Confessions of a Lucrative Mind
How
to pretend you’re rich in the OC and get everything you’ve always wanted.
By T.
Lowe
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It’s a perfect fall day
here by the pool at the
The woman behind the copy
of Vogue in the chaise longue to my right completes the picture. I put her at
about 45. She’s definitely big money, definitely local, and looks a shiny
plastic form of 35, undoubtedly thanks to a high-priced surgeon’s knife and a
strict regimen of Botox and expensive spa treatments. A pungent combination of
lavender and palmarosa flower scent, floats my way and verifies my theory.
There’s also enough rock on her ring finger to pay off my student loans, but
that doesn’t scare me. Rings don’t mean anything anymore. She could be
divorced, trying to dissuade creeps, any number of things.
I reach into the small
pool bag by my side and punch a speed dial button on my older model cell phone.
Another phone rings. Also mine.
I pull a sleek new Nokia,
blinding silver and no bigger than an oyster, out of the bag and check to make
sure Ms. Money is watching.
“Hello, Donna,” I say to
no one, then wait a beat. “It is there, great. Guess this whole remodel thing
is making me scatterbrained.”
I throw in a little
chuckle; it says I’m such a nice guy I get cozy with the help.
“Yep, that’s me. Guess I
sure picked a bad day to miss breakfast. There’s a new girl at the desk. She
won’t give me a room number without a credit card so I can’t order lunch.” I
give it a few beats, check Ms. Money from the corner of my eye. Oh yeah, she’s
in; she’s been on the same Vogue page since my phone rang.
“Oh I know he would,” I
say, “but I don’t want to call the manager in, it’s the girl’s first week. Just
have Donny drive my wallet over with the Peterson file, I’ll survive till
then.”
After a few pleasantries I
hang up and pull a half-eaten Power Bar out of my bag. I stare at it for a long
moment, then take a reluctant bite.
Three seconds go by. Am I
getting rusty?
Four, five seconds. .
.boom. Ms. Money puts down her Vogue and leans my way.
“Excuse me, I don’t mean
to intrude,” she says, “but I couldn’t help overhearing. . .”
Twenty minutes later Linda
signs for my ahi sandwich, with fries, and Heineken. She has a martini and I’m
thinking the afternoon is looking up. We talk about our favorite foreign
countries and the seasons in which they must be enjoyed. I leave out the fact
that I’ve only enjoyed them by tent and name restaurants that don’t exist but
sound insanely expensive – Le Choix Fromage for France and
Then, just as she downs
the last of her second martini, a shadow crosses over her. I look up into the
face of a man in golf attire. He’s smoking an expensive cigar and from his
expression, he either just shot a thousand over par or he’s not too thrilled
about Linda’s new friend.
“Honey, this is Taj,” she
says. Mr. Cigar doesn’t offer his hand.
“We’re late,” he says,
turns, and walks away.
It wouldn’t have worked
out between Linda and me anyway, I think as I speed down
Oh, please excuse the
phone I hold to my ear, I always do that when I drive. Image, you know.
By the way, since this is
a confessional piece, I’ll start with this car, my platinum-colored Mercedes SL
500 convertible. It is so money. Which is why I need it. In this town, what you
drive says a lot about you. Sounds shallow, but actually it’s just fact.
Of course, some cars, like
mine, lie.
But no one likes the word
lie. I prefer, uh, predict. Yes my car predicts what I will be once a few of my
deals go through. I’m in real estate at the moment, and façade is everything.
Just look at the product. Façade, façade, façade.
Thing is, everyone is in
real estate at the moment and it’s hard to stand out.
So the car’s a necessity.
And really, it’s not that much. This is
And as long as we’re being
perfectly honest here, I may as well tell you that even my façade is merely a
façade for a façade. Does that make sense? What I mean is I do not plan to make
my fortune by parading people through mansions. I’ll make my millions the truly
old fashioned way: I’ll marry it.
Here we are, at my gym,
the YMCA. I belonged to a fancy gym for a while, but found that the men didn’t
want to talk business and, while the women wanted to be approached, whoever did
the approaching was deemed a desperate gym creep. So what’s the point? After
all, the weights weigh the same here.
