Part 21 (1/2)

I consider myself an expert on parties as my college career spanned from 1985 to 1996.141 In this eleven year period, I probably attended at least one party a week. Doing the math, that makes me the veteran of at least 572 parties.142 So consider me an expert when I say every party started with well-groomed attendees. Even if you weren't the prettiest debutant at the ball, you made the most of what you had. The men were gelled and pressed and each of the women sported their cutest clothes and a face-full of cosmetics. There was none of this shaved-headed, random-facial-haired, poorly outfitted foolishness. And no one forgot deodorant, either. If anything, the whiff of Polo Sport and Liz Claiborne perfume was practically overwhelming.

Second of all, parties never took place in anyone's DORM.

Ever.

I mean, how the heck could you sneak twenty kegs past the RA? Fraternity houses had entire floors devoted to party s.p.a.ce. And even apartment party-throwers cleared out the community living area to make room for lethal trash can punch because having s.p.a.ce to circulate was the key to throwing a good party.

Back then we had one drug and it was called ALCOHOL and that was just fine. There wasn't any crank or smack or crack or stank or whatever else the kids do now.143 If drugs had been more readily available, no one would have done them because we were all concerned about failing p.i.s.s tests and losing our interns.h.i.+ps.

At our parties, if kids hooked up it was behind closed doors. Mostly we just drank and laughed and gossiped and smoked Marlboros, much as we do now as adults at work functions. This is because the purpose of college parties is to prepare the youth of our nation to mainstream into corporate America.

So, please kids, pick yourselves up off the floor, take a shower, starch your khakis, crack a Pabst Blue Ribbon, and head over to the Delt house.

The future of American business is depending on you.

Although we're moving in two days, we still make time to meet my cousin's family for a delightful dinner at Carmine's. After hugs, kisses, and promises to do this more often, Fletch and I are on our way to catch a cab when we walk past Jilly's.

Jilly's...sigh.

Standing outside their door, I'm instantly transported back to 1999, where we're in the throes of the dot-com gold rush. Most weekends we put on all our finery and get together with the rest of the young turks for four-digit group dinners at the Signature Room, Tavern on Rush, Gibson's, etc. But no matter where we start, we always end up at the piano bar at Jilly's, hanging out with the rest of Chicago's young digital elite, drinking martinis, crooning along to Frank and Dino, and tripping across the dance floor while roving bands of photographers doc.u.ment our heyday on film.144 Invincibility permeates our souls like the smell of expensive cigars infuses our Brooks Brothers suits and Burberry s.h.i.+fts.

Of course, those days over. The young turks have gone the way of our success, status, and jobs.

And yet Jilly's still stands, having been reclaimed by baby boomers. I LOATHE baby boomers. Boomers are the only people who emerged from the dot-bomb unscathed. I blame them for the economic crash. They're the ones who used people like me and Fletch to build their pretend companies and their wealth, and then they bailed out before everything came cras.h.i.+ng down.

”Feel like nipping in for a quick one?” I ask Fletch. He looks as wistful as I feel.

”I do, but we're limited to one apiece. We need to tip the movers.”

We wedge our way through the crowds and up to the bar, waiting for a stool to come open. As seating at Jilly's is as precious and fleeting as a bull market for tech stocks, I grab an empty chair and plant myself in front of a couple of half-full drinks covered with napkins. I shove the gla.s.ses out of my way to make room and then gesture to my favorite bartender, who immediately knows to pull out the Stoli and Spanish olives. Seconds later, we're presented with two swimming poolsized c.o.c.ktails.

Fletch holds his drink up in a toast. ”To new beginnings.”

”Whatever they may bring.” We clink gla.s.ses. I sip the icy vodka, close my eyes, and I'm back in The Day again...mmmm, stock options...ooh, venture capital...aahhh, the e-volution....

I'm jarred from my reverie when someone shoves my stool. I a.s.sume it's the crush of the crowd or Fletch on his way back from the men's room, but when I twist around, I come face to face with an angry boomer. He's the owner of the covered beverages and has returned after fifteen minutes of dancing to reclaim his spot at the bar.

Angry little eyes flash at me through tiny t.i.tanium bifocals and he accuses, ”You took my seat.”

”I most certainly did not. I sat down in an empty chair.”

”Those are my drinks.”

”And?” The LAST thing I'm going to do is hand my prized seat over to some boomer a.s.shole without a fight. ”Haven't you ever been in a restaurant? A napkin is the universal signal for 'I'm done.' The drinks were covered. This chair was empty. I sat down. End of story.”

”This is my chair.”

