Confessions
of a Lucrative Mind
How to
pretend you’re rich in the OC and get everything you’ve always wanted.
By T. Lowe
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