Queens Chapter

Sep 14, 2010

My friend Fee recently moved his architecture firm from a high-rise in Midtown Manhattan to a free-standing house near his home in suburban Queens. I went to the Manhattan office a couple of weeks ago on his last night there. The movers had taken everything except for Fee's slot car set, and we set up the track in the otherwise empty space and raced slot cars over a couple of beers.

"I need some postcards," Fee said, "to announce the big move."

Five years ago, Fee moved from a smaller Manhattan office to the one he was now leaving, and I designed a postcard for him to send to clients. In fact, I designed two. One was a picture of some derelict chairs in an empty gravel parking lot, and the other featured a photo of Deborah in a corset. The majority of his clients got the chair version, but a select few received the limited-edition collectible sexy lady version. When Fee showed the sexy one to his father, a retired architect who does some occasional work for his son, he looked it over for a minute before handing it back to Fee and saying, "What? No nipple?"

Although the photo was, indeed, "sexy" and certainly not what you would expect to see on your average "We're Moving!" postcard, it was pretty tame in the grand scheme of things.

"Do you want two versions again?" I asked.

"Absolutely!" said Fee.

I came up with a few ideas, but he had trouble deciding and wound up settling on four. Two straight ones, one semi-sexy one, and one designed specifically for men of discriminating taste, like Fee's father.

Today I rode out to Douglaston, Queens, to see the new digs and deliver the final high-res files.

Honestly, Fee doesn't seem happy about the move, but the architecture business isn't quite the same as it was five years ago and he did what he had to do.

"It's a tight fit," he said as I followed him into a mess of boxes, papers, and books. Drafting tables, computer desks, and filing cabinets were already in place -- though, honestly, there weren't many options about where to put things. Blueprints for an active job sat on the only table free of clutter.

We looked over the postcard files on Fee's computer, I made a final tweak, and when the work was done, we headed down the street to a local joint with a reputation for good pizza. It wasn't bad.

As we sat there, Fee told me about "Fashion's Night Out" — a city-wide fashion celebration where all the stores in New York (most of them, anyway) stay open late. Lots of parties and promotions. He had a meeting in Manhattan that happened to coincide with Fashion’s Night Out, and after the meeting, he walked around to see what he could see. "I hadn't been to Manhattan since moving the office," he said, "so I was excited to prowl around. And, Jamie, I'm telling you, the women were out of control."

It wasn't only about leering at the ladies, of course. Fee and his friend have both designed store interiors, and so they made a tour of the fanciest stores -- Chanel, Louis Vuitton, Tiffany's -- to inspect and discuss the state of the art. They made their way up Fifth Avenue, and when they got to Central Park, they decided to take a break in the Plaza Hotel. Apparently, Fee's friend used to hang out in the Plaza's fancy Oak Bar nearly every day when he worked nearby. He was curious to see its recent renovations.

They found a seat and continued their conversation as they people-watched. Soon, a stunning woman walked by -- Fee's friend said she looked like Naomi Campbell, although she was at least part Asian. She smiled at Fee as she passed on her way to the upper bar area. She looked around for a minute before coming back to where Fee and his friend sat. She seemed to be looking around. "Are you waiting for someone?" Fee said. "You can have a seat with us while you wait if you'd like."

She looked down at him and smiled again. "Okay," she said, perhaps taking him a little by surprise.

As they introduced themselves and made small talk, the woman impressed them both with her intimate knowledge of every fancy hotel bar in the city, from the intricate details of their decor to the vagarities of their clientele. As the conversation casually meandered, she mentioned what a struggle it was for her to raise her two children on her own, and how it didn't leave her much room for socializing. "I'm always busy with my kids ot my work.”

"What do you do?" Fee wondered.

"I'm a masseuse," she said.

Many of the luxurious high-end hotels have spas, including the Plaza, and it's entirely possible that the woman worked as a masseuse in one or more of them, but it was just too easy, under the circumstances, to assume she was a high-priced call girl speaking in code. "Of course," Fee thought to himself, looking at his friend, an out-of-shape old man with a long gray ponytail (rarely a good look), and himself, not a young kid, either.

"Why else would she agree to sit with a couple of old men like us?" Fee said to me. He said he had a shopping bag from the Plaza hotel gift shop with nothing but a "Fashion's Night Out” T-shirt inside of it — a gift for his daughter. "She probably thought we were a couple of high-rolling yahoos from out of town," said Fee. "A couple of easy marks with expense accounts." His speculation was further fueled when the bill arrived for Fee's drink, and he expressed shock at his drink’s 20-dollar price tag. "As soon as I started complaining about the cost, she was out of there," he said.

Regardless of whether she was a prostitute, a gold-digger, or just a sociable woman who appreciated the opportunity to take a load off of her expensive high heels for a few minutes, the story Fee wanted to tell was the one about being solicited by an attractive and sophisticated belle du jour. A story unlikely to ever occur in the day-to-day of his new routine in suburban Queens.

"The AIA is probably going to make me join the Queens chapter," he said with a sigh.