some time," I reply, in my most solemn tone.
"Do you always do that?" she asks again, this time a lot more playfully.
"Do what?"
"Talk about your newspaper as if it was a part of you. "We're small, we're local, we've been covering"."
I stay quiet for a few seconds and the look on my face seems to amuse her. Now that I have her complete attention, the vulture shrieks, triumphantly, and spreads its wings again, flying towards the black sky and away from the terrace.
"It's habit, I suppose. I like to think of myself as part of the team."
"And your newspaper feels the same way?" she asks once more, and I understand she's toying with me, just like she does to so many others, but the difference is, I'm letting her win.
"I'm sure it does. I'm here officially and representing a publication. If I was just another guest, maybe it'd be different."
"And you enjoy working in a newspaper? You don't think print media is the last remnant of a time that refuses to die?"
"News will always need a way to be communicated, it doesn't really matter how. But as long as there are people who fear technology, there will be a need for a printed paper. To many, there's nothing better than the safety of the known and familiar."
Anabella finishes her drink and calls the waiter to ask for another. Suddenly, her arm reveals an ample and angry bruise, the result of far too many injections, and the smile disappears from her face. My face, however, remains the same, but she, probably used to far more shocked reactions, looks at me with doubt and suspicion.
"Nothing to say?" she questions, sharply as she hands me another drink.
"Your personal life is not relevant to me, we're not that kind of paper," I reply, dismissing the whole thing. "My only interest is to know your opinion about the fundraiser and our hosts."
"Because the rest of the story you can read on Page Six, right?"
"If that's something you'd enjoy, you can, I suppose. Like I said, we're not that kind of paper."
I wonder if my words, so fake to me, are transparent to her, but the smile she flashes, a mix of gratitude and sincerity, lets me know she bought it. My words are, of course, complete bullshit. There's nothing I'd like more than squeezing every inch of truth from her, about the industrial quantities of heroin she has on her system, and about her countless nights of partying and the numerous intercessions committed on them. Maybe even get a nice photograph of her at her lowest and most embarrassing... I could sell that story to any gossip magazine and get a generous payout. But those cards are played not at an event like this, but in private, in some party with her friends, or maybe on her Tribeca apartment, when she's barely conscious and more vulnerable than ever, with her childhood traumas coming out at the tune of tequila and gin.
But they way to that story is long and harder than it may seem. I need time and far more skill than I possess; I'd need to forget about the Charles Anton story and put all my efforts into the single task of getting her drunk, and while I'm guessing it doesn't take much to get her wasted and the reward would surely be worth it, there's no guarantee for success.
The look on Anabella Sullyvan's face lets me know I'm on my way, and I stop to consider my options. My silence is misunderstood by her, and the smile goes back to her lips. She's used to winning with guys, and she thinks she's winning now.
"You don't seem very experienced on these things," she says, wanting to put me on the spot, after feeling so vulnerable a couple of minutes ago.
"It depends on what you consider "experienced". I come to a lot of these events, it's my job to cover them. I have professional experience to spare. It's personal experience that I lack, and on that front, you'd be right." I say, pointing to the name tag that labels me a press member. "This makes people not want to get too close to me. That's the golden rule, isn't it? Not to answer anything that hasn't been directly asked. These people are experienced and they'd never mingle with the press. I don't have to tell you, but the words they tell me are exactly the ones they think I want to listen."
Suddenly, the scene changes and, startled, I realize I'm no longer in control.
"Come, I want you to meet someone," she says, grabbing my hand and walking me inside, again.
"Where are we going?" I ask, and my rehearsed voice almost shows a tad of uncertainty that I barely manage to control.
"To get you some experience. Can I give you an advice? Hide that hideous name tag. We don't really need it to figure out where you come from, and it's better if we think you're from the "Times" or the "Post". Nobody gives a shit about the "New York Eye"."
Her mockery burns and pains me, and as we walk through the glass doors and into the sitting room, once more, I bite my tongue, so strongly that I immediately taste the blood in my mouth.
I can almost hear the vulture.
"Your ten-thousand-dollar tux is not fooling anyone."