I go through my typical
workout, hammering the chest, arms and stomach; women never notice legs. And I
always wear gloves to protect my weekly manicure and knuckle waxing – aside
from the car, my one other indulgence. Correction, investment; nothing says
money like soft hands and a firm handshake.
I pull on my new Armani
and check the mirror. Okay, it’s not actually new, it’s used. Or the term that
I like to use, soirée experienced. Picked it up for a third of retail at Corona
del Mar’s Recycled Rags, the Goodwill of the rich and pampered. It’s amazing
what the elite get rid of. It’s mostly women’s designer wear, but if you’re
there on the right day you can score a sweet men’s suit.
As I synch up my tie, my
first deep thought of the day comes. If people realized how much time they
spent staring at themselves in mirrors, they’d really try to be a lot more
attractive. I think that message alone would produce a much sexier world. When I’m
rich, I’ll start a foundation or something. I make a mental not to scribble the
thought down on my car notepad the next time I’m at a babe-heavy stoplight.
You’ve probably noticed
the uneven scruff I’ve got accenting my upper lip and chin. Not really a goatee,
not perfectly formed, but obviously done for affect. Very
It’s like the whole
gangster baseball cap and size 48 jeans thing. Follow me on this: Snoop Dog,
Emenem, P. Daddy, those guys have to know that they look incredibly stupid with
baseball caps on all crooked and boxers showing two inches out of their pants.
But what they’re saying is, “Yeah, I know I look like I’ve got an IQ of eight and
wear hand-me-downs from my fat brother, but that’s how big and confident I am.
I challenge you to disrespect me.” Same thing with my bed head and chin hair.
No one chasing a paycheck could get away with this.
My
We enter the master bath,
which is larger than my apartment.
“Why would anyone need a
solid marble toilet?” asks Mr. CEO.
He’s got me there. “You
wouldn’t,” I say. “It’s totally ostentatious and unnecessary.” I let this sink
in, then lean a little closer. “Which is exactly why you want one.” A thread of
understanding crawls across his lips to form a faint smile.
We stare out at the blue
Pacific from the second-story loggia (little realty fact: whenever the asking
price creeps over a million, the patio becomes the loggia). The view’s
incredible, with a few clean white sails drifting by and the sound of surf on
the rocks below. This accounts for eight million of the ten million the house
is worth, which makes Mr. CEO’s final question a tricky one.
“So, what’s the difference
between this home and the one down the beach?” he asks, eyeing the loggia of
another home for sale a few doors away.
There’s no substantive
answer, so I decide to gamble.
“The price is the only
real difference,” I say and give him a beat to wonder at my honesty. Then I hit
him with the kicker. “And everyone will know it.”
His smile grows a little
bolder and I think, if there’s one genuine thing left in this town, it’s
vanity.
The heat of my apartment
is a bit stifling after the open air floorplan of the Laguna manse. But you
don’t get a lot of sea breeze in
Also, since no one can
know where I live, it adds an air of mystery to my persona. A buzz that is the
cornerstone of any type of celebrity. They wonder who that guy in the Armani
with the flash car, no briefcase and casual tan is. He’s always getting calls.
He’s always on the move. They ask where he lives. No one knows, which means it
must be behind some very private gates. Yes, the
It’s ten by the time I
pull up to the tent for the South Coast Repertory Gala, the event of the year
for the wealthy. A seat costs a grand, but dinner should be over by now, which
means I can blend in easily.
I go around back and slip
a busboy on a smoking break $20 to let me through, where the kitchen is set up.
I enter the grand dining
area from the kitchen doors while pulling a desert fork from my lips and
laughing. “That sure is some recipe, glad I came back to ask about it,” I call
to the confused kitchen staff. A waiter comes by and I trade him the fork for a
glass of chardonnay, then survey the room. It’s a sea of couples, not very
promising, until…
Yes, there’s one woman, in
designer everything, who is definitely alone. Her searching eyes meet mine and
I move forward. She’s attractive, a little too attractive, actually. I’m more
in the market for desperate at the moment. But I’m feeling pretty lucky
tonight, so what the hell.
