A Day in the Life of Amanda De Klerk-Zwart

Morning. I can feel the wretched sun peeking in at me through the blinds. I open one eye, planning my revenge. An eclipse perhaps? I groan as I turn on my back and stretch. I smack my cracked dried lips and wipe the sleep dust from my eyes. 23 My sock covered feet slide across my wonderfully smooth and shiny parquet floors. I glide to my bathroom.

Today I’ll have a long, hot bath instead of my daily shower; and oatmeal with dried cherries instead of a hard boiled egg and toasted bagel with cream cheese. Today Raoul will be working my ass off at the gym so I must indulge in the pleasure before the pain.

I empty the contents of my Ginger Soufflé bubble bath into the piping hot stream of water collecting in my sunken tub for two. It’s so depressing how long it has been since another person has shared this tub with me. I look around my spacious bathroom and realize here hasn’t been anyone promising lately to invite back here for months.

There was someone, hmmm... yes that strange writer at the community college but she never sent the manuscript. She probably never wrote anything and lied about it. This was very annoying. Aren’t there any originally creative women in this damn city? Where are the tortured artists? Five failures in a row!

I’ll quit for now... until something interesting breaks through. I sink into the dense foam of ginger scented bubbles as my pasty white ass hits the sinfully hot water below. I soak until the water cools to warm and the bubbles no longer cooperate in giving my strategic areas cover. I rub the loofah over my breasts and down my back...

My day begins! 

– – – – –

The last spoonful of oatmeal and dried cherries with a dab of cinnamon sends me into an orgasm of oral delights. It’s no wonder I’ve gain all this weight with the lack of regular sex and the abundance of yummy.

I shamelessly finger lick the bowl clean as I scan the headlines of the Daily Tribune: Death. Murder. Mayhem. She stole this. He killed her. 24 They lied. They died–same crap as yesterday. I should discontinue my subscription to this rag, even though I own it.

As the sole heiress to the De Klerk-Zwart Publishing, a world leading publisher of information and solutions for professional users operating in four core markets: Business, Legal, Education, Science / Medical / Technical.

De Klerk-Zwart Publishing provided high value and flexible information solutions to professional end users. The Daily Tribune was a recent acquisition to get a foot into news media.

Sounds like babble to me.

It keeps my net worth in the billions so I don’t quibble about it. Besides my family has history and history begets wealth, of which I have plenty.

A Brief History of the De Klerk-Zwart Dynasty

The foundations of De Klerk-Zwart Publishing were laid in 1956 when Albert De Klerk, a third generation Dutch American established his newsprint manufacturing plant in Fort Lee, New Jersey. It became a public company in 1958.

The name of the parent company was changed to De Klerk Publishing Limited in 1960, when his plant handled all the publishing business on both sides of the Hudson River. De Klerk-Zwart Publishing came into being in 1967 when Jacob George De Klerk the nephew of Albert De Klerk married Joanne Zwart the only daughter of the Zwart Print Publishing Dynasty from the Netherlands.

They had one daughter, who they named Amanda.

They had an acrimonious relationship which ended in blood and divorce papers when Amanda was eight years old.

De Klerk-Zwart Publishing, headquartered in New York, has worldwide offices in Amsterdam, London, Madrid, Morocco, Sao Paulo and Singapore. In 1991, Amanda was successful in negotiating the newest office openings in both Morocco and Sao Paulo after a failed attempt to ouster her at the request of her, estranged mother, Joanne.

An Exercise in Restraint

Clad in a large thirsty white terry cloth robe and matching slippers, I walk back into the bedroom to get ready to go to the gym. I’ll have Raoul work with me on my abs today. I lace up my black cross trainers. I stand up and scan my exercise outfit: Black yoga pants with matching top and black hair scrunge to pull my locks off my neck. I strike a pose.

Damn, I have to lose like ten pounds of thunder thighs and tubby tummy. I snatch up my keys to the loft, my gray hat, scarf, mittens and my gray pea coat.

