On Rodeo

Four short blocks in the middle of the Beverly Hills business district comprise Rodeo Drive, “the Most Famous Shopping Street in the World.” Here, it is possible to buy almost anything the mind can conjure--one-hundred-thousand-dollar dresses, two-hundred-thousand-dollar gold and diamond-encrusted watches, million-dollar vacations to every corner of the globe. You can even buy love here, though it isn’t advertised and few know where to look for it. Abby Hanson wasn’t looking for love on the day she met Gilbert Seymour. She was looking for a fix, a shock of relief from the vengeful pain that coursed through her frail body for the umpteenth time that day. She had fallen asleep on the number 4 bus half an hour before, and had been awakened by the irate driver as the bus pulled up to the Rodeo Drive stop in Beverly Hills. She made her way halfway down Rodeo to the front of the Fells Fine Art Gallery, when her knees gave out and she dropped to the unsympathetic pavement. Janice Fells, the gallery’s Oxford-educated owner, was standing at the back of the room when she saw Abby fall. “See what’s happening out there,” she said, frantically motioning Jean-Marke, her young assistant to take care of a potentially embarrassing situation. This was the very last thing she needed--a few of the guests had already begun to arrive for what would certainly be the most important private showing of Rembrandt etchings in years. Jean-Marke, six-foot-three and far better looking than any of the oh-so-famous movie stars who regularly patronized the Gallery, moved outside quickly and hovered over Abby, shaking his head. She looked at him with confusion, and with a last trace of resolve, raised a middle finger. “Go fuck with someone else,” she slurred, shutting her eyes and falling back to the concrete. Jean-Marke bent to rouse her but she didn’t respond. As he was about to reach out one last time, her eyes opened partly and she surprised him with a smack hard across the face. “Don’t fucking touch me,” she said, grinding her teeth. “You’d better move on now,” Jean-Marke warned, glancing back to see if any of the patrons in the gallery had noticed the problem. “Fuck you,” she said, forcing her unsteady finger to his face. He grabbed her sleeve. “I’m calling the police now,” he whispered. She tried to force herself up but her body was heavy as stone. Instead, she leaned over slightly and spat into his hand. He jerked his hand back, looking around the street for witnesses to his humiliation. Satisfied that no one was watching, he recoiled and cuffed her hard across the face. She fell backward, lying still in the street. He wiped his hand on his pants then took out his cell phone and dialed the Beverly Hills Police Station. At that moment, one of the most elegant men in Los Angeles, Mr. Gilbert Scott Seymour, only living scion of the celebrated Seymour Industries fortune, grandson of Jeddediah V. Seymour and son of Jonathan S. Seymour, excused himself past three elderly patrons and moved outside the gallery. “What’s going on here?” he demanded. Seymour was a very private man who avoided the harsh light of publicity, mostly spending his free time alone with a book or attending a private movie screening with a beautiful young woman. He did not take kindly to having his rare evenings out interrupted by controversy or complication, and this incident was clearly going to cast a great pall over the evening. He looked down at Abby’s swelling face. A small cut had developed above her right eye and blood was running down her cheek. “Doesn’t anyone have a handkerchief?” he asked, scanning the crowd. No one responded. He glimpsed Jean-Marke, who was hurriedly moving back into the Gallery. “Jean-Marke,” he ordered, “Find Mrs. Fells and get some help out here, quickly!” He was not pleased with the careless indifference of the gathering crowd. A few moments later, Mrs. Fells emerged from the gallery, carrying a handful of paper towels and a blue silk pillow from the back room. “I hope these will do,” she said clearly mortified at the attention this scene was receiving from passersby and curious patrons of the gallery who had come outside to see what was happening. Seymour took the tissues himself and moved closer, gently daubing at Abby’s cut. She recoiled from the sting then leaned forward, allowing Seymour’s gentle hand to cleanse the blood before it reached the side of her mouth. “How long have you been here, Miss?” he asked. She looked at him but had difficulty focusing on his features. “I...don’t...know,” she whispered. “The sidewalk is a terrible place to fall,” he said, mostly for the crowd’s benefit. “An awful, awful place.” It occurred to him now, once again, how much he despised these Beverly Hills art-lover-types who flaunted their charity for the benefit of the newspapers, then faded from the scene when real trouble materialized. He felt more and more detached lately, so inclined to ferret himself away in his private, protected world where events and petty annoyances, and people he considered characters from an awful satire could not intrude on his structured life. He felt badly for this unfortunate young woman who was plainly from a very different world; he could read every line of pain and suffering in her sad, lifeless face. He wanted to do something for her--if for no other reason than to show these blowhards what it meant to be truly charitable. To Mrs. Fells, he said, “Please call a taxi for this young lady.” She moved forward to help Seymour lift Abby to her feet. He reached into his wallet, took out a one hundred dollar bill, wrapped it around a business card and pressed it into her hand. “You put this away,” he said quietly. “Get home and have some rest.” Then he whispered in her ear, “Tomorrow, I want you to call me and let me know how you’re doing.” She looked at the cash but was too weak to acknowledge the absurdity of this request. She stuffed it in her pocket, and then with Seymour‘s assistance, slowly rose to her feet. Seymour helped her into the gallery, where she sat on a folding chair that had been reserved for one of the Governor’s children. Mrs. Fells phoned the cab company and at Seymour’s request, stayed with Abby until the cab arrived.