The Bag Lady Papers by Alexandra Penney Read Free Book Online

be part of a new Madoff family heist!
    Another caller that same day, my friend Annette, left a message inviting me to a Christmas Day lunch in Palm Beach. When I RSVP’d “Love to!,” I signed my e-mail with my new title, “AP, aka Person of Reduced Circumstances (PoRC).” As I continue to the long drive toward Florida, I think about Annette’s party and about Palm Beach, which happens to have been the prime hunting ground where the MF went snouting for investor prey. People joined the Palm Beach Country Club where he hung out so they could be “invited” to join his exclusive enterprise.
    This will be the first party I’ve attended since I was MF’d. Will people see me differently? Will I notice if they do? Should I bring a small Christmas gift, as I would have if this were last year? And what in the world would be appropriate for a PoRC to give for a hostess present? What will I wear? I try to remember what clothes I’ve packed for myself. Thank god! Finally, I’m thinking about something fun! I’d much rather waste time ruminating about wardrobe options than dwelling on bag lady fears.
    My mind slows its anxious whirring and I begin to concentrate on driving. I don’t go over the speed limit much—the old dented wagon wouldn’t like it—but mostly I slow because if I am caught racing down the road with the girls in the back, I might land in the local clink, labeled a pervert, a kind of trouble I definitely don’t need right now. And then I see the humor in it. With all the bags and boxes in the wagon, I’m a bag lady on wheels!
    It’s getting dark. I have to find a place to sleep. Signs have been whizzing by with motels advertising $29.95 and $39.95 a night. My friend Tom, an inveterate New York–Florida driver, and a man of swell taste, tells me that the finest hostelry on the route are Hampton Inns. All the hotel chains have well-lit franchises staked out immediately off I-95 exits so it’s easy to find a Hampton Inn.
    â€œEighty-nine dollars,” says the pleasant young lady at the desk when I inquire about a room. I, who used to buy only retail and have always been highly reluctant to bargain, ask for a discount. She takes it down ten bucks. For no reason. Just because I asked.
    Although it’s expensive compared to what is down the street, it isn’t in the same solar system as the Ararat Park Hyatt in Moscow, where I was on a work project last year and where the rate for a single room was $2,100 per night. That number staggered me; I ended up at a fine place a few blocks away that charged a tenth of the Park Hyatt’s rate.
    I’ve stayed at a lot of ultrapricey hostelries, but who in their right mind would pay $2,100, except look-at-me-see-my-money oligarchs? I wouldn’t be surprised if thoseGazprom guys and those other oligarchs had tons of rubles stashed away with Madoff. I keep thinking of Magritte’s surreal paintings. My new meltdown world seems like a bizarre replica of what it used to be.
    The Hampton Inn is my new Four Seasons! The room is warm and inviting with white duvets fluffed high on the king-size bed. There’s even a polished maplewood board to rest in your lap so you can work on your computer in bed. There’s no charge for wireless access, the pale beige stone sink is set into genuine granite, and the oversize white bath towels are extraheavy. The place is immaculate and breakfast is free! A sweet scent wafts down the hall and someone knocks on the door and offers freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. Can I be dreaming?
    The aroma makes me realize I’m hungry. As I turned off I-95 I spotted a nearby Popeyes, my favorite fast-food place, and I head there now. Giggling youngsters are gulping down Coke from quart-size plastic cups. They eat the mashed potatoes and gravy with gusto. They gorge on biscuits that really are scrumptious but don’t kids need protein and milk? The