What does a Degree In African Art Get you?- Ch. 1

Chapter I
“It seems to me you’re going about this the wrong way.”

“You would say that.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

“It means that you’ve never had to seriously consider something like this because you’ve never had a real problem in your life.” There was a pause on the phone which I knew meant that she was going through her memory to try and come up with one just to prove me wrong. “This isn’t about me.” As though that closed one door of the conversation but left the one where she knew what was the right thing for me wide open.

“Ok fine. All I’m saying is that I’m broke. I know I’m not going to win the lottery anytime soon and it would be nice, for once, not to have to rely on you and Grandpa. I think it’s one of my only options. I’m not qualified for that much, Mom.”

She paused and I could hear her taking a sip of her dry gin martini, a staple in her hand. “But you have a master’s degree, my dear. That’s got to count for something.”

“I think everyone nowadays has a master’s degree, Mom. Besides what the hell am I going to do with a degree in African Art?”

“Hmm, move to Africa?” Another sip.

Pause. “Anyway, I think it’s a lucrative business idea. I wanted to pass it by you, get your opinion as a single woman of a-“ I paused for delicacy “- certain age.”

“Certain age? Who’s a certain age?!”

“Right. Just- what do you think for Christ sake?”

“You’re proposing opening a high end male brothel for women. Am I hearing this right?”

“Yes. It would be like a five star resort where the sheets are 1000 count thread, the views are spectacular and there is a spa and room service where you can order a $200 bottle of wine and a hot 25 year old Cuban man.”

Pause, surprisingly no sip this time. “Interesting. You may just have something here, my darling.”

A few weeks later I was sitting in one of my Mom’s living rooms surrounded by her long time girlfriends, all of whom were rich wives and had known me since I was born. The benefit of being the only living heir of a rich family is your family’s rich friends. The benefit of having rich family friends like my mother’s is that they dote on you like you were their own, which for some of them who were childless, was almost true.

My Mom had thought it made the most sense to bring her girlfriends together to hear my proposal. They were, after all, my target audience: rich, older, wealthy and bored. Bored with their husbands, the city, their life and best of all their money. Having so much of it they had nothing more they could do with it than is frivolous which they had mastered years ago. It was like having an informal focus group, with drinking, lots of drinking.

In the weeks between the conversation with my mother and this meeting I had put together a proposal, not too formal. These women may have dressed in pearls and Chanel suites but they were anything but formal in all other aspects.

“Darling, what were you thinking wearing that shitty pant suite outside of your house,” Carla said.

“Oh fuck off. At least I can still fit into mine,” Alice said.

Have to pander to your audience. After plying them with a round of drinks I made my pitch. Five minutes later I was about halfway through when Gloria stood up defiantly and said “I’m in! This is great. We’ll be rich!”

“We’re already rich,” my Mom said lackadaisically as she took a sip of her drink.

“You know what I mean. There’s nothing like this.” Gloria grabbed me by the arms and said “Good going kid.” The ladies all cheered and raised their glasses downing their drinks. I had my investors. That was the easy part. Now it was up to me do, well everything.