Isn't That Rich?: Life Among the 1 Percent Read online

  “I know how you feel. My daughter locks the door and when I knock on it, she tells me to go away,” Park Avenue Prince declared.

  “Why do you allow locks on the doors?” I asked in a stupefied manner.

  “They were there. Even if I took out the locks, her standard line is ‘Don’t come in, I’m not dressed.’ There’s no barging in on that statement,” he said wearily.

  “Everyone is either studying, playing video games, or on social media. I’m ‘ssshed’ when the tutors are there and have to fend for myself for a drink or a meal when we don’t have dinner plans.”

  “No one talks to me unless they want something,” another husband groused.

  “I know deep down there is appreciation, just no level of service,” Real Estate Kingpin said.

  “The best is when the kids or my wife take the driver and I have to hail a cab,” Park Avenue Prince sighed. “Not that anyone would notice.”

  I am very often in the company of women, and I do get to hear more of my fair share of complaints about men. “Men,” the ladies gripe, “are boorish, bossy, or difficult. They all have ADD, and/or are not nearly thoughtful enough.” And the list goes on and on. Many of the men I know have a longer fuse when it comes to complaining or confrontation. That said, even for many of the men from the so-called happy, long-term marriages, there is a growing tendency to question the status quo. Many feel underappreciated, taken for granted, and only relegated to the role of provider. No one pays them any attention until someone “wants something.” This reality, coupled with escalating bills and diminishing affection, causes a strange set of emotions. Fallout ranges from benign acceptance to a finely honed sense of humor to simmering rage. The result is that many an invisible husband and father start to look outside the marriage and family unit for some sort of validation. Hearing the man’s perspective provides an unusual peek into both the male psyche and men’s longing.

  “I always had this suburban fantasy,” the Old Westbury Private Equity Guy declared over lunch at Morimoto, “that I would come home and my wife would answer the door in high heels and an apron, offering me a freshly prepared martini.” He laughed at the highly improbable thought.

  “What is the real husband reality on the North Shore these days?” I asked as I negotiated the salmon roe with my chopsticks.

  “Don’t get me wrong; I love my wife, but the moment I walk in the door I’m told to ‘do this and do that and did I do this or forget to do that.’ I work hard all week, and then on the weekends I’m expected to pick up all the slack because my wife says she does it all week long. And she runs off to a doubles match or a spin class,” he said without malice.

  “So you feel the subject of the underappreciated husband threatens the equilibrium?”

  “Absolutely. It’s like the women band together and always want to blame the men for everything. ‘He did this. He did that …’” He mock gesticulated.

  “Do you think some of the women are unrealistic?”

  “That’s a great word. So many women I know just want, want, want without having to give.”

  “Do you think it’s different living in Old Westbury?”

  “I think the commute is longer—that said, I still don’t think I’d be getting any more respect if I were living in the city.”

  “Your biggest complaint?”

  “I don’t understand where it says in the manual that if a wife is handling the kids during the week that I have to work double time over the weekend to relieve her. It would be different if we were doing it together.”

  “So do you talk about it?”

  “Most men don’t like confrontation. We’re exhausted. How many times does a man start a verbal confrontation with a woman? The wives do all the time, but it’s just too much effort.”

  “Another glass of sake?”

  “You bet your ass.”

  “I think in any long-term marriage there is a complacency that comes with time. Everyone settles into that role, which is fine as long as you buy into it and you are secure.” Southern Gentleman adjusted his collar stay. We were having a postsquash cocktail in a turn-of-the-century club’s oak-paneled bar and he was filling me in on his divorce proceedings. And lawyer bills.

  “Meaning what?” I toyed with the plate of anemic carrot sticks and blue cheese.

  “Take something as simple as your spouse flirting. I never saw it as harmful. As an example, when things were going well, we hired a lacrosse coach for my son—they always have these great names like Trey or Vaughn—and he was a great-looking guy and he would come for lunch at the house et cetera.”

  “Was the flirting very overt?”

  “I felt at the time it was harmless and she needed to feel good about her femininity. I was happy to be in the background. I think when you feel good and fulfilled, you don’t question the sanity of the situation. You feel you’re working together for the greater good.”

  “And?” I prompted, ordering another round.

  “And when you are unfulfilled and not secure, then you start to question—being part of the supporting cast, for instance … and the flirting, of course.”

  “Then what happened?” I asked, knowing his War of the Roses divorce had set him back emotionally and financially for a number of years.

  “When the divorce happened, I realized I greatly resented being the guy who just wrote checks and didn’t get a huge amount of respect or attention. I now understand I was totally taken for granted. I have to admit I actually thought it was supposed to be that way.” He shrugged.

  “Why?”

  “It was the way I was brought up.” He smiled. “That was my father’s life.”

  “Was he happy?” I said, looking at a framed nineteenth-century oil painting of a club president.

  “Now I’m not so sure.” He paused thoughtfully. “Maybe that’s why he perfected a world-class martini.”

