1 - Chapter One "The Thirty Percent Solution"

"The Thirty Percent Solution" (c) 

Chapter One   –   Mike Stein

It all started in the lobby of the Huntington Residences on New York’s Upper East Side. It was just past six in the evening, and the lobby looked like it was an ad for salon furniture in one of those glitzy luxury magazines. The place was in shadow – somber and discreet. There wasn’t much of a crowd, either, just a few people sitting on puffy couches and sipping drinks.  

     I remember I felt like a nervous kid on his first date. The difference was I didn’t know what I was doing here. I walked across the polished marble and stopped in front of a set of tall doors covered with white leather. 

     I was stalling. I couldn’t decide whether to push those elegant doors open to join the celebration, or to turn around and flee through all that fake elegance and make a run for the sidewalk on Lexington Avenue.  

    Now, when I think back on that moment, I realize I should have known. I should have known what I was getting involved in. Back then, there were hints that were dropped and I missed, half sentences that were cut off and I didn’t question, glances that left the unsaid hanging in the air, things that told me all this isn’t me, that I should get away from it while I still could.  

     I pushed the heavy doors open. 

     The lights were blinding, and my right hand shot up automatically to shield my eyes. It took a few seconds for me to adjust to the rows of spotlights in the ceiling and the glare from the back of the room. I recognized some of the members of the firm standing around the bar or seated at the small tables or on sofas or big, puffy chairs. 

     Then I understood the attraction. Seated on stools at the bar or on a couch next to the bar were women, maybe a dozen or so. These were not just any women. They were dressed in fashionable attire that showed off the attributes teenage boys, and some men who never grew up, dream about – rounded here, muscular there, and all covered with perfect, tanned skin.  

     I kept walking forward. Step by step, I continued down a long ramp leading toward an empty dance floor in the middle of the room and on toward the bar.  A few of the men at the bar were partners in the firm, guys I’d already met and started working with. But there was no connection; they looked right through me, as though they didn’t know me. 

     A few of the women were dressed in black sweaters with colorful scarves around their necks and very short black skirts and black stockings on their long legs. Other women wore colorful summer dresses of a fine fabric with just a few buttons undone. A few others wore strapless gowns that were molded to their bodies. Every one of them I passed or glanced at smiled at me, in a demure, restrained way. 

     For just a second it seemed almost comical, like I’d just walked into a 50’s movie set. I heard music playing from speakers installed somewhere, lightly streaming smooth hits from the 60’s or 70’s. But then my inner voice started talking to me. This was not the celebration I expected when I was invited. I had no idea what was supposed to happen, but I knew that I didn’t belong here. 

     “Hey, Mike. Welcome, welcome to the party.” That was G. Gordon Hope, who insisted members of the firm to call him “Gordy.” He was maybe fifty years old, and he played the role of a good old guy. Big, athletic-looking with jet-back hair, he bounded up the ramp from the dance floor and was now standing in front of me. “I see you’re takin’ it all in, great. Getting a look at the talent here. Lemme tell you, it’s gonna be great.”

     Then he stopped and turned toward the back of the room. “Never a dull moment,” he waved to someone across the room, and turned to me with one of those phony expressions of annoyance. “That’s Rosen, never satisfied. Howie’s always complaining.”

     He turned to go, but he suddenly came back to me and pulled me toward him. “Enjoy yourself. I mean it. We’re – I mean everyone – we’re really thrilled with your work. You got off to a great start. That’s why you’re here. Choose anyone of these babes you want. Enough to go around. But one thing: you see blondie in black over there. She’s mine. She’s just for me. Just saying.”

      Gordon Hope, Gordy, rushed off, and I stood there starting to understand what was going on, all the time searching for a blonde woman in a black dress. I couldn’t find her, so I thought, if I can’t find her, then there’s no problem. 

     I started moving through the crowd. I wanted a quiet place to think this whole situation through. But more members of the firm arrived, and I was starting to think about the subway during rush hour. I spotted a corner to the right side of the bar with more breathing room, and started pushing my way through.      

     I knew it was her. She’d been sitting alone in an overstuffed chair, when she suddenly rushed toward me. Yes, the blond hair, smooth blond hair with soft bangs brushed across her forehead. Fine features, full, red lips and green eyes. And she wore a black dress, but with a difference. It was molded to her body and had a delicately low bodice, but the hem reached to just below her knees. 

     Those green eyes looked up at me, pleading.  “Dance with me. Please!”

     “But, Gordy . . . .

     “Please!” and she quickly moved toward me, taking my right hand and putting her right hand on my shoulder.  

      We stumbled for a few seconds in the middle of the dance floor to the recorded sounds of some group trying to sound like the Bee Gees. Then, for just a few instants, her delicate body felt good in my arms, the way her blond hair brushed against my cheek felt even better, and then, also, there was the delicately sweet scent she carried.  

       But in a rush, she pushed against me and left me standing like a fool all by myself. For just about ten seconds, I watched her slip through the people standing around and disappear behind the door to the right of the bar. 

      I plopped down in the same chair she vacated, and tried to understand what I felt - a vague emptiness after an intense pleasure, all in the timespan of just a few seconds. 

