Chaos. That’s how I’d describe the situation here. Chaos.
Our closing yesterday was smooth sailing over calm seas. Then I was expecting chaos. I’d heard so many closing horror stories prior to the event, like problems with financing, parties not showing up, or worse — sellers dropping dead and the property going into probate, fights breaking out over Realtor percentages, paperwork snafus that took weeks and thousands to fix, but our closing entailed us signing our full names a bunch of times in blue ink and then receiving a set of keys. Easy peasy.
Start to finish, the whole thing took half an hour. We would have been through sooner if the seller’s attorney and I didn’t spend a few minutes bonding over our mutual distaste for cheesy vampire romances.69
But after that? Nope, didn’t expect what happened after that.
Our last few minutes of Zen came after we walked out of the real estate office and stepped into the car. “This Is the Day” by The The was playing. With lyrics like, “This is the day / when things fall into place,” Mac and I grinned at each other like a couple of lunatics. Truly, yesterday was the day our lives changed, you know? I’m not sure either of us could have contained ourselves if “If You Were Here” had come on. Hearing that song reinforced my belief that there are always signs when something’s right, which is why I didn’t even bother to tell Mac about Ann Marie’s advice. The universe knows what it’s doing.
We stopped by the new house briefly to make sure the keys worked, then hightailed it back to the city, because we hadn’t come close to boxing up all our belongings for this afternoon’s move.70
I was unloading the hutch in the living room when I noticed this spinning-rimmed low-rider making loops past our house. At first I was annoyed by the thumping bass but shrugged it off, knowing I was spending my last night in the ’hood. If the hipsters and hoodlums wanted to take ownership of this block, fine by me.
But as they continued to cruise around the house, I paid more attention.A pattern soon emerged — whenever the car full of shavedhead thugs passed our yard, they’d drive extra slow and lean out as though they were trying to get a peek at us.
“Mac!” I called into the intercom. “Mac! ORNESTEGA and his idiot friends keep circling the house. I’m worried they’re going to attempt a drive-by.” Seriously, I thought, if these little punks shoot me on the day I bought Jake Ryan’s house,then. .I guess that really would be the day that my life changed.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Mac groused, stomping up the stairs. “These morons have no concept of physics, do they? If they were smart, they’d set up a sniper nest on the roof across the street. They can’t shoot us from a car, you know. Unless you’re a Ranger or a trained assassin or Agent Jack Bauer,71 it’s almost impossible to hit a moving target from a moving target. That’s why you always hear about innocent bystanders getting caught in the cross fire. If these derelicts had any concept of how to work a weapon, they’d all peg one another and social Darwinism would go a long way toward resolving the Cobra/Latin Kings territory dispute.”
“Uh-huh, great. I’ll just go ahead and call the police then.” I herded the pets in front of me so we could all scurry down to the basement. Then I noticed the determined set of his shoulders. “Please don’t do anything stupid.”
“No worries!” he assured me as he dashed up the stairs to the second floor. “My plan is foolproof!”
Well, shit.
I hid in the basement, waiting for the police to arrive and trying desperately to avoid getting a face full of hot lead.
In the interim, Mac went to work. Using a broom handle, a long down coat, and my Fashion Fever Barbie Styling Head,72 Mac made it look like a person was moving around behind our window sheer. I’d have congratulated him for his ingenuity, but considering he got the idea from Home Alone, I gave him only partial credit. And unlike Kevin McCallister, he was trying to lure ORNESTEGA and Co. in, rather than scare them away.
When I heard the hail of gunshots and the subsequent shattering glass, I sprinted upstairs to find Mac standing next to our broken window, tsk-tsking and wearing an oddly amused expression.
The forensics experts told us that out of the shots fired, seven bullets went straight into the ground, one hit our neighbor’s satellite dish, two lodged in the mailbox on the corner, four ricocheted back into the trunk of the car, and one grazed the driver’s right thigh.
No one was seriously harmed in the firefight,73 but ORNESTEGA suffered a broken leg and concussion when the injured driver floored the getaway car and bashed into the church across the street.
If that’s not God’s payback for the graffiti, I don’t know what is.
Well played, Lord. Well played.