Lastly, I sling my black gym duffel bag onto my shoulder and head out to the gym. When I reach the gym it is nearly empty. I pick a locker, discard my burdens and search for Raoul.

I find my fitness Nazi working on his own physique doing ab crunches on an exercise machine. He eyed me and stopped working out.

“Raoul.” I greet him. I look at the one hundred and twenty pounds he was crunching with abs alone.

“We start low.” Raoul instructed.

I involuntarily raise an eyebrow of disbelief. He replaces the weight pin so I’ll only be ab crunching twenty pounds.

“I’m your clay Raoul.” An hour later, I have strained and stretched muscles whose purpose was unknown until Raoul manipulated me into overusing them! I snatch a towel up from the bin and march off to the locker room.

My abs are cramping with each step I take! I grab my bottle of water and suck it dry after popping a couple of pain pills. I’m not training for the Olympics! I just want to lose a few pounds here and there.

I need a new trainer with a more amiable workout session. I decide I’ll reschedule my sessions with someone new after a lengthy shower.

Perhaps Theresa. Though, it’s a shame she is so unattractive.

After my workout, I stop downtown to check out some of the new spring lines in a few boutiques. Some of the pants sets were promising.

It was depressing the one dress I really liked didn’t fit quite right. Maybe I should keep Raoul.

Various shop girls flirted shamelessly with me hoping to get a huge sale from me and of course, some other more mutually pleasurable benefits.

In the past, I may have taken one or two of them up on a little romp in the back stock rooms. Now I’ve grown tired of that anonymous sex scene.

I needed something more.

The universe isn’t cooperating with my needs.

Taking a Lunch

I hailed a cab to carry me and my packages back downtown. My doorman, his name is Jacob, Juan or something that starts with a ‘J’, has been absolutely sweet about personally handling the packages and my gym duffel bag.

I’ve decided to drop them off at home before meeting with Gerald McGnathy, my lawyer and confidant. I’ve known Gerald since I was a child. He was my father’s friend and after many years of his absence.

Gerald was retained as my Father’s private lawyer from the firm where all family business was conducted when Mother left to play in Morocco with twin brothers, rich Saudi exiles.

This was the origin of Father’s infamous anti-Muslim /death-to-Islam tirades. He failed to acknowledge to himself that Mother went willingly. Nor did he understand that the Saudi twins were in exile because they lived raucous secular lives.

I never understood Mother’s fascination with North Africa, having played there myself in my late twenties. Yes, the girls and boys are beauties but beyond that there was nothing but the depressing poverty and corruption which fueled it.

I ran back to the creature comforts of Western civilization the first chance I got.

– – – – –

I watch the city flow by in the stream of life while I float midtown in a yellow blur as seen reflected in the shiny windows of the various buildings as the car flies pass.

I called up Gerald to meet him in person. I’ve put off our talk long enough: two months. He has become annoying contrite in his e-mails for some unknown transgression and I’ve been putting off my biweekly call to him because I’ve been too distracted with navel gazing.

I open my smart phone and press 2, the position for Gerald’s private office line in my phone directory, then hit send. On the second ring he picks up, “Simon, Simon and Leventhal. Gerald McGnathy speaking.”

“Gerald when are you going to make it to senior partner? You know time is ticking by.” I tease.

He owns Simon, Simon and Leventhal, preferring not to be on his firm’s marque for personal reasons.

“Amanda, dear, how are you?” He asked.

“My abs are a freaking nightmare after Raoul tortured me for two hours. You probably care less about that.”

“Amanda dear you know I am concerned about all that pertains to you.”

“Gerald, we’re meeting for lunch so we can stop avoiding each other and you can tell me what’s up.”

“Amanda dear I wish I could but as you know this time of the year, near the holidays…”

“I’m in the mood for seafood so I’ll meet you at Theola’s.” I interrupted.