I introduce myself. She
says her name is Sophia. With her fine blond hair and money green eyes, she
doesn’t look like a Sophia, but who am I to judge.
We talk about how we hate
these things, but how we must go, and isn’t SCR a wonderful cause. She asks
what I do.
“I’m in real estate,” I
say.
A hint of disappointment
clouds her eyes. “A Realtor?” she asks.
“No, no” I say with a
dismissive chuckle. “I have people for that. I’m a builder.” Her eyes sparkle
once again.
An hour later we’re
enjoying martinis at Laguna’s Sorrento Grille. Everything’s going great until Mr.
CEO spots me and cruises over to talk business.
“I’m considering a high
eight mill offer,” he says after I introduce him to Sophia. “What do you
think?”
I can tell Sophia’s
confused, but she’s hiding it by warming up to Mr. CEO. A little too warm from where
I’m sitting.
“I think it’ll take ten.
But why don’t we discuss it in the a.m.,” I say, hoping to cut this thing off
quickly.
He’s getting chummy with
Sophia now, so lets it go. But on the present course, he could ruin both my
deals in one move – real estate and love.
“Isn’t that your wife,” I
say. He jumps. “Oh, no, no, I’m sorry, it was just a waitress.” He gathers
himself but it’s too late. Sophia has scooted a foot away.
After he leaves, I make a
casual joke about buyers always thinking the builder will give them a better
deal than the Realtors.
The check comes. I pull
out my wallet and curse myself. Not that I was going to try to scam a measly
drink off Sophia, it’s just I have no idea which card still has credit on it. I
try to envision my statements, to see the amounts on each bill, but it proves
too psychologically damaging. I pull out the Discover; I think that was one of
the more recent ones.
When the waitress returns
I hold my breath. “Just sign here, Mr. Lowe.”
Things are looking up.
On the way back to
Sophia’s car I explain how I’m staying at the St. Regis while my own home is
built.
“Oh, I’d love to see it,”
she says.
“Why don’t we hit the pool
tomorrow?”
“No, your home, silly,”
she says.
“It’s only in the framing
stage,” I say, trying to sound regretful.
She doesn’t care; she’d
still love to see what I do. I have a feeling she’s wrong.
I pull out my new – well,
new to me – Hugo Boss for Peet’s Coffee in Corona del Mar Plaza the next
morning. It’s sort of a mandatory stop if you want to be a player. Nothing
really happens there and I’m convinced that half the people who show up dump
their coffee when they’re safely out of sight. But, it’s a place I have to be
seen at least four times a week. If I’m feeling particularly un-Armani, a
little more bohemian, I hit Zinc Café in Laguna.
This morning, I clock
20-minutes of glad-handing and schmoozing. I’d stay for 30 but I had to circle
the parking lot four times before I got a spot in front. The front row park is
essential so I can announce my presence with the little chirp of locking car
doors. Totally unnecessary since the top is down and my car is wide open, but,
again, it’s all about the entrance.
The Peet’s mission
accomplished I zip up to The Mail Room in
I grab my mail and drive
down to
As I suspect, it’s all
bills. Mostly credit cards; I had no idea I lived such a glamorous life. I may
have to open a few more accounts if I don’t get a big sale, or a well-healed
significant other, soon.
I grab lunch at the
Ritz-Carlton pool – this time a tennis widow down for the weekend from
I hit the Y late, skip the
workout, shower and head to Fleming’s in fashion
As usual, Fleming’s is
hopping with power suits, but Mr. CEO finds me.
“I used to have that same
suit,” he says. “Hated to get rid of it, but couldn’t get a stain out of the
left cuff.”
I check the cuff as Mr.
CEO waves to a colleague. Damn, of all the luck. I shove my left hand in my
pocket.
Mr. CEO starts right in on
the high eight mill line again. This is essentially a waste of my time, and I
think he knows it. He just wants to say the word mill over and over again in
this crowd. If it weren’t for the mail today, maybe I’d be more in a mood to
play the game, but right now I need a real drink after all.
I down my water, which Mr.