  I am not above eavesdropping and savoring a conversation as I am essentially a people watcher and have only come to understand, recently, that I am also a People Listener. I was at my usual spot at the bar in the divine Candle 79, perhaps the only restaurant on the Upper East Side that has a true Downtown sensibility. I was feasting on the supremely innovative vegan cheese plate (the culinary equivalent to a lap dance) when two standard-issue Wall Street types sat down on the high stools right next to me. Their conversation seemed tailor-made to this story.

  “I am sooo done. It’s like no one paid any attention to me for twenty years and now that the kids have gone off to college, she expects me to be with her every minute.” The older of the two motioned broadly in his bespoke suit.

  “That’s normal. She’s having her midlife crisis and wants to drag you into it,” his friend said, scanning the menu.

  “I have my own to worry about.” The older man motioned the bartender. “I’ll have a vodka. Make it a double.”

  “Me too,” his friend added.

  “And what’s going on with you? How’s Chantal (not her real name)?”

  “She’s so busy with the kids and her charity work, she has zero time for me. I used to think guys who cheated were bad guys—but I no longer condemn infidelity. I think the last time we [a vulgar phrase suggesting intimacy] was like six months ago.”

  “I mean, if a woman’s not going to service her man, someone else will,” he stated matter-of-factly.

  They clinked glasses in a sober fashion.

  “I’m so tired of the complaining and the excuses.”

  “Listen, I have the opposite problem. You still have kids in high school. Now that we’re empty nesters, suddenly Nancy (not her real name) wants to go at it all the time. I’m handling it with pills, how about you?”

  The younger of the two scanned the bar, looking over at the attractive blonde who was eating seitan alone. “Yeah,” he said, catching her eye. “I just decided to outso
urce.”

  “It’s so easy to be a blamer,” Second Wife said over the phone. Dana had put her on speaker as we lay in our bed after watching the latest episode of Homeland.

  “I think so much of it has to do with exhaustion,” she continued.

  “Exhaustion or lack of sleep?” I asked, looking longingly at the fluffy duvet.

  “There’s always so much to do: going to bed so late, the alarm going off at six, getting the kids off to school, getting them to their sports, doctors’ appointments, social events, play dates, activities, getting my job at work done, working out, having a social life ourselves.”

  “I’m exhausted just hearing about it, but we have the same life. I could use some sleep right about now,” I said; the clock read 12:50 a.m. At that moment my youngest daughter walked in, saying she was having trouble sleeping.

  “That’s ironic,” I said.

  “Let’s face it,” Second Wife said. “We will never sleep again until the kids go off to college. Just deal with it.” She laughed ruefully.

  “And the idea of the underappreciated husband? True or false?” I asked her before she hung up.

  “All I can say is when my head hits the pillow I have nothing left to give.”

  “What about Steve (her husband)? Does he have a problem with that?” I asked.

  “Problem? He went to sleep two hours ago.”

  A barbecue in September in the Hamptons is a wonderful thing to behold and as the gaggle of children gathered in the rec room to play table tennis and the women oohed and aahed over one mother’s newest arrival, the men gathered around the grill looking at the array of seared meats. There is always something primal about men and their grills. As the flames hit the meat, it seemed an opportune time to ask if there were any invisible husbands in this group.

  “Being a master of the universe at work and a servant at home can be somewhat disconcerting,” the host remarked on the fly. “You want the troops to stop when you walk in the door and just focus on you, and when it doesn’t happen, it’s always a bit of a letdown,” he said to the other nodding fathers as he used his tongs skillfully. “Do you want your turkey burger medium or well done?” he asked.

  “Well done,” I said. “I’ll take the rest in for the kids.” We all peered at the perfect array of burgers and hot dogs he arranged on a platter. I took it into the kitchen, where a group of children of all ages were sitting at a round table conversing and happily mimicking the adults.

  “Burgers and hot dogs here,” I said cheerily. No one responded to my call for food.

  “Would anyone like a burger or hot dog?” I tried again. “I’m here to serve.” I said it in a joking but serious fashion.

  Finally my son looked up from the table and said, “I’ll have a burger, please.”

  “I’ll have a hot dog, too,” my older daughter said. I had a spring in my step as I took the platter over. In that moment I went from being a server to being useful to being needed—in a good way, where I wasn’t just a check writer.

  “Thanks, Dad,” my son said as he looked up at me when I offered him the platter, and he took a burger and bun. “You’re the best.” He smiled brightly at me.

  “Mom, isn’t Dad the best!” he called out.

  “Yes, there’s no one like your dad,” she echoed.

  As he took the burger from the platter and thanked me, suddenly, despite the crazy schedule, the lack of sleep, and the overall stress of life, everything seemed to make complete sense. And I was visibly happy.

  5. THE NEW DIVORCE IS NO DIVORCE

  AS LUCK WOULD HAVE IT, the Silver Fox had invited me to join him at a retreat in Malibu, a sensational summer camp for adults that’s a cross between a chic boutique hotel on the Amalfi Coast and the Betty Ford Center. Most people came without spouses (children don’t watch themselves, you know), and it was a diverse group. I was struggling up an arid mountain peak when I began chatting with an attractive redhead from San Francisco. We exchanged pertinent information.

  “Are you married or divorced?” I asked her as we both sipped water from our CamelBaks in the blazing sun.