”You certainly present a compelling argument. I am simply floored by your powers of persuasion. Tell me, are you an attorney?”

He shoves my chair again. ”Listen, little girl, I'm a regular here, and the bartenders know when I cover my drink, it means I'm coming back, so get your a.s.s out of my seat right now.”

I nod at the bartender. ”Roger, you know this guy?”

”Never seen him before, Jen. Is there a problem?”

I smile. ”No problem.” And to the boomer: ”Since I'm nice, you can have this seat in a couple of minutes because we're almost finished. Until then, p.i.s.s off.” I shoo him away. He glowers at me before skulking back to the dance floor. Dance now, old man. Because someday I will rule Jilly's again.

Roger leans across the bar so that I can hear him over the noise. ”Hey, where you guys been? Haven't seen you in here for a long time.”

”Roger, I wouldn't even know where to begin.”

It feels like we've been packing for months now, but it's only been a week. We've already got seventy cartons stacked up in the dining room, and we haven't even boxed up our personal items yet.

As I pack, I'm struck by the sheer amount of junk that I own. I now understand I have no right to b.i.t.c.h about being broke because I was really foolish with the money I had when I had it.

I start to tabulate what I could have had instead of what I do have. In this cabinet, I have twenty-five half-full bottles of body lotion, and they aren't cheap, either. I've got the sublime-the sparkly designer tubes-and the ridiculous-the glycolic-acid-which-burns-off-several-layers-of-skin-and yet my legs are totally scaly. I never remember to use them until after I put on my pants, and by then, I'm too lazy to take them off again. Figuring that each bottle cost an average of $40, I would have $1000 now, which would pay for two months of COBRA for Fletch and me.

Moving on to the next shelf, I find my nail-care toolbox. I open it and see at least twenty shades of matte red145 from OPI and Christian Dior, each of which cost an average of $10. I kept buying new bottles because I never got around to finding nail polish thinner to salvage the ones I already had. I have four identical bottles of Dutch Tulip and I'm embarra.s.sed by my largesse. Did I mention that $200 would pay for a month of electricity? Add this to the seventeen trays of $30 eye shadow I own and never use,146 and all of a sudden, I have the means to pay for six months' phone service.

The living room is a monument to my impulsive spending habits. I've got more than two hundred DVDs, including cinematic greats such as Monkey Bone, Corky Romano, and A Night at the Roxbury, leading me to believe not only do I have awful taste in films, but I also have a Chris Kattan fixation. What I don't have is $4000 earning interest in a money market account.

The DVDs reside on the same bookcase as all my hardbacked books. Instead of waiting for the paperback edition or, G.o.d forbid, going to the public library, I had to have hardcovers. Had I checked these books out instead, I could afford an entire year's worth of insurance on both vehicles.

But these expenditures are nothing compared to what's in my closet. My sweater compulsion could have easily afforded me a semester of grad school, and if I didn't have an affinity for fur-trimmed coats, I could fund an entire MBA, including a new laptop.

Now on to the mother lode-shoes. My stacked-heel loafer collection would have paid for two months' rent and my summer slide a.s.sortment a whole season's worth of groceries. My crocodile-skinned pumps alone might have funded a year of DSL service. And why the h.e.l.l did I need so many pair of athletic shoes? It's not like I exercise. But if I did, my sneaker budget could finance a health club members.h.i.+p at one of the city's sw.a.n.kier gyms.

Eventually, I get around to packing my purses. Even minus the ones I've auctioned, I still need two giant boxes to hold them all. None of these babies were a bargain, either. Why, exactly, did I need a lavender-and-brown Kate Spade bag for $300? Do you know how hard it is to coordinate those colors with anything else? I've used the d.a.m.n thing twice in two years. And while I dig my white floral Spade bag, I never carry it for fear of getting it dirty. It sits in my closet doing nothing. Why didn't I just give its $275 ticket price to a deserving charity instead?

Finally, I examine the cornerstone of my beloved but ridiculous collection-my giant chain-strap Prada bag. I loved this purse when I saw it, and d.a.m.n the price, I HAD to have it. Yet now it's covered with dust, hasn't been touched in months, and has brought me nothing but bad luck. I examine every inch of it and sigh deeply. The silver links are starting to chip and the Prada-embossed lining is torn. The worst part is that the cost of this bag could have paid for professionals to box up all this stuff.

Fletch comes in to work on his side of the closet. ”How's it going?”

”Depressing,” I reply.

”I'm sad, too. But this is what we have to do.”

”I'm talking about all this stuff. What was I thinking? Why did I buy so much? And why didn't you stop me?”

He snorts. ”Because it would have been impossible.”