Things I can’t Explain (14 page)

Let's face it, Dad's genius was unrecognized. He was the Claes Oldenburg of architecture and maybe that was his downfall—he was in the wrong business. He was so idealistic about creating “architecture for the people,” instead of the people who paid him. How could he believe that companies would actually keep building those things? If he had become a conceptual artist like Jeff Koons, who knows where he'd be now. When we were growing up, Dad was the hottest industrial design architect in Ohio. That was before the Great Recession, before the entire economy went on a disastrous moneymoon and we all became financially and emotionally fragile.

The recession wiped out his client base. Commercial real estate developers could no longer afford whimsical and eccentric designs, so work became scarce, and that's why he's where he is today. Insult was added to injury when he learned that those miniature models for his crazy building designs had become collectors items and were sold in some ultra-chic design store in Soho for more than he was ever paid to make the actual buildings. Fryfel sold for one hundred grand and Dad didn't see a penny of it.

“How could I forget, Ferg?”

“Well, when I get outta here, I'm gawn' have cash to set him up. Then he can design all the crazy-ass models he want, and we gawn' sell dem motherfuckers on Q to the V to the C, for realz. I'm gawn' mass-market them online for kiddies. I'm already down with the Lego guys.” I couldn't help wondering if he meant the actual little plastic figures.

As bid'ness aspirations went, this one sounded a little chancy to me. Not that I couldn't picture a Lego pickle. But I guess anything that would get Dad back on his feet was worth trying. Then again, we had all been played by Ferguson's schemes before, and that was what brought me here.

Ferguson's shenanigans had clearly caused me a problem with my only potential job prospect at the moment. As much as I wanted to make him pay, I also figured he owed me something and could help me, considering I had so little experience in writing about the financial sector.

“Look, Ferg, I'm glad you still have your little scams and fantasies, but because of your crimes you've put our whole family into an upheaval and a job prospect of mine in jeopardy.”

Ferguson's goofy prison demeanor vanishes straightaway, only to be replaced by the saddest expression I've ever seen on his annoying freckled face. He heaves a heavy sigh that yields to a despair that makes me worry about him. His head droops quietly for a few moments.

“I'm sorry, sis,” he finally says, looking up at me, and it's probably one of the few times I've seen the two strangers—reality and Ferguson—meet.

“It's okay. I need advice,” I say.

“
Prishli mne kapustu
,” he deadpans. I blink, not having a clue what he's said. “It means, ‘Don't let the Mafia get your cabbage' in Russian. I did learn a few phrases. That's the best advice I got.”

“Duly noted. But what I could really use is some financial background,” I say, taking out a small spiral pad from my clutch. “See, I've got this new job and there's this total jerkwad Dartmoor Millburn … ever heard of him?”

“The name sounds familiar but it's been a while since I've been on the street or even seen a
WSJ
,” Ferg says.

“Well, bottom line is I'm in a little over my head, and considering you've had some, uh, special experience…” I give him a sisterly grin. “And who better to get it from than the Wiz Kid of Coxsackie Prison?”

Ferguson sits up a little straighter. He tugs the do-rag off to reveal his completely bald head. I try not to stare but I totally do. I'm not sure whether he's shaved it because of prison regulations, or if the stress of incarceration has led to premature hair loss, or if it's simply a bad case of nits. In any case, it's an oddly good look for him—tough and no-nonsense, kind of like a miniature Vin Diesel, if Vin had bright orange eyebrows and a face full of freckles.

“Consider the class in session,” Ferguson says in a professional tone.

For the next two hours, I grill my notoriously brilliant brother on all things financial. Ferguson had to fork over another three tofu cookies to buy extra time, and I'm surprised at what a patient and thorough teacher he is. It's amazing what you know when you've been on both sides of the law. And his analysis of Occupy Wall Street and
Too Big to Fail
would make Paul Krugman stand up and applaud. I guess you learn all the angles when you play the system.

When it's time to leave, I reach into my plastic bag and remove the pack of Reese's peanut butter cups. Ferguson's face immediately brightens and, for a moment, I see a glimpse of the dorky adolescent underneath all his streetwise bravado.

“Thanks,” he says, reaching for them. “You know how much toilet paper a guy can buy with these babies?”

My heart sinks. That is
so
not why I brought them, but I guess Ferguson's world is different now. He can see the look in my eye and he leans in to whisper to me.

“Don't worry, I'm getting out of the joint soon,” he says, scanning the room. “My lawyer has an awesome plan to turn this frown upside down. Fo'shizzle.”

I give him a big awkward hug considering we can't actually embrace with all those metal chains in the way.

“I hope so. Take care, Ferguson. I'll see you soon, okay?” I whisper. “I'll tell Mom and Dad you're doing well.”

“Peace, yo. Luv to Moms and Pops,” he says with a rapper's fist pound to his chest ending in a two-finger salute.

As I make my way back to the Zipcar, I note the violent loops of barbed wire that top the fence and decide I'm going to write this article and secretly dedicate it to Fergface. It's going to be the best example of investigative financial journalism Nuzegeek has ever seen.

And Dartmoor Millburn, that mofo punk-ass cracker, ain't gawn' know what hit him, yo.

