I'd Rather Be in Philadelphia (7 page)

A cutout in the wall revealed, with a little effort, a receptionist, also color coordinated. She held up a finger, stared at her amber computer screen, and pushed a button that made a soft blip, the only noise in the room besides paper tearing and impatient sighs. I tried to understand what she was doing. I’d just suffered through a required faculty orientation for the school’s new computer. Very little of it had penetrated.

Finally, the receptionist looked up, pushing back a lock of ash-blonde hair. When I told her my name, she nodded solemnly. “Mr. Teller’s running late,” she whispered, as if we were in a doctor’s office. “We’re so sorry. But you’re next—the others are waiting for Mr. Schmidt—so it shouldn’t be too long.”

On the wall, next to the rubber tree, was a framed copy of the
Philadelphia Magazine
article that Edie Friedman had mentioned. It was headlined TLC TELLS THEM HOW TO LEARN AND THEY PAY FOR THE PRIVILEGE. Just as Edie had said, there was a flattering photo of Neil Quigley, typical happy professional franchisee. It seemed a horribly ironic choice, particularly today.

For lack of more interesting options, I read the article, one of those heartwarming all-American, upward and onward here-in-our-own-city epics. Poor but honest Wynn Teller had been bred in the Midwest, worked his way through state college, taught in various cities, then started the first Teller Learning Center, which multiplied and became a franchise. He was married to the former Lydia Ballantyre, only child of the late naturalist team of Lydia and Hubert Ballantyre. Lydia and Wynn were the parents of a son, Hugh.

His partner Schmidt’s background had a similar triumphant trajectory. His only liability, as far as I could see, was his name. Cliff Schmidt sounded like a sneeze, or a German aircraft. In lieu of a wife with scientific credentials, he had a background Dickens would have loved. He was an authentic foundling. Pure Horatio Alger. Pure PR gold.

After the statistics, there was a great deal of philosophizing about TLC’s ability to tailor education to the individual child, and about how gratifying it was to help both students and teacher-franchisers.

The article had the sound of a movie-of-the-week description. I was not thrilled, however, only bored. I saw the rest room down a short hallway and decided to follow Queen Victoria’s advice and use a facility any time one had the opportunity. My interview might be long or harrowing.

Upon my return, I passed the partners’ closed—camouflaged in beige—doors. The one with C. Schmidt on it failed to muffle agitated sounds like “cheated” and “damn it” and “screw you” and “criminal.” Not quite the vocabulary or tone I’d expected in an educational haven.

I sank into a small dune of a settee. The magazines on the dun end table all dealt with parenting, the better to increase the guilt of anyone with an underperforming child. In desperation, I read a column on bed-wetting, skimmed a list of great vacation spots for kids—so I could avoid them—and was studying the six early warning signs of eye-hand coordination problems when the front door opened with a great blast of deep winter.

And suddenly there was Technicolor in the room in the shape of a short woman capped by a white fur hat and wrapped in a poison-green greatcoat that reached to her ankles. “Where’s Wynn Teller?” she demanded of the room at large.

I happily discarded the magazine even though I had four warning signs left to go.

The receptionist stuck her head out into the room. “Excuse me? Do you have an appointment?”

The woman in the greatcoat laughed, a solid
hah!
like comic book characters make. “I don’t need one,” she said, waving her arms. One peacock, fingerless glove held a copy of
Philadelphia Magazine,
the other a green and blue lizard clutch purse.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, he’s—”

Ma’am slipped off her coat and hung it on a tan peg on the wall. “Tell him Fay’s here.” Her voice was pure brass, constitutionally incapable of being soft. She waved to the three of us on our beige upholstery as if she were, indeed, a visiting celebrity. “Fay,” she trumpeted again.

I put her at forty in years as well as chest, waist, and hip size. She was a sausage with cleavage and red-purple hair.

“Nonetheless, Miss Fay—” the receptionist began.

Fay rolled her eyes skyward. “
Mrs.
,
honey. I served my time.” She wore a layered black net skirt over a leopard body suit, a fashion statement generally made by rebellious girl-children twenty-five years and fifty pounds lighter. I snuggled into my seat with the same happy expectation I feel when a first act curtain goes up.