CEO takes for Vodka of course. And, being a manly man, he has to follow suit.
We order a few rum and Cokes and as the bartender approaches with them I reach
for my wallet with my right hand. But before I can pull it out, I use my
pocketed left hand, which rests on my cell, to speed dial my other phone. My
right pocket rings. I grab the phone with my wallet hand, just as the bartender
sets the drinks down and pretend to check the number.
“God, I’ve got to get
this, it’s about your Laguna place,” I apologize.
While I’m discussing a
$10.2 million offer with dead air, Mr. CEO has no choice but to pay for the
drinks.
I get off the phone and we
swing around. Sophia stands right in front of me.
She gives Mr. CEO the cold
shoulder and I feel empowered.
“So,” she says, looking
straight through me with those intoxicating eyes. “Are you going to show me
your home?”
“Nothing I’d like more,” I
say.
Mr. CEO looks like a dog
that’s just lost his master. “Let’s talk more about this Laguna place, maybe I
could…”
But that’s the last I hear
as I leave.
We hop in my SL and head
for Pelican Crest. I figure, if I’m going down, I may as well go down in style.
The guard at the gate waves me through, assuming I’m just showing another lot.
First hurdle cleared.
I drive straight for the
Jameson manse, and pray Sophia does not know the Jamesons. The odds are with me
since they’re East Coast money, building a second estate here.
I roll to a stop and check
the foreman’s trailer. Looks closed, he’s gone for the day. Second hurdle,
check.
A few guys, they look like
electricians, are finishing up and we meet them at the gate. Before they can
ask any questions I catch them off balance with a handshake. “You guys are
doing a great job,” I say. “I will be sure to invite you to my move-in party.”
I’m not sure they bought
it; they look a bit like teens in a horror film, right after they see the
serial killing maniac. I hold my breath.
“Uh, great, great,” the
short one says. “We’re done for the day so—“
“Don’t worry, I’ll close
the gate when I leave,” I say, dragging Sophia through quickly. They shrug and
bail. Last obstacle behind me.
I relax and walk Sophia
through the project. I’m actually having fun designing my mansion. “Here’s
where the Dolby Digital Surround Sound home theater will be,” I say. “That will
be a 3,000 volume library. Over there’s where the baby grand will go. Oh, and
that’ll be the ‘board room.’ Did I mention I surf?”
Out on the dirt pad that
will eventually become my infinity lap pool and built-in wood-burning oven,
Sophia and I soak in the view. The sky is just getting that first hint of
orange in it and from up here, with a panoramic view of all of
My delusions are cut short
by Sophia, who’s getting a little nippy in her backless DKNY. She suggests we
go to the St. Regis. “Maybe order some room service,” she says, hugging my arm
tight. It’s tempting, really tempting, and if I had a thousand bucks open on my
credit I might just go for it. But I don’t, so I lie and say I’m flying to
Man, I really need that
new credit card.
Another few weeks of
meeting for happy hours – in
But I sobered up before
any damage could be done.
Now, I’m determined to
seal the deal. I’ll figure out how to explain the Pelican Crest estate later.
By the time I have to it’ll be too late anyway. She’ll be Mrs. Lowe and maybe
I’ll just buy the Mediterranean monolith.
I’m back at Recycled Rags,
this time to buy Sophia a gift. I’m hoping that she falls for my “rings are so
overdone” routine, although there is a slight chance there’s an affordable
engagement ring on consignment here. Hopefully, not one of her friend’s.
I’m checking out the
merchandise when I hear the clerk say, “Hello Sophia, back so soon?”
I turn, it couldn’t be. .
.
It is.
Panic hits me. I’m caught.
How am I going to explain. . .
Wait a minute. How is she
going to explain?
The ceremony was a simple
one. Just Sophia, me and the preacher on a
Now, we’re here at the St.
Regis pool together.
Sort of. She’s working the
men on the north side, I’m taking care of the golf widows to the south. We
should have some celebratory champagne and hors d’oeuvres in no time.
And if we really get
lucky, a honeymoon suite for the night.
We’ll work on the mansion
tomorrow. å