 

CHAPTER
14

After a week of blurry-eyed research for my Nuzegeek pitch utilizing Fergwad's impromptu “Finance for Dummies” seminar, I had vastly increased my financial awareness. Still, I knew I had to find a story that was good enough to convince MT and hold up to Dartmoor's grilling. Only something stellar and totally Nuzegeekian would suffice, and it would have to firmly identify the website with MT's hoped-for demographic. Sitting at my computer I fly through some less-than-stellar “people with no money” ideas like:

I actually researched that last one. There's this guy who raises grass-fed rabbits for meat because bunnies are cheap and nutritious. It's just that bunny burgers are kind of a downer for your preschooler when it comes to their Happy Meal.

In other words, my results at the moment: nada, zip, zero. At least nothing that I can truly stand behind as I endure Dartmoor's withering criticisms. Where am I going to find a lead?

I think of Hugh Hamilton, my late mentor, and try to channel some of Hugh's gruff advice, specifically on what to do when you get stuck for a story.

Hugh hovers over me like the Ghost of Journalism Past. “New York City is your story,” he growls. “Get out on the streets. There's a story in every gutter, every bodega, and every body bag. If you're stuck, take a walk and buy a hot dog. Preferably one with lots of mustard, onions, and double kraut.”
Phew! These occasional visions of Hugh are scary, but they do the trick.

A change of scenery will probably do me good, and who am I to disregard the advice of a dead legend? So I stop pounding my poor, overworked laptop and head out.

Slipping on my 1977 Pappagallo flats, I stroll uptown. It's nice to be moving at a leisurely pace, because that's something that happens so rarely in New York. I meander past the St. John's campus, and make my way toward the West Village, home to the High Line and Magnolia bakery, where I treat myself to a lemon cupcake, knowing full well my mother would consider this a nutritional rebellion of the highest degree.

Wandering on, letting ideas for potential articles ferment in my brain, I pass a prosecco bar. I look up at the banner for Ciao Ragazza, a new restaurant that proudly hails itself as “the perfect place for DIY brunch.” That's basically what we used to call a buffet, right?

Peering through the windows, I see fashionable New Yorkers with their toddlers crammed into CBGB T-shirts standing around a bar making fresh juices with toss-ins like berries, and a tray of mixers, acting as their own mixologists. I'm surprised it isn't Bring Your Own Prosecco. When did the term
DIY
, which used to signify a punk rock spirit of independent creativity, become so gentrified?

It dawns on me that this could be a pretty cool story. Not the prosecco place, but DIY. Not only does it exemplify all the basic principles of the free market economy that Fergface drilled into my head, but DIY is also Economy 101 that every young Nuzegeek reader might understand.

I remember Charley's Cook Your Own back in Springfield where we could cook our own steak for twenty-eight dollars. Dad loved that place. Now that was DIY before its time, and a great break from Mom's tofu. But I've always wondered: If you have to cook your own food, shouldn't it cost less? I mean, would you pay Camp Canine to let you wash your own labradoodle? Or fork over cash to Acme Car Wash and detail your own car?

I can understand picking your own strawberries and pre-ripping your jeans. If you're homeless, a cardboard box might be what passes for DIY housing. And first-time New Yorkers know that DIY furnishings are what you find on the street.

But I'm also thinking: There's Kickstarter and Indiegogo, right? I've seen tons of blogs written by industrious millennials who've taken financial matters into their own hands by tapping into their passions and using them to turn a profit.

Clearly, the Do-It-Yourself trend is a viable business model and the people leading the charge are becoming entrepreneurs. Still, I don't want to be pitching the financial benefits of weaving your own doormats out of dog hair to Dartmoor. And I'm pretty sure a piece about a spa where you can massage yourself probably isn't going to fly. Then again, maybe if someone could find a way to distill Heineken Light backwash into automotive fuel that could power a Beemer convertible, Dartmoor would be interested.

I'm going to have to zero in on something fabulous.

Unfortunately, what I zero in on is the ultimate zero—Norm—and he's walking directly toward me.

I need to find someplace to hide, and quick.

 

CHAPTER
15

No joke. From where I'm standing I can see Norm, my very own ex-BF-cum-stalker, across the street reflected in the restaurant window. He's hanging out with a bunch of overage skater dudes.

With every fiber of my being, I do not want to see or be seen by Norm, so I do that stupid sitcom thing and duck into the next nearest doorway, which is some tiny Village cappuccino place.

I sit down in the far back corner and keep one eye on Norm across the street, waiting for him to move on. Slowly, I realize this is no random java station. I take a deep breath and remember that one of the most momentous moments of my life occurred here. This is Joe's Coffee. Why, you may be legitimately asking, does my entire love life revolve around coffee?

I don't know the answer to that question, but Joe's Coffee is a place I've kind of been avoiding for a while. My eyes dart across the wrought-iron tables to the very corner where it all changed between Sam and me, one autumn day almost a decade ago. Two best friends, childhood pals. Platonic to the extreme.

Across the room I see him entering now, just the way he looked that day, with his lush brown hair sticking up everywhere, his easy-to-read face with a stubble of beard and the way he smiled at me with his soft sleepy brown eyes.

That one image and it feels as though a trap door has opened beneath my feet and dropped me through time.