The receptionist was not as entertained as I. “If you’ll leave a message, I’m sure—”

“I left enough messages yesterday and the day before, and I don’t have forever. I’m only in town for the New Age festival.” She turned and addressed us, her audience, directly. “I’m an aromatherapist.” I felt she expected us to react by battering down Teller’s door on her behalf. You don’t keep an aromatherapist waiting.

“As I’ve said, he doesn’t have time today for—”

“We’ll see about that.” She sat down next to me with a scratchy crunch of tulle netting. She adjusted the neckline of her leotard and centered a chain full of amethyst crystals so that pale purple cylinders filled her cleavage. She smoothed the magazine on her lap, then looked up and pointed at the article on the wall. “Hah!” she shouted, as if she’d made an important discovery. She swiveled toward me. “You read that?”

I nodded.

“Good idea, wasn’t it?” She waved her copy of the magazine. It looked puckered with handling.

“Having the article? Great publicity for the—”

“I mean this place. TLC. This is the good idea. And by the way, you should wear rust and burnt oranges. You’re an autumn, you know, with the auburn hair and green eyes. I did colors before I got into aromatherapy.”

“Thanks.” I wasn’t sure if that was an autumnal response. I was sure, however, that orange was my least favorite color.

“Yeah,” she said. “This place was a good idea. I thought so, too. When I thought of it.”

“You thought of…?”

The gentleman in tweed and the anxious matron in plaid were pretending not to hear her, which was ridiculous. People in North Jersey were catching these sound waves.

“I had no idea,” Mrs. Fay continued. “I’m in this Unfoldment of the Spirit workshop and I see this magazine somebody left and there’s his name on the cover and his face inside.” She shook her hennaed curls, then leaned forward and waved in the direction of the receptionist. “Hey, you! Why don’t you see what happens when you tell him Fay’s here?”

“He’s in a—”

“—pretty pickle. That’s what he’s in.” Fay grinned.

“Really, miss.” Cuticle man pursed his mouth, keeping his eyes on his fingernails. “We’re waiting, too, you know. Show some patience and take your turn.”

Fay raised her eyebrows. “A person can wait too long.” She nodded, crimson curls bobbing. “I know this from experience.” She stood up and tottered on stiletto heels over to the receptionist. I thought of all the times I’d lifted a ridiculous outfit off a rack and asked who on earth would wear such a thing. Now I never needed to ask again.

“I have a seminar on aromatic past-life regression in exactly one and one-half hours,” she said.

I was so engrossed in her performance that I didn’t immediately register the opening of Cliff Schmidt’s office door. It was hard paying attention to anything except Fay, who, arms akimbo, ended her dickering with the receptionist by announcing, “Okay, honey, forget Fay. Just tell Wynn Teller his wife’s here.”

Even the woman in plaid stopped flipping magazine pages and gaped.

“His wife my—!” The receptionist’s skin became too florid for the color scheme. “Don’t you think I know Mrs. Teller?” She swiveled out of sight, but I could still hear her. “This place,” she said to somebody else inside the cubicle. “It used to be sane, but lately—”

Through which, Fay took diva-size deep breaths, visibly revving up again. I looked around and decided the other spectators were equally pleased that life had dropped the script and was improvising. Only then did I truly notice the open door to Schmidt’s office, Schmidt himself, and my fellow voyeur. “Neil!” I said. “I thought you went home!”

“I didn’t expect you here, either. I thought I said…”

I hadn’t heeded his advice to stay away from the place, but he had given it without knowing about my Tahitian fantasies, or even about my convertible top.

Schmidt, a blocky beige fellow who blended into his surroundings like an iguana in sand, patted Neil’s shoulder throughout Fay’s outburst, soothing him, or trying to. It appeared to be futile making nice to a man whose business had just burned down.

By now, Schmidt wasn’t giving Neil his complete attention. With all due modesty, I have to say he seemed very interested in me, giving me that full-forward, total sensory intake that men do—at the beginning. I felt flattered, then uncomfortable. “Neil and I work together,” I said. He nodded. “He’s told me a lot about the center.” I smiled and seemed to embarrass him. He looked away.

“
Wife
,”
Fay blared. “Like I said. His first. His only. Mother of his children. You mean he forgot to mention us?” She laughed, not the comic book explosion now, but an angry bellow. “So did the guy who wrote the magazine story. Everybody forgot about us—except us!”

“Cliff,” the receptionist said, “could you, er, lend a hand with this, um, matter?”

