“And I can’t replace it. That sofa was custom-made, and the fabric came from Italy. It’s not even available anymore.”
“Yeah, you mentioned that.” In fact, it was the fourth time in the last ten minutes. “So, you can’t get the same sofa. I’m sure you’ll find another one that’s just as beautiful and unique. Didn’t Papá say you could spend as much as you want?”
“I don’t want another sofa. I already had the perfect one, and the whole living room was decorated around it. If I get a different sofa, then I’ll have to change everything, the rugs, the artwork, the accessories, even the plants!”
“But you love having a big project to work on. Think of all the fun you’ll have shopping and arranging things.” If I was lucky, my mother would be so busy redecorating her living room that she wouldn’t have the time to make any more of these early-morning calls to my office.
“I can’t even go into the living room right now; it’s too upsetting. I don’t know what was in that fire extinguisher your father used, but there’s this grainy yellow powder covering everything. And the room still smells like smoke. We’ll probably never be able to get rid of that odor,” my mother’s voice broke as she was overcome with emotion. “I told Arturo that we should move.”
“That’s a bit drastic, don’t you think?” I took a sip of the Café con Leche that I’d bought on the way into work. It had finally cooled off and was the perfect temperature.
“You don’t know how I’ve suffered, what painful memories that living room holds for me now.”
“Your grandson set your sofa on fire. It’s not the end of the world. At least, no one was hurt.”
“I was hurt! My property was damaged, and my party was ruined. But I guess you don’t care about any of that. You don’t care about my mental anguish.”
“Of course, I care, Mamá.” I used my index finger to scoop some whipped cream off the top of my caffeinated beverage, then stuck it in my mouth.
“Ana doesn’t care. She’s not even punishing George.”
“Well, it was an accident. George didn’t mean to torch your furniture.”
“He meant to light that bowl of potpourri on fire, didn’t he?”
“Yes, but he thought the fire would be contained—”
“Well, he was wrong, wasn’t he?”
It had been a gross miscalculation on the part of my firebug nephew. The bowl of potpourri had been sitting on the coffee table next to Victor’s present, and the flames from George’s “experiment” had reached high enough to ignite the long, dangly ribbons hanging over the edge of the box. Nothing burns faster than paper, so the gift had quickly turned into a small bonfire. George had done his best to put it out with a pillow from the sofa, but that had caught fire, too. Fortunately, he’d tossed the blazing pillow back onto the couch before it could burn his hands.
“Cut the kid a break. He said he was sorry.”
“Bah! He doesn’t know the meaning of the word. That little arsonist isn’t allowed back in my house until he learns some respect.”
Was that supposed to be a punishment?
“I’ve told Ana again and again that her children are out-of-control, that they need to be disciplined, but does she listen? No. She just lets them do whatever they want. Did I tell you that Charlie and David locked their nanny in the laundry room the other day? She was stuck in there for three hours! I’m surprised she didn’t quit.”
“I’m sure they were just playing—”
“Playing like a couple of juvenile delinquents. Ana needs to start spanking those boys.”
“You never spanked us.” Probably because she didn’t want to risk breaking a nail.
“And that’s where I made my biggest mistake as a parent. Maybe your sister wouldn’t have turned out so spoiled and willful if I hadn’t spared the rod when she was little.”
Were we still talking about Ana or had she just segued into another one of her rants about Izzy?
“Mamá, I’d love to debate the merits of corporal punishment with you,” a blatant lie and we both knew it, “but my 9:00 is going to be here any minute—”
“And work is more important than your family, I know.” She tried to put a guilt trip on me.
“My patients pay me to help them with their problems; my family doesn’t,” I reminded her.
“If you’d stop being so stubborn and marry Victor, you could quit that silly job of yours and—”
“Goodbye, Mamá.” I ended the call before we could get into another argument about my party-crashing ex and began to sort through the stack of files on my desk, looking for Leonard Dyson’s. He was a patient who’d randomly picked my name out of the yellow pages and had called for a consultation the week before.
