Simon Rich - Spoiled Brats - Stories

The next day Claire runs into house, laughing and shouting.

“I’m finished!” she shouts.

“Finished with what?” Simon asks, his eyes still on his computer.

Claire crosses her arms, then marches upstairs.

“Her final exams,” I explain to Simon.

“Oh, right,” he says. “Fuck.”

He runs up after her.

“Honey, I was just kidding! Congratulations! Let’s celebrate!”

I hear some arguing, followed by the sound of Simon pleading. Eventually, he persuades her to come back down the stairs. She has put on shiny shirt, I notice, and painted her eyelashes black.

“Better get dressed, Herschel,” Simon says. “We’re going to hit the town!”

“I am dressed already,” I say. “My shirt is mended. I am ready to go.”

Simon bites his lip.

“You know, Hersch, I was thinking, maybe you’d like to try another outfit for a change? I’ve got some old Ted Baker stuff I bet would fit you.”

“I am not one who takes charity,” I say. “My shirt is mended. Is fine. ”

“Okay,” he says, waving his hands in the air. “Just offering.”

He heads for the door, and Claire and I follow. We are almost out of house when Claire suddenly spins around.

“Oh no,” she says. “I forgot tomorrow’s Sunday.”

“So?” Simon says.

“The maid’s coming.”

Simon groans.

“Honey, the place looks fine.”

Claire kicks off her shoes and runs downstairs.

“Just give me a second!”

“Fuck,” Simon says when she is out of earshot. “This is going to take forever.”

I hear the sound of mopping in the kitchen.

“I do not understand,” I say to Simon. “Why is Claire cleaning if you have hired maid?”

“Because she’s nuts,” he says. He opens wooden cabinet and pours out glass of alcohols.

I can hear more sounds from kitchen — the stacking of plates, the scraping of pots. Eventually, Claire comes upstairs, holding yellow sponge.

“You can save a little work for Hong,” Simon tells her.

“Her name is Hahn,” she says. “And I’m just doing the low surfaces, because of her back.”

I am very confused about what is happening, but I say nothing. The mood is tense and I do not want to get involved with things. Simon checks his watch as Claire finishes sponging the tables. By the time she is done, he has drunk his entire glass.

“Ready now?” he asks.

Claire sponges wet spot where Simon has spilled some liquor.

“Ready,” she says.

Simon pauses in front of automobile and stares at his reflection in the window. He is wearing purple scarf with fancy tassels.

“Where are we going?” I ask him.

“Cabin,” he says, running fingers through his hair. “It’s the best bar on the Lower East Side.”

“Can’t we just go to Fontana’s or something?” Claire asks. “There’s going to be a huge line.”

“Nobody goes to Fontana’s anymore,” Simon says, wrapping the scarf tighter around his neck. “Cabin’s way cooler.”

“How cool is this cabin that you need scarf?” I ask.

Claire laughs for long time. I do not understand it.

“Come on,” Simon says, grabbing Claire by the wrist.

I follow them down Avenue A. The Lower East Side, I notice, has not changed much in one hundred years. The women are still emaciated and dressed in rags; the men still wear beards and have sad eyes.

Eventually, after checking purple scarf in two more windows, Simon brings us to the bar that is called Cabin.

“There it is,” he says, a look of reverence on his face.

I squint with confusion at the small establishment. It looks the same as all the others we have passed. The only difference is that there is red rope in front of it, guarded by scary Negro giant.

“Hey, man,” Simon says to him. “Cool if we go inside?”

“Sorry,” the giant says. “Private party.”

As soon as he says this, three men with greased hair appear. The giant steps aside, allowing them to enter. Simon curses under his breath.

“What is this place?” I ask Claire.

“Just some celebrity hangout,” she says.

“What is celebrity?”

“It’s, like, somebody people celebrate, because they’re doing something special with their lives.”

“Is Simon celebrity?”

She hesitates.

“Kind of? I mean… you know, in some circles… he’s sort of well known.”

I turn toward Simon. He is pleading with the giant, his hands clasped tight like a beggar’s. He does not look to me like celebrity, but what do I know about it?

Claire starts to shiver, and I soon become worried. As I mentioned before, she is very thin and extremely close to death. It is not good for her to stand outside in cold, dressed in nothing but her prostitute clothes. Her arms are naked almost to the elbow. I start to wish that I had worn my wool so I could give it to her.

“Simon!” I shout. “You must give the woman your scarf!”

Simon turns his back to us. It is obvious he is pretending not to hear me, so that he can continue to wear scarf.

“I do not understand,” I say. “What is his thing with that scarf?”

She takes deep breath.

“He got it in London,” she says. “He’s so obsessed with it he won’t even trust me to hang it up for him. He says it’s his ‘trademark.’ ”

Simon trudges back to us with big forced smile on face.

“Just give me a few more minutes,” he says. “I’m making inroads.”

He is adjusting his scarf yet again when his eyes suddenly widen.

“Hey, it’s B.J.!”

He points at the bar’s entrance with both hands. A handsome man is leaving bar to smoke with beautiful woman.

“Who?” I ask.

“B. J. Novak,” Simon says. “He’s an actor — we go way back.”

He hustles down the alley and throws arms around this B.J.

“What’s up, buddy?”

The actor smiles nervously. It is clear he does not know Simon and is frightened.

“Remember?” Simon says. “We met in L.A. last year. During the table read for Ice Chimps. ”

B.J.’s face turns red as the beautiful woman starts to laugh.

“You were in Ice Chimps ?” she asks, her little nose wrinkling with disgust.

“Just a cameo,” B.J. says.

“He played Wayne Chimpsky!” Simon tells her. “He was hilarious. ”

B.J. forces a smile and pats Simon on the shoulder.

“So great running into you,” he says. “I think we’re going to head back inside.”

“Sweet!” Simon says. “I’ll come with.”

The next thing I know, Simon is following them back into the bar, his arms around them like he is their friend.

“This guy with you?” the giant asks the B.J.

“I guess,” the actor mutters.

Simon grins with pride as the guard steps out of his way. He is almost through the door when he remembers we are with him.

“Quick!” he whispers.

We scurry in beside him, like rats across a gangplank.

“See?” Simon says as we shuffle through the crowd. “Piece of cake!”

“Where?” I ask. I have not eaten dinner and am hungry.

“It’s just an expression,” Claire explains. “It means easy. ”

“So there is no cake.”

“No,” she says. “I’m sorry.”

“Is fine,” I say.

We sit down at table in the back. It is next to the bathroom and covered with filth. I find the least disgusting chair and draw it out for Claire.

“So,” I say, “tell me, how was the exam?”

“It was really hard,” she says. “On the last essay, with five minutes left, I realized I’d forgotten to mention the Perkins Report.”

“What is Perkins Report?”

“It’s, like, the statistical backbone of immigration-reform theory. Somehow I’d forgotten to incorporate it.”