Theola’s Supper Club opened for late day lunches and closed late in the early mornings. Most importantly Theola had a decent variety of Muscat blanc wines I’ve enjoyed over the years.

“All right Amanda. I have to wrap up a few things here so I can make it there in thirty minutes.” He compromised.

“Make it twenty. We both know how I hate to wait.

That should give me enough time to drain one glass of wine, which should mellow me out before your news pisses me off.

I disconnect the call. Never give a man options when you want something specific. It gives them ideas they can innovate–an exercise in futility designed to frustrate the hell out of a woman. I’m such a sexist, I laugh to myself all the way to the restaurant.

Theola’s Supper Club

I love Theola’s Supper Club. The grilled Brazino is to die for, the banana foster is a sin to be committed repeatedly but most importantly, Theola knows her wine pairings.

The wait staff is adorably cute too.

As I take the last sip of my second glass, I am struck with the sobering thought of how desperately I need to get laid: regularly.

Where the hell is Gerald? He’s late, which probably means he is too concerned about something boring and legal.

Ah there is the old devil now. He is an impressively neat man with a full head of curly salt and pepper hair, wearing a ridiculously expensive suit and wing-tip shoes.

In his day, he must have frustrated marriage minded females on the prowl.

He looks worried.

Ahhh he smiled when he caught my gaze.

I wonder what’s going on with him. I hope he isn’t sick or something.

“Gerald you’ve made me wait!” I pouted.

He kissed my cheek, then said, “Amanda I’ve been trying to call you to let you know I would be a few minutes late. I left a message. Is your phone off ?”

After checking, my phone was indeed off. I reply contritely, “Well I have to pardon you now won’t I?”

Our adorable waitress, Melanie has arrived as well to take Gerald’s drink order, “Good afternoon Mr. McGnathy. What will you be having today?”

“I’ll have a small Chardonnay.” He replied.

“Would you like a refill Ms. De Klerk-Zwart?” Melanie asked me.

“Mel dear, it’s Amanda. You’ll have to take me home if I have another. So I’ll definitely have another. We’ll order now as well. I’ll have my usual. No mushrooms. Gerald?”

“I’ll have the grilled Mahi with steamed vegetables. Richard used to nag about eating more vegetables. He was right you know.” He rambled.

Gerald always finds a way to mention Richard in every conversation, as a way to preserve his memory, I supposed. Richard was his long time companion for twelve years until he died four years ago. Richard didn’t die of AIDS or anything depressingly lifestyle related. Richard had a passion for art, in particular street art.

He was walking down the street one day and happened upon a chalk sidewalk exhibition of his favorite street artist Garcia. This particular display of Garcia, directed the viewer to follow the art down the street.

Unfortunately for Richard, he was hit by a taxi when he stopped to examine the art at his feet. The strange thing was the cab that hit and killed him was carting the artist Garcia to the very museum where Richard was the assistant curator.

Richard literally died for his passion. At least he got out of this thing called life on his own terms.

I learned of Gerald’s sexual preference in a peculiar way: When Mother finally left Father, I was eight years old and it happened after one of their most heated arguments.

I sat in the kitchen with the help, eating my dinner listening to them. Both of them said hateful, ugly things to each other, which could never be forgiven nor forgotten. Father accused her of trying to seduce, Gerald.

In retaliation, Mother accused Father of having an affair with Gerald.

I was shocked. My Father and Gerald? Father was a hot blooded hetero man who left no lacy panties unbreeched. I assumed, since Father and Gerald were best buds, Gerald carried on in the same cavalier manner. Although, in comparison, Gerald was straight laced and politely distant. Wrong: Gerald liked the dudes! One of which was dear old dad!

An affection not reciprocated–which probably broke up their bromance for many years. I missed Gerald until he drifted back into my life.

Gerald became my true friend as well as personal legal advisor when Father was killed in a plane crash over South America: I was nineteen. Father arrogantly flew a small Cessna in bad weather and fatally discovered his true lack of power.