      Then, right in front of me, on the polished marble, was a pair of highly polished black Oxford Wingtips.  They didn’t move. My eyes followed the wool trousers up past the blue blazer, and there was Gordy.   

     “Hey, Stein, what’s going on?” Gordy’s expression had changed, the charm was gone. “Didn’t I tell you that blondie was mine, and she still is? And whadda I see? I see you dancing with my girl.”

      Three seconds can seem like a long time; Gordy was waiting for my answer. His complexion changed just a bit; there was a slight pinkness moving toward red. I didn’t know where they came from, but I started spitting out words. “I hope you were watching. Did you see? I didn’t know what to do. She asked me to dance. Of course I understood. But she just …” 

     I stopped and waited another three seconds. “But I wanted to tell you. I just didn’t know what to do. I better tell you now. I gotta leave. And I’m sorry. If I’d known. I told my wife I had an official reception, which this is, of course. But I set something else up. I used this as an excuse for my wife. I got something on the side.”

      Gordy listened carefully. Then something like an evil smirk broke out on his tanned face. “Bravo, Mike. You’re sure a surprise. Nice goin’, man.” 

      I said, “This other one, I just couldn’t leave her waiting. Wish I could stay.” 

      Gordy’s big hand started pumping mine. “No worry, no worry at all.” 

      I walked toward the entrance, giving my gait a confident swagger, out the big leather-padded doors and through the faux-elegant lobby. I didn’t look back.   

      I made it to the sidewalk. I breathed in the fresh air, big gulps of it, just for the pure sensual pleasure. The crowds on Lexington pushed by me, and these were real people, not phony made-up dolls, somehow hired or enticed to be at this made-up reception. I looked up and let my eyes wander. There it was, Huntington Residences, the blue-glass monster rising up into the sky above the Upper East Side. I didn’t know if any of those brilliant consultants believed me. Were they back there with Gordy, laughing about me? I didn’t care. Not now.  

-0-

     It was a warm evening, and the sidewalks were filled with New Yorkers strolling and laughing and sometimes embracing each other or passionately discussing important subjects, of course important subjects, because this is New York. I love New York. I love the crowds and the movement and the excitement and the pretty women and the restaurants of all sorts and the strange and kooky people. And I love the bookstores and the art galleries and the tiny art movie houses and the theaters and the fashion and the fashionable women, and the mix of ideas – some of them crazy - and the cultures and different foods, and I love the fact that Wendy and I moved to New York from the West Coast.  

     I started out on Lexington, but somewhere in the 60s I cut across to Fifth Avenue and continued walking downtown. I wasn’t in a hurry. It was too early for me to go home. I started thinking about my family, just a hop and a skip away on the Metro- North train to the village of Hastings-on-Hudson. I had told Wendy that I would be attending an official reception for my new job, and it was a privilege to be invited so soon after being hired by Winshire Associates. If I arrived too early, I would have to explain everything to Wendy, and at this point, I couldn’t even explain everything to myself. I just didn’t know what I could tell her. 

     From Fifth Avenue, I could see the lights in Central Park; they flickered off and on, like stars in the night, as the trees blocked their brightness as I walked south. I could have cut through the park, but I wanted to take in the people and their excitement. Everyone seemed so happy, and I could see how the young pushed each other and laughed, how the mature folks seemed so formal in their evening attire and rigid in their gait; I assumed these were the traditional inhabitants of the Upper East Side, the wealthy who would soon have their cocktails and their expensive dinners. 

     I wondered where I fit in. At thirty-eight, I was neither among the young nor the wealthy mature folks. Up until little more than a month ago, I was an editor with Chemical Week, a trade magazine, neither rich nor poor, but I loved my work, and I loved my life in New York. Every Friday night, Wendy and I would discover something new about Manhattan, a restaurant or a play or a foreign film, or we’d just walk around if the weather was welcoming. But with our two sons now starting to grow up, we began wondering how we’d be able to help them pay for college and then help them find their way in a world that seemed to change by the minute. 

     Then came a call from Winshire Associates, and all of a sudden, money and our income and what we could do for our sons took on more importance. It was unbelievable, too good to be true, but from the moment I said “Yes,” my salary more than doubled, and I didn’t think about where that money was coming from. 

     Just to the east was Temple Emanu-El, a massive structure just across Fifth Avenue. As a Jew, I really should have been more involved in my religion. But I had to admit that the extent of my observance of my religion was – sad to say – almost just listening to the Sabbath services on the radio once in a while. I took the easy way out and said that I was marked by Jewish culture, but little more. And since I married a shicksa from Humboldt County, California, I certainly did not live by Jewish law. And now? What about the teachings “Love thy neighbor” and honesty and consideration? 

     The crowds got heavier as I walked past the Plaza Hotel, and I continued on to 53rd Street and turned right. I was surprised that I covered such a distance, but it wasn’t really so far, just about twenty blocks. Before I realized it, I passed the MoMA and, further on, another huge façade of blue glass. Like a pig returning to the feed trough, I automatically returned to my new home, the headquarters of the management consulting firm, Winshire Associates.  

     From there, my feet didn’t need any guidance. Without my direction, they carried me to Grand Central Terminal. Evening had already turned into night. I had a glass of beer at the bar overlooking the main hall, and took the 12:32 Hudson Line to Hastings-on-Hudson.