Patient’s name: Leonard Dyson
Age: 29
Occupation: High school bus driver (resigned from job recently)
Diagnosis based on initial evaluation: Patient is suffering from acute anxiety due to recent financial windfall (he won the Florida Lotto jackpot of $8 million.) As patient was raised in a series of lower middle-class foster homes and has worked hard to make ends meet his entire adult life, he has no idea how to handle money and is overwhelmed by his newfound wealth and the accompanying responsibilities, which has resulted in identity confusion. All of his issues are symptomatic of Sudden Wealth Syndrome.
Goal of therapy: Help patient adapt to and embrace the changes in his life and bolster his confidence so that he can move forward and make intelligent, well-informed decisions about his finances and the people he comes into contact with.
“How are you doing today, Leonard?” I asked the overweight black man who sat on my couch looking down at his hands, which were neatly folded in his lap. Leonard seldom made eye contact because he didn’t like being the focus of anyone’s attention. I had traced this shyness back to his childhood when it had behooved him to fade into the woodwork at his various foster homes lest his caretakers think that he was too much trouble and send him back to Child Welfare.
“I’m okay, I guess,” he responded in a subdued baritone.
“You don’t look okay. Would you like to tell me what’s wrong?”
“I haven’t been sleepin’ very good. I keep havin’ these nightmares . . .”
“About?” I prompted.
“Big dollar signs chasing me. They chase me everywhere and I try to get away from them, but they’re always too fast.”
“What happens when they catch up to you?”
He shrugged. “Different things. Sometimes I trip and fall down, then they all pounce on me, which makes me feel like I’m being smothered. Last night, I dreamed they chased me off a cliff and I just kept fallin’ deeper and deeper into this dark, bottomless pit.”
“Interesting.” I jotted down a few notes on my pad. “The dollar signs are representative of your wealth which your subconscious feels there is no escape from.”
“What can I do to make the nightmares stop?”
“We need to continue working on your issues with money. Once you realize that it’s not something to be feared, and that you’re in control of it and not vice versa, then the nightmares will go away.”
Leonard sighed sorrowfully. “I miss my job.”
“That’s understandable. You worked for the school district for how long?”
“10 years.”
“10 years,” I mused. “That’s a remarkable accomplishment. Not many people stay with the same job for that length of time.”
“It was a great job. I woulda stayed with it forever if they hadn’t made me quit. When I won the Lotto, they said I should give up my job so that someone who needed it could have it. I wish I’d never bought that stupid lottery ticket. I want things to go back to the way they were.”
“Change is always scary, Leonard,” I said in a placating tone, “but you won that lottery for a reason, and you have to look at this as an opportunity to do something wonderful with your life.”
“Like what?” He picked at a loose thread that was hanging from the sleeve of his tattered green shirt. It was telling that the man had become a millionaire months ago but had yet to buy himself any new clothing.
“Well, you could go back to school and study something that’s always interested you like . . . computers or photography or creative writing.”
“I was never a good student,” he dismissed the idea.
“Alright, then you could travel and meet new people and learn about other cultures. With all of your money, you could go anywhere and do anything. Maybe a tour of the pyramids in Egypt? Or a ski trip to Switzerland? Is there a foreign country you’ve always wanted to visit?”
He scratched his head thoughtfully for a minute before responding, “No, I’m not very adventurous. I like stayin’ at home.”
I couldn’t fathom why since Leonard was still living in his crummy one-bedroom apartment in Opa-Locka, one of the poorest and most crime-ridden parts of Miami. “If home is where your heart is, then why not buy yourself a nice house? It’s a buyers’ market right now and purchasing a home could be an investment in your future.”
“I don’t know,” he vacillated. “I’m comfortable where I am.”
“You wouldn’t like to have more room? Or a swimming pool? Or one of those big-screen hi-def TVs?”
He played absentmindedly with a button on the section of his shirt that covered his large, Buddha-like belly. “Not really.”
“Okay, so you don’t like to spend money on yourself. Maybe you could find fulfillment and purpose in your life by using your lottery winnings to help other people?”