Gerald was the one I finally came out to when I was angry, confused and twenty-one. Gerald was there when Mother tried to steal funds from publishing interests and our philanthropic foundations; when she tried to use my lifestyle to discredit me and influence the collective decision of the board of directors to censure me.

She had more skeletons in her closet that was my delight to discover from Gerald’s in depth investigations so all her plans backfired on her. In all these ways, Gerald is family and family, no matter the composition, can be frustrating at times.

Luscious Mel brings Gerald his wine.

“Are we done ordering?” He asked.

“We’re done for now but remember there’s always dessert.”

“I’m always too stuffed by the time dessert comes to enjoy even a morsel.” He replied.

“You should do what I do, on occasion: eat the dessert first.” I suggested.

“I suppose.” He replied.

Now I am curious why this empty conversation about food items has dragged on so long when meticulous Gerald likes to discuss every detail of issues which require my immediate attention.

Our biweekly phone calls have been missing in action the past two months and I was not the one doing most of the avoiding. He would have told me if he was ill by now. I wonder if he is distracted by a new relationship? I grimaced shamefully, intensely jealous this suave sixty-six year old man is getting action while my thirty-six year old self is fast careening into Old Maid country. “So Gerald how’s tricks?”

Gerald slowly sips his wine then looks at me.

He said, “I didn’t send it out.”

“Send what out?” “That ridiculous contract you wanted me to set up!”

I’m confused, “What contract?”

“Amanda you would have opened yourself up for a lawsuit if things went awry.” He revealed.

I’m listening to the jazz guitar music piped over the PA of the restaurant, trying to remember what Gerald is rambling on about.

“That’s probably why I wanted you to send it personally instead of a clerk in your office. Just protect my interests then send it out. Come on tell me what’s really going on?” I demanded to know.

“Didn’t you read the e-mails I sent?” He asked.

“I glanced over them. They seem to be apologies without stating what it was you are apologizing for.” I explained. Honestly, I rarely read e-mails. If it’s important, call my ass. If you’re important, you have my phone number.

The divine Mel directed a busboy to our table with our entrees. The grilled fish smelled wonderful. Both dishes looked appetizing. The new sous chef did a good job in presentation.

As I tuck into my lunch, I am amazed Gerald was uncomfortable about a stinky little contract.

“Remember the plan?” Gerald whispered.

“What plan Gerald?” I leaned forward, playing along. Gerald rolled his eyes. You know I never saw a white man do that so well. Must be his gay gene.

“Woman In Financial Exigency.” Gerald whispered.

I shrug my shoulders not understanding the rules to this new game.

“I can’t believe you’re making me repeat this! Operation WIFE!” He spat out.

I stared at Gerald, confused for a moment, before recognition of the meaning of that particular phrase sets in then, I explode: “Gerald! DON’T TELL ME YOU DIDN’T SEND OUT THE CONTRACT TO MY WRITER!”

“Amanda please keep your voice down. That’s exactly what I’m trying to tell you! What you wanted would have created an opening where that woman could sue you and win.” He pleaded.

“I can’t believe this. She must think I’m a flake. A lying flake! Gerald she was perfect!” I pouted. I put my fork down losing my appetite. Here I was for two months, mentally bad mouthing her as a liar, not truly being talented enough to write anything.

I was very disappointed I hadn’t received her manuscript. Fostering a relationship with her through her art, if she truly had talent, would make it easier to control the relationship towards the goals I had in mind.

“How do you know she is talented?” Gerald asked.

“She has an aura of intelligent desperation. A tortured soul. She’s perfect.” I explained.

“Good God, Amanda is she even gay?” He asked.

“Well,... no. I mean I don’t know...yet.” I muttered.

“If this woman realizes your true intentions and she isn’t gay–she could sue you. She will sue you. I’d sue you, if I were her.” He cautioned.

