Big Cyndi. Receptionist extraordinaire at MB Reps.
“Good morning, Mr. Bolitar!” she cried out in the high-pitched squeal of a little girl seeing her Teen Beat idol.
Big Cyndi was six-five and had recently completed a four-day juice-cleansing “evacuation” diet so that she now tipped the scales at three-ten. Her hands were the size of throw pillows. Her head resembled a cinder block.
“Hey, Big Cyndi.”
She insisted that he call her that, never just Cyndi or, uh, Big, and even though she had known him for years, she liked the formality of calling him Mister Bolitar. Big Cyndi was, he guessed, feeling better today. The diet had darkened Big Cyndi’s usually sunny demeanor. She had growled more than talked. Her makeup, usually a Joseph-and-the-Technicolor-Dreamcoat display, had been a harsh black ’n’ white, landing somewhere between nineties’ goth and seventies’ Kiss. Now, as usual, her makeup looked as though it’d been applied by laying a sixty-four box of Crayolas on her face and turning up the heat lamp.
Big Cyndi leapt to her feet and while Myron was beyond being shocked by what she wore anymore-tube tops, spandex bodysuits-this outfit almost made him step back. Her dress was chiffon, maybe, but it was more like she’d tried to wrap her entire body in party streamers. What appeared to be bands of flimsy purplish pink crepe paper started at the top of her breasts and wound and wound and wound down past her hips and stopped too short on the upper thigh. There were rips in the fabric, pieces dangling off like something Bruce Banner sported after turning into the Hulk. She smiled at him and spun hard on one leg, the earth teetering on its axis as she did. There was a diamond-shaped opening on her lower back near the coccyx bone.
“Do you like it?” she asked.
“I guess.”
Big Cyndi turned back toward him, put her hands on her crepe-paper-clad hips, and pouted. “You ‘guess’?”
“It’s great.”
“I designed it myself.”
“You’re very talented.”
“Do you think Terese will like it?”
Myron opened his mouth, stopped, closed it. Uh-oh.
“Surprise!” Big Cyndi shouted. “I designed these bridesmaid dresses myself. It’s my gift to you both.”
“We don’t even have a date yet.”
“True fashion stands the test of time, Mr. Bolitar. I’m just so glad you like them. I was going to go with a sea-foam color, but I think the fuchsia is warmer. I’m more a warm-tone person. I think Terese is too, don’t you?”
“I do,” Myron said. “She’s all about fuchsia.”
Big Cyndi gave him the slow smile-tiny teeth in a giant mouth-that sent children shrieking. He smiled back. God, he loved this big, crazy woman.
Myron pointed at the door on the left. “Is Esperanza in?”
“Yes, Mr. Bolitar. Should I let her know that you’re here?”
“I got it, thanks.”
“Would you please tell her that I’ll be in for her fitting in five minutes?”
“Will do.”
Myron knocked lightly on the door and entered. Esperanza sat at her desk. She was wearing the fuchsia dress, though on her, with the strategic rips, it looked a bit more like Raquel Welch in One Million Years B.C. Myron stifled a chuckle.
“Make one comment,” Esperanza said, “and die.”
“Moi?” Myron sat. “I do think, however, that sea foam would work better on you. You’re not a warm-tone person.”
“We have a meeting at noon,” she said.
“I’ll be back by then, and hopefully you’ll be changed. Any hits on Lex’s credit cards?”
“Nothing.”
She didn’t look up at him, her eyes down examining some paper on her desk with a tad too much concentration.
“So,” Myron said, aiming for nonchalant. “What time did you get home last night?”
“Don’t worry, Daddy. I didn’t break curfew.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Sure it is.”
Myron looked at the swirl of trite-but-true family photographs on her desk. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“No, Dr. Phil, I don’t.”
“Okay.”
“And don’t give me that sanctimonious face. I didn’t do anything beyond flirting last night.”
“I’m not here to judge.”
“Yeah, but you do it anyway. Where are you off to?”
“Suzze’s tennis academy. Have you seen Win?”
“I don’t think he’s in yet.”
Myron grabbed a taxi west toward the Hudson River. The Suzze T Tennis Academy was located near Chelsea Piers in what looked like, and maybe was, a giant white bubble. When you entered the courts, the air pressure used to inflate the bubble made your ears pop. There were four courts, all filled with young women/teens/girls playing tennis with instructors. Suzze was on court one, all eight months pregnant of her, giving instructions on how to approach the net to two sun-soaked blond teens with ponytails. Forehands were being drilled on court two, backhands court three, serves on court four. Someone had put down hula hoops in the corners of the service line as targets. Suzze spotted Myron and signaled for him to give her a minute.
Myron moved back into the waiting room overlooking the courts. The moms were there, all in tennis whites. Tennis was the only sport where spectators liked to dress like the participants, as if they might suddenly be called out of the stands to play. Still-and Myron knew that this was politically incorrect-there was something hot about a mom in tennis whites. So he looked. He did not ogle. He was too sophisticated for that. But he looked.
The lust, if that was what this was, quickly dissipated. The mothers scrutinized their daughters with too much intensity, their lives seemingly riding on every shot. Looking out the picture window at Suzze, watching her sharing a laugh with one of her pupils, he remembered Suzze’s own mom, who used terms like “driven” or “focused” to cover up what should have been labeled “innate cruelty.” Some believe that these parents go overboard because they are living their lives through their children, but that wasn’t the case because they wouldn’t ever treat themselves so callously. Suzze’s mother wanted to create a tennis player, period, and felt the best way to do that was to tear asunder anything else that might give her child either joy or self-esteem, making her wholly dependent on how she swung a racket. Beat your opponent, you’re good. Lose, you’re meaningless. She did more than withhold love. She withheld any inkling of self-worth.
Myron had grown up in an era in which people blamed their parents for all their problems. Many were whiners, pure and simple, not willing to look in the mirror and get a grip. The Blame Generation, finding fault with everyone and everything but ourselves. But Suzze T’s situation was different. He had seen the torment, seen the years of struggle, trying to rebel against everything tennis, wanting to quit but also loving the actual game. The court became both her torture chamber and her one place of escape, and it was hard to reconcile that. Eventually, almost inevitably, it led to drugs and self-destructive behavior until finally even Suzze, who could have played the blame game with a fair amount of legitimacy, looked in the mirror and found her answer.
Myron sat and paged through a tennis magazine. Five minutes later, the kids started filing off the court. The smiles fled as they left the pressure-air confines of the bubble, their heads held down by their mothers’ forceful gazes. Suzze came out after them. A mother stopped her, but Suzze kept it short. Without breaking stride, she walked past Myron and gestured for him to follow. Moving target, Myron thought. Harder for a parent to nab.
She headed into her office and closed the door after Myron.