By the way, the bullets didn’t shatter our window. None even landed on our property. The window broke when one of the spinners flew off the car and bounced into our house after the crash.
Between giving statements and tracking down a windowboarding service, we didn’t have a lot of time to shove stuff in boxes last night. Tracey and Kara brought us dinner and lent a hand, but at that point the evening was shot.74
First thing this morning we called (begged) for some boxing assistance, and now there’s a team of six ladies making time and a half to Bubble Wrap our unmentionables while ten movers load out what’s already in cartons.
Mac isn’t even here to help supervise this three-ring circus. I figured the most appropriate punishment for, you know, drawing gunfire was to transport two hyperactive dogs and four angry kittens to the new house in his prize Mercedes. He called earlier to tell me that with all the yowling and barking, it was like driving up the expressway with six air-raid sirens.
I told him as soon as I stopped smelling lead dust, I’d be more sympathetic.
As it turns out, the sixteen strangers currently scurrying in and out of my house are not the source of the chaos.
Oh, no.
That honor belongs to Vienna, who’s presently standing in my front door.
She didn’t show up for our final walk-through on Friday. Per her Twitter feed, she had a “really important colonic” that took precedence. Now she’s here, unannounced, unscheduled.
And she’s brought a camera crew.
Vienna thrusts a piece of paper at me. “Sign.”
I take the document from her, more out of curiosity than courtesy. “What is it?” I squint but can’t make out the fine print.
Vienna blows an enormous bubble in my face, sucks it back in, and gives her gum a couple of aggressive chews before answering. “We’re, like, capturing how I’m a savvy business working executive woman. People want to see me perform jobs.75 I’m, like, a one-twopre-noor and everything, which is the oldest profession. My show’s gonna be all uplifting and shit. For poor people. Now let’s do this thing already!”
A guy in cargo shorts carrying a boom mike explains rather sheepishly, “That’s a consent and release form, pretty standard language. Can you please sign it? Please? We’re shooting Vienna’s new reality show, One Night in Vienna.” For a brief moment, I see something almost haunted in his eyes, but before I can ponder it, I mentally rewind what he just said and. . Hold up a minute.
What?
Then my memory clicks. I read something about this recently on PopSugar.com. I guess Vienna wants to one-up her frenemy Paris and do a business-oriented version of The Simple Life to prove that she’s no longer the coke-snorting, paparazzi-shoving, assistant-abusing diva the media’s made her out to be. I imagine that’s why she’s clad in a business suit.
Of course, most executives I know tend to wear a shirt/bra/ camisole/something under their single-button blazer, but it’s possible I just don’t understand every nuance of haute couture. The September issue of Vogue can teach one only so much.
To confirm, I ask, “You want to film our walk-through?” The producer accompanying the sound guy nods.
“We need to show Vienna taking command in a professional environment,” the producer confirms. “When she speaks to you, try to defer to what she says. We want to put a positive spin on this.We’re out to show a whole new side of Vienna.”
According to Dlisted.com, her last few ventures ended badly. Turns out even the most avant-garde fashionista draws the line at carrying a cat-skin handbag. Rumor has it that Anna Wintour decreed Vienna’s signature perfume smelled like “hepatitis B and poor decisions.”
I’m still holding my consent form and processing what’s happening around me. If I sign this, does that mean they’ll use my image on-screen? I’m a bit ambivalent about this. On the one hand, no publicity is bad publicity; on the other, I’m not sure that particular axiom applies to publicity in conjunction with Vienna.
Vienna’s entourage includes a cameraman, a couple of guys carrying heavy lights, a makeup artist, two hairstylists, and a personal assistant, in addition to the aforementioned sheepish sound engineer and producer.
“What are you, like, waiting for?” Vienna snaps. Then she grabs her assistant, bends her over to create an ad hoc writing surface, and slaps my consent agreement on the center of the assistant’s back before thrusting a pen in my face. “Sign it.”
In the background, ten movers and six packers have gathered to watch the action unfold. A few are taking cell phone pictures, and who could blame them?