“Will you please stop saying ‘sue’. Every Sue I’ve ever dated was a psychopath!” I shuddered. The last one, Sue Matthews, thought having sex in a building she set aflame was the epitome of good times.

“Write down what you want me to say and then I’ll read it to you.” Gerald sassed back.

“Now I know how you kept Richard’s interest all those years.” I surmised realizing Gerald had a tiger hiding under all that stuffiness.

“Amanda this isn’t the way to find lasting companionship. I would love for you to experience what Richard and I had. I don’t want you to end up bitter like…”

“My Mother? Gerald answer me one question: Was Richard your first choice?” I asked as I interrupted him.

“I wasn’t his. He thought I was too stuffy when we first met. I didn’t think he noticed me until I accidentally spilled wine on him and attempted to help him clean it off. I was mortified.” He recalled fondly.

“Proves my theory. I’ll get no where going after what I’m attracted to. Those relationships have all ended up badly. The best relationships are between people who aren’t initially into each other.” I revealed.

“Your parents…”

“Couldn’t keep their hands off each other the first year of their marriage and went their separate ways years after. They could have saved me time in therapy if they broke up before I was born.” I interrupted.

“Poor example but times were different back then. Don’t let their mistakes become the basis of yours.” He reasoned, failing to realize I left reason on a therapist’s couch eons ago.

“Gerald she’s totally not who I’d go after. She’s shorter than me. I never do the height deficient. All the other creative women I’ve had, had egos the size of the Grand Canyon. I often wondered when they had time to create with all the time they spent in front of mirrors or hogging all the attention in a room. There can be only one diva in this and that’s me.” “

You should stop this course of action.”

“Did you contact her at all to let her know there would be a delay with the contract?” I asked.

“Of course not!” He exclaimed.

Wrong answer. “What is her address Gerald?” I asked.

“Why do you need it?”

“I’m going to have to personally undo your damage of omission.”

“Do you know where she lives for God’s sake?”

“I will after you give me her address.”

“She lives in a crime ridden area of the city. Even the police won’t go there.” He disclosed in a whisper.

“Gerald your bias is showing. Zip it up and give me her address, please.”

“You can’t go up there alone!” He exclaimed.

“I’ve visited a community college near there. The address Gerald, I’ve asked for it more times than is socially acceptable. I’ve even been polite. You know I rarely do polite. It’s so dishonest.” I reminded him.

“Fine.” He conceded as he takes out his address book from the inside pocket of his suit jacket and writes my future wife’s address on a cocktail napkin. I look it over.

“Ready for a little adventure?” I asked.

“You can’t be entertaining the idea of going up there today? I have to return to work Amanda.” He pouted.

“No time like the present, besides Gerald consider this a field trip.”

“This could turn out very badly.”

“Gerald if you want something you never had, you got to be willing to do something you’ve never done.” I informed him.

Operation: Woman In Financial Exigency

Gerald wasn’t kidding about this part of town.

When I initially came up here the subway station was near the college so I wasn’t truly introduced to the rhythm of this neighborhood. In Gerald’s sedan we rode pass burned down buildings and miles of vacant lots.

The complexion of the inhabitants has grown darker as well. I think we passed the invisible racial divide at 100th Street. I felt good. I would be taking my future bride away from all this depressing decay. The trick was getting her to that point.

Her writing was my key.

Gerald pulled up in front of a row of attached brownstones. We cruised along slowly until we came to a colonial house numbered 591, which was a neat house with a small black fence. Seven stone stairs climbed to a dark red door. I alighted from Gerald’s vehicle ignoring his incessant objections. I walked over to the fence, opened it’s latched gate and climbed the stairs to the door. I knocked. There was no answer so I knocked again.

Still no answer.

I looked at my wrist watch. It’s 4:10 p.m. I smiled at myself in having coerced Gerald into yet another two and a half hour lunch. He works too hard and needs these breaks for his mental health. Well, I would just have to wait until somebody showed up. I sat down on the cold stone steps and Gerald waved hysterically at me from his car.

