There’s not a lot to do when you not only just spilled expensive wine on an even more expensive table and rearranged a $20,000 art piece, but also just got caught with your clothes off in a store of your girlfriend’s most respected mentor.
Not a lot at all.
Even Lori laughed nervously and she, being Sicilian-from-Brooklyn, isn’t scared of much.
Granted, it didn’t help that on the way over there, she more-or-less explained to us that the lady we were off to see was big time. Widely respected. A designer to the stars. And while she and Lori were good friends, Tim and I, both sitting in the back seat both understood clearly to behave.
She opened the door, gave Lori a hug and the both of us a firm handshake. Tim, being from England, barely mumbled a word and I tried to overcompensate with an Oklahoma persona that rarely comes out unless self-deprecation is absolutely necessary. Oh, I spoke of the farm and ‘good people’ and tactfully tried to fly under her radar of actually knowing she was on a first-name basis with most of Hollywood’s elite.
Within a few minutes of design talk and hand gestures that only Italians and very successful businesswoman understand, they decided to leave Tim and I to sit quietly under the supervision of her Asian assistant and go next door to get some wine.
We sat silently for a few minutes until the assistant heard the phone ring and ran upstairs to go get it.
Tim and I decided to explore. He, to a set of 6 chairs that, together, ran $40,000, me to what looked like a authentic-looking steel sculpture of a leather coat. Upon touching the sleeve, I would quickly realize that it was anything but steel and leather so old, it seemed to come apart in one’s hands. The elbow, previously bent; now it hung as if picking up some shekels or whatever currency used at the time such fashion was popular. As I dropped to my knees to pick up the residue of the aged fabric, I glanced at the price tag and even now can’t bring myself to write it. Let’s just say it made the chairs look like a successful Ebay accomplishment.
I ran back to the $30,000 couch, whispering loudly to Tim not to touch another thing and there we sat until Lori and her friend, the owner, came back with wine. I was given the bottle to open while the 3 girls went upstairs to take a tour of the new office space.
Somehow, despite possibly breaking something that cost more than what I’d made in the past 3 years, I opened the wine correctly – even with a nice little ‘pop’ at the end. I walked to the glasses and even though no one was looking, put my left hand behind my back as I poured, paying close attention to spin the bottle slightly when done pouring.
It looked great.
I looked great.
No one noticed the leather coat rearrangement and here I was pouring nice wine for LA’s elite… until that final glass. I swear to you, something was not right about it and when filled, it simply tipped over and that’s the honest truth. I heard Tim let out a high-pitched worry freak-out sound while I rushed to clean the wine off.
Wine that had spilled on one of the most expensive pieces in the studio – barely priced under 6-figures.
In a cinematic form that only Los Angeles could provide, the invisible camera both pulled away and zoomed in at the same time. I heard voices behind me and saw the shapes of the 3 ladies upstairs slowly making their way back to the stairs to the right of the studio.
Stairs that would bring them down to some chairs.
Chairs that were near the weird lights.
Weird lights that hung over a now-drenched table.
As I tore my shirt off, I must admit to congratulating myself on quick-thinking. I could tell that at the pace they were moving, I had enough time to clean it up, pour some more and sit back down like nothing had happened.
Which is exactly what I did.
Even Tim gave me a nod of approval as I slid my shirt back on.
Until the head that the nod came from moved to slightly to his right.
My left.
To the couple peering in the window.
I could do nothing except stand there.
They let themselves in.
Friend’s of the boss, I assumed, which means I’m fucked.
But they weren’t friends of the boss.
The boss who now stood with Lori and the assistant behind me.
In fact, they were just some normal people.
People who look.
People who don’t know the boss.
People who don’t know the boss.
They were offered wine and thankfully, poured it themselves.
I was in the clear.
They made their around the store and, doing as only poor people do, would pick up a price tag, feign approval, put it back down, take one more look at the object in question and then slowly walk to the door.
I took a deep breath, basically inhaling the nice Shiraz.
‘Come back anytime’ said the owner.
‘Oh, we will!’ said the man, opening the door.
‘Free wine and a stripper?’ said the loud lady ‘Best place in town!’
It was a long, long ride home.
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