A big smile spread across Leonard’s chubby-cheeked face. “Yeah, that’s what I wanna do, help other people, like my brother.”
With a frown, I queried, “What brother? I thought that you were an orphan?”
“I am. I’m talkin’ ‘bout my foster brother, Miguel. We lived in the same house for a coupla years when we were teenagers.”
“So, you were close with Miguel when you were kids and you’ve kept in touch over the years?”
“Well, we were never really close. He was always kinda mean to me. He stole my stuff and made fun of me because I was fat. I hadn’t seen or heard from him in almost 13 years, but he called me up outta the blue last week.”
I had a sinking feeling I knew where this was going.
“Miguel said that he’s been goin’ through a rough time and he needed some—”
“Money?”
“Yeah, how’d ya know? He said he needed money so that he could go to drug rehab out in California.”
“How much did you give him?”
“$5000 . . . but he’s gonna pay me back,” Leonard assured me. Poor, gullible man.
“Did he tell you when, or leave you a forwarding address?”
He shook his head.
“Miguel took advantage of you, Leonard. He didn’t need to go all the way to California to get help with his drug problem; there are plenty of good rehab facilities right here in South Florida. He probably wanted that money for more drugs. And I bet that he’ll be back on your doorstep in a month or two, asking for another hand-out.”
“Oh, I hope not.” Leonard started to bite the cuticle on his right thumbnail nervously. “I have a hard time sayin’ ‘no’ to people.”
“I know you do, and that’s another thing we need to work on. It’s important that you learn how to stand up for yourself so that you can protect your money from people who don’t have your best interests at heart. I think we should try a little role-playing . . .”
When my session with Leonard was over, I walked him out to my empty waiting room and sent him on his way with the same encouraging words I offered all my patients, “Don’t worry; everything’s going to work out.”
Once Leonard was gone, I plopped down on the corner of Margo’s desk and said, “I wish I had his problems.”
I waited for my receptionist to respond with one of her snappy one-liners, but she just stared back at me with an uneasy expression on her face.
“What?” I asked, finding her silence unnerving.
“I just opened today’s mail.”
“And?”
“I think you’d better take a look at this.” She handed me a high-quality ivory envelope, and I looked to see who the sender was. Corman & Mackelvy Management Co. The name didn’t ring a bell, but the letter looked official, which inexplicably filled me with a sense of dread. Despite
that, I removed the letter from the envelope and read it.
“Oh, God,” I murmured when I was done.
“I know. It’s bad. I’m sorry, honey.” She gave my arm a sympathetic squeeze.
Pulling it together, I stood up and announced, “I’ve got some phone calls to make. I’m free for the rest of the morning, right?”
“Yeah, the Scolaris are on vacation for a few weeks, so they won’t be coming in.”
With a nod, I walked back into my office and closed the door behind me.
Two hours later, I was slumped over my desk, contemplating the irony of having a patient who had gobs of money he didn’t have any use for while I had a desperate need for cash and no way of acquiring it, when I heard the squeak of my door being opened and the sound of carpet-muffled footsteps approaching.
“Pilar?” Ford queried tentatively. “Are you okay?”
“I’m depressed,” I mumbled without moving.
“Maybe you need a psychiatrist?” he joked.
“Unless you’re offering your services gratis, I’m going to have to pass since I’m about to be destitute.” I extended my hand, in which the life-destroying letter I’d received earlier was clutched and felt Ford pry it loose from my fingers.
The room was silent for a minute while he perused the notice from the management company that represented the new owners of our office building. “Jesus, I can’t believe they’re raising your rent $1000 a month. Don’t you have a lease where you’re locked in for a specific amount?”
“I signed a six-month lease, which is up on the 1st of July, so the new owners can raise the rent as high as they want any time after that,” I addressed my reply to the top of my desk as I didn’t have the will or the energy to lift my head. “The previous owner was a friend of my father’s, and he gave me a deal on this office. I’ve been paying below fair market value since I moved in.”
“Have you talked to this management company? Maybe the owners would be willing to work with you? Surely, they’d rather keep a good, long-term tenant than deal with someone new who might be less stable and not as respectful of their property.”