– – – – –

For twenty minutes we waited, me on the stairs and Gerald impatiently in his car. He stepped out of it only once to procure me a hot tea from the corner store. I sipped the remnants of it when I looked down the street and my eyes delighted upon my prize.

She walked down the street carrying packages. She was a bit taller than I remembered and a medium shade of brown. She wore a black knit hat, a dark gray three quarter jacket, jeans and black high heel boots. Ahhh, the heels gave her the additional height.

She seemed to notice the town car before she noticed me. She stopped. Her eyes narrowed.

Oh boy. I’ll have my work cut out for me persuading her to let me help her.

She entered the gate, walked right pass me, up the stairs to the door and began unlocking it.

“Hi Nailah.” I greeted her, as I stood behind her.

She rudely turned to address me. “What are you doing here?”

“There was a delay with the contract. I’ve come by to let you know I genuinely want to help you find work with your writing.” I informed her.

She finished unlocking the front door to her home and turned towards me. Oh boy she really isn’t pleased. I hope she isn’t violent.

“That is if you haven’t found something on your own already.” I added. The thought disappointed me as I’ll have an even more difficult time finding another as promising as her.

“I’ve stopped writing so there is no need for your assistance.” She revealed.

“You’ve stopped! I hope is wasn’t because my lawyer didn’t contact you. He was obsessing about protecting my interests that’s all.” I exclaimed.

“Who’s in the sedan?” She asked, noticing it parked in front of the house, over my shoulder.

“My lawyer Gerald. Do you want to meet him? Maybe if he meets you he’ll know you wouldn’t try to sue me.” I replied.

“I’m no longer looking for a writing job.” She revealed.

“I was looking forward to reading what you’ve written.” I pouted.

“Why?” She asked.

“I just had a feeling your stuff would be really different. It could make a name for you in the literary circles if it fell into the right hands.” I asserted.

“I’m not interested in that any longer.” She said dismissively.

“I could have the contract here by tonight if you change your mind.” I suggested.

“What’s in it for you?” She asked.

“Discovery of a new talent. You may even inspire me to get writing my own work. I’m trying to build a creative community around me, remember.”

“Well, I hope you’re successful with that.” She said ready to conclude our conversation.

“Could I read what you’ve written so far?” I asked.

“What for? I’m not gonna finish it.”

“So what will it hurt if I read it?” I asked.

“Why are you so fixated on my scribbles? If you want an honest opinion it needs more work than I can devote to it. I have more pressing concerns.” She declared.

"Has anyone else read your work?” I asked.

“My Aunt.” “She lives here with you?”

“It’s her house.”

“I have a feeling your novella is promising and I haven’t read any of it yet nor do I know what it’s about. How about an amended proposal: Let me read the first chapter as we’ve originally agreed and I’ll give you a $500 initial payment, right now. If your writing really sucks, I’ll mail the manuscript back and you get to keep the money. If your work has promise, I’ll have Gerald negotiate $50,000, as an added advance.” I suggested, pulling figures out of my ass. I’m made of money so it wasn’t difficult.

She looked at me like I had grown an extra head.

I smiled.

“If you want to read it so badly, fine. I’m still not going to work on it anymore.” She turned away and stepped inside.

I noted she didn’t invite me inside, concerned about her defeatist attitude.

After a considerable long period of awkwardness, she returned to the front door with a light tan envelope. I took it from her. I felt as though she was finalizing our interaction with this gesture. I needed to make sure she knew she hadn’t seen the last of me.

I called Gerald over to the house, introduced him to Nailah and had him hand her three crisp one hundred dollar bills and ten twenties. She looked at him, the money then at me.

“That is probably the first payment for a long and successful writing career. At least, I kept up my part of the deal.” I left the rest unsaid but she got my drift as I saw it register in her warm brown eyes. We departed leaving that short, medium brown young woman standing in the open doorway of her Auntie’s home to ponder what’s going to happen next.

I had my in.