I hastily autograph the sheet while the first hairdresser tries to fluff Vienna’s coif. Vienna’s seemingly already satisfied with her do — a prim French roll adorned with feathers, sequins, and dangling crystals — and shoves her out of the way with the heel of her palm. Luckily, the stylist’s fall is cushioned by a battery of empty boxes no doubt destined to hold my wastepaper baskets.
Vienna waves her arm in the air as though roping some imaginary cattle and begins barking orders to various crew members. “Hey, fatty! Yo, retard! Smelly guy! You, dead tooth, come here and get me in profile. I’m ready for my close-up! And. . action!”
I guess that neatly explains the crew’s pained looks.
While Vienna and her posse move to the center of the living room, a packer notices the few remaining glass shards from last night’s altercation and attempts to retrieve them. “No, no, please!” I blurt. “We’re not taking that with us! Those are pieces of broken window.”
Vienna’s interest is suddenly piqued. “Wait, my window? You broke my window?”
“Um, didn’t you notice the enormous board where the center casement window used to be? We had a drive-by shooting here last night. Pretty scary, but don’t worry: We’re fine and insurance will cover the replacement costs, so, really—”
Vienna snaps her fingers behind her back and mouths, Make sure you’re getting this, to the camera operator. She lunges toward me and stands an inch from my face in classic reality-show confrontation mode. “You broke my window? You bitch! You fucking fake-ass phony bitch! I’m going to sue you! I’m going to sue your fat ass off! You don’t get to break my window. You’re not seeing a dime of your security deposit. I mean, I could, like, buy and sell you! Yes! I’ll do that. I will do that! Buy you! Sell you! Because you suck! You’re, like, a big ugly bag of Polish sausage stone-face slut!”
I’m a what?
I mean, I understand the words she’s saying individually, but all together like that? Not so much.
Vienna continues her tirade, now with twenty percent more spittle and some intense neck rolling. Is she going to bust out the you-go-girl finger wag? And. . there it is! “I hate you, I hate this house, I hate work, I kind of love Britney, but you? You I hate and I hate your asshat-face.”
I look around at a roomful of stunned personnel. “I’m sorry. Is anyone else following this?”Vienna’s personal assistant points behind Vienna’s back and pantomimes inhaling an enormous rail of coke off the staircase. Her makeup artist sighs and quickly repacks all the lotions and potions she’s just unloaded, while the lighting gentleman snaps off the big box lights. Her producer has assumed a position best described as “face-palm.” I’ll bet when he envisioned Vienna “taking command in a professional environment,” it didn’t shake out like this.
Vienna’s not finished with her diatribe. She starts in on what I assume is her thesis statement.
“So fuck you, fuck your bathtub, fuck the Japs, fuck your grill, fuck your mother, and fuck your fucking fuckity fuck.Your dogs are cool. But fuck your cats and your fucky face.”
I wonder, am I supposed to be intimidated by her yelling? Cowed? If so, I’m going to make for terrible television. I mean, I’ve heard worse stuff coming out of Babcia’s mouth while wishing me a happy birthday. And really, I’m too busy for this nonsense, especially when Jake Ryan’s house is waiting for me. I’ve got to put a stop to this.
“Um, hi, listen, sorry to interrupt while you’re rolling,” I say, offering the producer an apologetic look. “Quick favor? Those guys over there?” I gesture toward the movers. “I’m paying them by the hour. So if it’s not too much trouble, could we either start the walk-through or finish up with the fucking fuckity fuck?”
A giggle escapes from the previously unscathed second hairstylist. And that’s all it takes.
In one deft motion, Vienna whips off her impossibly high sandal and hurls it in the direction of the laughter. Thanks to Sir Isaac Newton’s first law of motion, a triple-strapped Alexandre Birman python wedge produces more drag than, say, a baseball, so despite what I’m sure is Vienna’s extensive knowledge of all things aerodynamic, she ends up picking off Manny, the foreman of the moving crew. She clocks him right in the head, and Manny crumples and hits the ground with a thud.
At this point, the producer grabs Vienna around the waist and begins to drag her out the door. “I think we’re finished here. Thank you,” he calls as he wrestles her down the steps and to the gate, the rest of the crew scuttling out behind them.