Deciding that I was being rude, I finally gazed up. “I spoke with the head honcho at Corman & Whoever. He contacted the owners on my behalf, and the bottom line is - they don’t care. There’s no loyalty, no sympathy. They just want a tenant who can pony up $4500 a month. What’s with the glasses?” I wondered about the black wire-frame specs with the rectangular lenses that were perched on the bridge of Ford’s nose.
“I fell asleep with my contacts in Saturday night and scratched my corneas. So, now I have to wear these damn things,” he touched the side of his glasses and grimaced, “until my eyes heal.”
Propping my chin up on my hands, I considered his eyewear. “They make you look really . . .,” sexy was the word I wanted to use - I’d always had a thing for men who wore glasses, dating back to Luke McCabe, my four-eyed first boyfriend. Mmmmmm, he was a great kisser - but sexy wasn’t a word that should be applied to a platonic, male friend, so I settled for, “smart.”
His right eyebrow shot up questioningly. “I didn’t look smart before?”
“Sure, but those glasses take it to a whole new level. You look Mensa-smart now, like you might start reciting Einstein’s Theory of Relativity any minute.”
“Nate said that they make me look like a ‘doofus.’”
I chuckled, then remembered that I was supposed to be in mourning for my soon-to-be-defunct practice.
“Oh, why am I laughing?” I groaned and laid my head back down on my desk. “My life is over.”
“No, it’s not. Come out to lunch with me, and we’ll discuss your options.”
“What options?” I raised my eyes back to his. “Become a bank robber? Start smuggling Cuban cigars? My cousin Felipe already does that and,” I dropped my voice to a whisper, “it’s not as profitable as you would think.”
Ford sat down in the chair facing my desk. “You could get a business loan from your bank.”
“Great. More debt. Just what I don’t need.”
“Why not go to your father? He’s helped you out before, hasn’t he?”
“He’s done enough. I need to make a go of this business on my own now. I don’t want to be a gorróna. A freeloader,” I translated when Ford gave me a quizzical look.
“So, you need to find a way to bring in more revenue.”
“Right, but how?” I drummed my fingers while I thought about it. How could I advertise and bring in new patients without spending a lot of money? Billboards? That would probably cost a fortune. Flyers?Too cheesy. Mail-outs?Maybe, but I’d have to buy a list of names and addresses, pay someone to design the artwork for an ad, and incur the expense of postage.
With a sigh of defeat, I said, “I could just admit that I got in over my head with this office. If I scaled back and moved into a smaller space in a less ritzy part of town . . .”
“No, no,” my companion shook his dark head, “you don’t want to do that.”
“I don’t?” I leaned forward on my elbows, curious to know why Ford thought me moving was a bad idea. Could it be that he liked having me around?
Sliding back from the edge of his seat, Ford gave me an all-business reply. “Moving to another office wouldn’t be smart from a financial standpoint. You’d have the expense of putting down deposits for the new space and to get your phone lines and utilities hooked up. Plus, there’d be the moving truck and labor and—”
I held up my hand to stop him. “Point taken, thank you. I’ll just have to stay here and figure something out.”
“Maybe if you made a list of your monthly expenditures, both personal and business, you could find a way to cut costs?” he suggested helpfully. “Also, make a list of any monies you have, checking and savings accounts, stocks, CDs, IRAs. You might be able to cash something in without any major penalties.”
“I do have some savings I could dip into,” I noted. “There’s not much in there, but I should be able to cover the difference in rent for a month or two, which will buy me some time to—”
My phone buzzed.
I hit the intercom button. “Yes, Margo?”
“Your sister’s on Line 1.”
“Which one?”
“Izzy.”
Didn’t I have enough on my plate already? The last thing I needed was my irresponsible little sister heaping another one of her trivial problems on it.
“Take a message.”
I was about to switch the intercom off when Margo said, “I don’t think you can call her back where she is.”
Sighing irritably, I inquired, “And where’s that?”
“Jail.”