  “Neither,” she said. “I am married, but I am separated. We live on the same property but have two different living areas. It’s called nesting.”

  “Nesting?”

  “Yes, we have children together and are best friends but we aren’t divorced.”

  “So do you see other people?”

  “Yes, in between family vacations.”

  On a subsequent trip to the left coast, I had lunch with Hollywood Mogul at the Ivy in Santa Monica. He looked trim, wiry, and youthful as he bounded into the restaurant on two devices. (Everyone who is successful in LA looks like they are going to a Lakers game.)

  “Our marriage may be dead, but our assets are very much alive,” he said, spooning the espresso crema onto his tongue.

  “I had a mentor when I first got into the movie business”—he mentioned a legendary producer—“He’d been married at that point, five or six times, and he said the best business advice he could ever give me was never to get divorced. Every time he got divorced he moved into a smaller and smaller house until he ended up in an apartment on the wrong side of the tracks.”

  “The sex went out of the marriage years ago,” Hollywood Mogul went on without emotion, “but we’re still best friends.”

  “How did you work that deal?” I asked, marveling at his alluring tuna tartare.

  “She always enjoyed a much quieter life. Listen, I respect a woman who goes gray, but the net net is I don’t want to have sex with a grandmother,” he said, flashing high-wattage laminations at two young starlets sharing crab cakes at the next table.

  He flexed his ageless bicep, licked his lips, and brandished his Patek as if part of the LA mating ritual.

  “And where do you all live?”

  “She lives in [a bedroom community of LA] and I live in the house (a gated mansion on überexclusive Los Angeles drive). Our girls divide their time when they are in LA and it makes total sense. I have no desire for more children and they’re going to get it all anyway. This is the way the old money people do it. So much smarter. As far as I’m concerned, this part of my life is dedicated to fun, fun, fun.”

  “So you get together for the holidays?”

  “Of course. My favorite time. Darlene (not her real name) makes the meanest turkey. If we had gotten divorced, she would have kept the stuffing recipe. For that alone, it’s worth staying married. And this way I have the best excuse in the world when I’m dating.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m married so I never have to commit. Now, what’s all this talk of divorce? Are you OK?”

  “I always say I married my second wife first.” I laughed.

  “We’re not separated, we only live separately,” said Chic Euro Chick (a minor-titled noble from someplace we all like to go on vacation). She flicked her ash, sporting not one but two Buccellati cuffs, as we made our way into New York’s Monkey Bar. She double-kissed those in charge and we were seated promptly.

  “Do you live in different apartments?”

  “No darling, in different wings,” she confessed as she stashed her silver lighter in her chic Boxer bag. “In my opinion, that’s the only way. We have breakfast and dinner together with the twins in the common area,” she said. “And then we retire to our own wings. It’s divine. Very Edwardian. I have my books, my Kindle. I have peace and quiet.”

  “Did divorce ever come up?”

  “Divorce is so …” She struggled to find the English word. “So … bourgeois. People got divorced in my parents’ generation. Look how that turned out.”

  The following week, I visited a leading clergyman who was recuperating from an illness across town in the well-stocked library of his sprawling West End Avenue apartment.

  “If the option is eith
er divorce or a deal, I prefer the latter,” he said.

  “You do?” I asked, somewhat surprised.

  “Yes, of course,” he said, offering me tea. “There is something to be said for family dinners, vacation time, and holidays. Divorce is a disaster for the children. Some never recover. The kids don’t care if the parents are sleeping together or sleep in the same room. They care that they are both there when they wake up in the morning and go to bed at night. They just want everything to be OK.

  “Sometimes people can’t stay together and divorce is justified. But I always counsel people to stay together if they can,” he went on. “I cannot tell you how many people I counsel who have separate bedrooms and lives. And they’re the well-adjusted ones. It’s different when people are unhappy in their twenties and thirties, but making a deal is a phenomenon for fifty-year-olds.”

  “And do you condone extramarital relationships?”

  “I didn’t say that. That’s not my business, and who am I to judge? That said, if it comes down to a messy divorce with the parents at war, I honestly think this is a better solution.”

  “If you are young and don’t have children, divorce is perfectly fine,” the Seventh Avenue Kingpin declared over luscious gigande beans at the superb Yefsi Estiatorio.

  “Is that why you stay together?” I asked, knowing he has his own deal with his long-term spouse.

  “When you have children—and I also have grandchildren—divorce adversely affects a lot of people. I believe in this idea of the family unit. When you build a life together, you don’t divorce your wife or your family because she might not be interested in sex anymore. Sex is not always the driving issue. In fact, I would rate it a distant third at a certain age.

  “My children and grandchildren are my focus. I have friends who have gone through two- or three-year divorces. The damage is incalculable. And then the kids mostly hate all the new players who show up … It’s a story as old as time. The kids, who are no longer kids at this point, are also afraid the parent is going to end up with someone inappropriate and change the will. Don’t think I haven’t seen that before, especially if the kids aren’t as successful as the parents and are living off their largesse. And let’s not forget some second wives can be more demanding and mercenary than the first one! That’s trouble.”