I rush over to Manny to see how he’s doing while his coworkers offer up yet-to-be-packed bags of frozen peas and cold drinks. We get him up and try to assess his level of consciousness. Manny insists he’s fine, but I’m not so sure. That shoe must have weighed six pounds, and she pitches like a Cy Young Award winner. I set him up on the couch and beg him to rest as long as he needs.
As I try to calm everyone and reorganize the boxes, I have to wonder — how does that girl go through life generating so much bad karma with so few repercussions? Every time I think, Oh, the universe will eventually right itself, in regard to Vienna, she ends up making out with Robert Pattinson76 or appearing on the VMAs. Sure, she had a few bumps in the road — like her family attempting to make her work77 for a living — but for the most part, she’s bulletproof.
That’s when I notice something important I’ve left unfinished, and I can’t help myself. “Wait, wait!” I call, running after Vienna and her crew. I reach them just as they’re done putting all their gear back in the van and are about to take off.
“Do you guys still need my consent form?”
Mac and I are tucked into bed after what’s proved to be an arduous thirty-six hours.
Unfortunately, we’re not tucked into bed in our new house. Due to Vienna’s antics and Manny’s head injury, the movers didn’t have enough time to unload the truck in Abington Cambs after filling it up. So we agreed that they’d simply store everything overnight and we’d see them in the morning.
Kara’s parents insisted we stay with them, and you don’t say no to the Patels,78 so we’re upstairs in their guest room watching television before we go to sleep. My sweet little Daisy and Duckie are so exhausted from running around their new backyard that they’re too tired to climb up on the bed with us. This may be the first time we’ve slept alone since we adopted the dogs.
“I can’t keep my eyes open.” Mac yawns. “Where’s the remote?”
I reply, “I don’t know, and I think I’m too tired to get up and find it.”
“Maybe we’ll just close our eyes for a minute and… mmph.” And like that, he’s out.
I’m about to drift off too, when I hear the opening credits of TMZ, followed by a familiar voice and a bunch of bleeps. I sit up and grope for my glasses.
“So bleep you, bleep your bathtub, bleep the Japs, bleep your grill, bleep your mother, and bleep your bleeping bleepity bleep. Your dogs are cool. But bleep your cats and your bleep face.”
What the bleep?
Glasses finally on, I see shaky cell phone footage taken from my house, replaying everything that went down today. Then Harvey Levin comes on-screen, reporting, “Producers have pulled the plug on Vienna Hyatt’s new reality show after today’s violent outburst.”
The cute surfer-boy reporter with the wild mane of blond hair adds, “Yep, it’s over before it even began. I guess anyone wanting to spend One Night in Vienna will have to do it the old-fashioned way!”
Harvey continues. “Ha! You know that’s true. I’d hate to be in her shoes. No, wait. I’d hate to be hit by one of her shoes!” Cameras pan to the whole team at TMZ laughing before the scene cuts to a shot of Manny trying to shake away all the cartoon birds flying around his head. “Will our favorite bad girl seek revenge for her axed show? Wait. What am I talking about? This is Vienna Hyatt! Of course she will!”
Then TMZ launches into a long retrospective of all her old feuds. My God, that woman’s fought with everyone. And I’m not just talking about the usual Paris-Lindsay-Kardashian-du-jour-Britney conflagrations, although by Vienna’s own admission, Ms. Spears currently holds a spot on the buddy list. Her extended enemy list includes the regular suspects, such as all the kids from Laguna Beach, The Hills,79The City, and even Jersey Shore. But it doesn’t end there, oh, no. Vienna’s had words with everyone from Arnold Palmer to Ahmet Zappa. According to TMZ, she even pissed off the Dalai Lama by shoving him when he accidentally walked in front of her at the step-and-repeat banner wall at a Free Tibet event.
Harvey returns to the screen. “And when Vienna gets revenge, you’ll hear it here first!”
After the segment ends, I hop out of bed to find the remote, which is located directly beneath Daisy’s ample rump. I give her a quick smooch on the snout, switch off the television, and climb under the covers.
Before I fall asleep, I snuggle closer to Mac; then I say a little prayer of thanks that we’re up here in Abington Cambs now and will never have to deal with Vienna again.