Maybe he could have, but just then the second pale door opened and Wynn Teller, chuckling softly, ushered out a woman in mink. “You’ll see how quickly his scores perk up, and—”

His good-looking face drained of color.

“Long time no see,” Fay said. She lifted her copy of
Philadelphia Magazine
as a greeting or a warning.

Wynn looked from her to the furry matron on his arm. He patted his client’s shoulder, then handed her a beige and white packet. “The receptionist will help you with the forms and any questions we forgot to cover.” He took her around the corner and returned alone. “What do you want?” he asked Fay, softly.

“I’m in town for my convention,” Fay blared, “and I see this magazine and I have no idea, absolutely no idea—”

“I think you’d better leave,” Teller said.

“I think I’d better stay and
you’d
better talk to me. Alone.” You could hear her strain to lower her voice, to address only him, but the room was small and her whisper was a battle cry.

“Now, miss,” Clifford Schmidt suddenly said, putting a pale freckled hand on her shoulder.

“
Mrs.!
”
she shouted. “Mrs. Wynn Teller!”

Mr. Wynn Teller looked tired. “I have nothing to say to you.” His surface was calm, but I had a sense of inner organs trembling.

Her jaw dropped open so that her mouth formed a perfect fuchsia circle. “Nothing? What about stealing?”

Cliff and Neil both gaped. “What?” they said in chorus.

“What about lying?” Fay asked. She waved the magazine again. “What about—”

Teller took one of her leopard-patterned arms.

“Ow!” She jerked away. “Don’t you dare touch me!” She clamped a hand on her hip in a Mae West pose. “Think you’re so famous with stories in magazines that you can push me around? Think I don’t have proof? I kept the letters, Wynn. I’ll sue the bejesus out of—”

“Please,” he said. “This is my office. These people aren’t—”

“Think I care who hears? Think they don’t believe in fairness?” She turned to all of us, waving her arms for emphasis. “Don’t you believe in justice for all?”

Nobody appeared to, because we were all silent, perhaps sharing the embarrassment I felt for Wynn Teller. I stood up. “I think I’ll reschedule for another—” I began.

Wynn Teller shook his head. “Stay,” he said. “This is only—”

“I want my share!” she shouted.

“Cliff,” Teller said, “could you…?”

Schmidt seemed to read his mind, maneuvering Fay toward his office while she spluttered and protested.

“Hey! I’m next, Schmidt! No fair!” The paper ripper was acutely unhappy. Nobody paid attention except the receptionist, who offered coffee all around.

Wynn Teller led me into his office, which was a shock to the system with its deep palate of non-neutral maroon and navy. There were even colorful abstract paintings on the wall. He apologized profusely for what he called the
unpleasantries.
He had the wholesome good but not handsome looks of the fellow who’s always cast as the best pal of the romantic lead. “Unfortunate woman,” he said. “Quite disturbed, but convincing nonetheless, because she believes her delusions. I feel sorry for her, and I hope you won’t take any of her nonsense seriously.”

“You know her, then?”

“I know of her. Flipped-out Fay, they call her. She surfaces now and then, claiming credit for something successful. She tried this with the guy who first split his movie palace in two. That was her idea, too. As was the video arcade, when that was popular. Anything that gets publicity.” He paused, closed his eyes, then nodded and his face relaxed, bit by bit. “She’d sue the U.S. government, insist she invented democracy, if it got better press.”

And that was it for Crazy Fay. We settled down to business. TLC had standardized a teaching process and created workbooks, tests, and progress reports. Beyond that, it seemed a matter of time slots and paychecks.

Teller even outlined the mechanics of franchising. “Of course,” he said, “I recognize that a teacher looking for a tutoring position isn’t likely to have the necessary investment capital. That’s why we created our slow-owner plan whereby we, in essence, loan you the money, rather like a bank finances your home with a mortgage. You pay it back over time, out of your earnings.”

I was impressed and intrigued. Only Neil Quigley’s warnings stood in the way. “I’m at Philly Prep,” I said, easing into it.

“Yes,” he said. “I believe you once taught my son.”

I nodded. “How is he?” Teller’s desk had a silver-framed photo of an elegant woman with a cameo face. His wife, I presumed. There was no picture of his moon-faced son.

“Ah,” he said vaguely. “It takes some of them longer than others to grow up, find their footing, as you well know.”