Olga Dies Dreaming(89)
A well-dressed gentleman walked in, a large manila file under his arm.
“Agent Bonilla,” Nick offered, “can I get you a rum? Everyone, Agent Bonilla has some very interesting information to share with you all about Congressman Acevedo’s roots. Very intriguing information, indeed.”
PUT IT IN THE BAG
In just a matter of hours, a business that Olga had built for nearly twelve years collapsed in the wake of what some on social media had called an “Epic AM Meltdown.” It was, aside from meeting Matteo, the best thing that had happened to Olga in years.
The Good Morning, Later clip had gone viral, something she’d imagined possible the second the producers allowed her rant to continue. Going “off script” was only permissible if, of course, it would lead to clicks. In the immediate aftermath, as she walked off set and made her way home, she felt buzzed and a bit nauseous, like she’d quickly drunk a bottle of champagne. But, after an hour or so, she felt remarkably good. Like she’d come to the end of a Scooby-Doo episode and pulled off her own mask, revealing that all this time she’d been playing the part of Happy-Go-Lucky Party Planner when in reality she was the terrifying Educated Woman of Color. Her clients were polite enough to wait until the afternoon to begin their awkward calls to say that they didn’t want to fire the business, per se, but that they were worried that Olga might “call too much attention to herself” at their affair, or that her presence might “upset” some of their more conservative guests. One former mother of the bride went so far as to compose a lengthy email saying how “betrayed” she felt by Olga’s “little speech,” that Olga had “bitten the hand that fed her” by “villainizing the rich” when they were “just living the American dream,” which she was “sorry Puerto Ricans have not tried to take more advantage of.” Olga wrote back to say that she always knew she was one of the 53 percent of white ladies who had put this moron in the White House, so she hoped the ghosts of dead Puerto Ricans danced in her head at night, too. But, other than that one incident, Olga had taken a very conciliatory tack.
Meegan was at first distraught, then unnerved, and then, ultimately, excited by how this moment could be her windfall.
“Here’s what I’m offering,” Olga said, in an effort to calm Meegan’s hysteria at the upset calls that had been coming into the office. “For all our clients already under contract, you take them over and you’ll get the rest of the money they owe us. My business name is mud, so start your own LLC. You can keep all the photos for your portfolio and any leads that might still come in. It’s time for you to hang your own shingle anyway.”
“What will it cost me?” Meegan said, with skepticism.
Truthfully Olga wanted to just walk away from the whole thing and not think of it again. The ability to shed this entire persona felt, in the moment, priceless. But she couldn’t be stupid. Her monthly expenses were high, her savings pathetic. She needed to buy time to figure herself out.
“Let’s call it twenty percent off of anything you book for the next year.”
“Wow!” Meegan said cheerfully. “You know, Olga, you’ve been such an amazing mentor to me. I’ve learned so much. Often, before I make decisions, I ask myself, ‘How would Olga handle this?’”
“That’s sweet.”
“And true. Even now I’m asking myself that and thinking, wow! If someone with pretty dubious bookkeeping practices and a stockroom full of possibly stolen liquor, caviar, and linen napkins asked Olga for twenty percent off the top of her receipts for a year, what would Olga say? She would probably tell them to fuck off and then call Page Six. That’s definitely what Olga would do. Am I right?”
Olga laughed. She’d underestimated Meegan. She almost felt she owed her protégé an apology. Almost.
She sighed into the phone. “I’ve taught you well, then, Grasshopper. Okay. How about this? Take over the office lease, pay my health insurance for a year, and we’ll just call it a wash? In fact, I’ll thank you for taking this off my hands and not totally pissing these families off.”
“That,” Meegan said, the joy of conquest in her voice, “sounds reasonable.”
“Then it’s a deal. I’ll call my lawyer to make sure it’s all aboveboard.”
“Wait!” Meegan said just as Olga was about to hang up, “what about Laurel?”
Laurel Blumenthal had just requested a contract two days prior, but as Olga now informed Meegan, she had been the very first call Olga had received to inform her that she was sorry, but “it just wasn’t going to work out.” Olga had been surprised, given what a champion of liberal causes Laurel had claimed to be.
“Olga, I want you to know that I am fully with you in spirit,” Laurel had said over the phone, “but in practice you just are a little left of center for Carl’s taste and, at the end of the day…”
Olga told her not to worry, she completely understood. Laurel assured her that, to prove how much she was with her in spirit, she and Carl were stocking Bethenny Frankel’s plane with supplies to bring down. Olga thanked her for her generosity. She meant it.
* * *
HAPPY AS SHE was, Olga still had some highly practical problems on her plate, mainly, her lack of income. There was, of course, a simple solution available: give up the lease on her Fort Greene apartment and move back to Fifty-third Street, where she could live off her paltry savings, rent free, while she figured it out. But she had promised Christian, had gone to the mat with Prieto about it, had gotten Matteo to help her paint, and replaced the cabinets in the kitchen for him and everything. Her word should mean something, no?