Celeste Bridges was a smart girl all the time coming up with bright ideas. Maiden name Marple. She married Whiffly Bridges on a grand day in June. The church solid and bright and strong. They moved from Davenport, Iowa to San Francisco twenty years ago. And by now she’s used to the game at the mechanics’ shop in the big city. Celeste certain it’s the same in all the big cities of the country. They had two fine children, Bruce and Molly, sent to the best private schools. When Bruce and Molly were in their teens Celeste stumbled upon her bright idea and she became obsessed with fees. It happened slowly, coming on like the movement of a glacier. And then happened suddenly, like an earthquake. It may have even been during the Earthquake of ’89 that she solidified her idea. It is an American thing, these fees. An exciting ultra capitalist thing. She figured that if the entire world could do it, governments and corporations charging the small little people, then the little people could do it too.
She was further fortified in her vision when folks began having sponsored weddings. Like race cars with all their stickers and decals and logos and basketball player shoes. The coach for Texas Tech, used to be at Indiana she noticed, had a sponsor’s stitching on his famous sweater, next to the school’s insignia. Celeste began pulling on her chin. She filed the thought under Nifty Ideas and then went out into the day to engage her work. She was a fine-art appraiser, wore black leather jackets and hipsterati glasses. She dropped her Subaru Outback for a routine checkup and oil change at the mechanic’s shop everybody trusts. The mechanic all her friends recommended, written up in the Guardian as trustworthy, timely. But the game, oh the game, the game still continues. Prepared for it, Celeste didn’t worry a thing when at five it was time to pick up her car at the end of an easy day for her.
“Everything seems fine,” Hang said, smiling. He wiped his hands on a greasy towel. There were cars jacked up, cars out at the pump, cars with their hoods angled skyward. Hang, in a now-American accent said, “The checkup and the oil change is 96 dollars . . .”
“Fine, fine, good good,” Celeste said, ready to conclude this business, ready with her pocketbook and her debit card.
“But . . .” Hang wound up, like a quality pitcher on the mound, “ . . . there was a slight oil leak and the timing belt needs to be changed. That’s routine, though, the timing belt, at 60,000 miles. You can check the book.”
“Well,” she hesitated. “How much will that be?”
“Oh, total, probably twelve-hundred dollars.” He looked away. The radio played tinny. Men in soiled coveralls bore the nonchalance of the world.
Without missing what we’d call a beat, Celeste said, “Oh, that’s nice. But no thank you. I’ll take it now.”
“Okay,” he said with a shrug and a tone of warning, “But the timing belt, you don’t want us to have to go in there later, we’ll find other things too. It can be very expensive.”
“That’s okay. Thank you though for your concern.”
Hang handed her to the shop’s cashier and Celeste concluded business and steered her Subaru away. And these were the honest guys. She drove her car seven more years before needing to spend more than three hundred dollars on it. And that was a job that included changing her tires.
Bank fees. That’s something. Always a fee for this or that transaction. Credit card fees. You have to watch your statement. Internet Service Provider fees. Installation fees. Hookup fees. Use fees. Part of the deal as one inches toward profit is to charge fees above and beyond the standard product or service your company offers. Fees every time you buy tickets for a show, professional or college athletics, ballet or modern dance. Fees when you send flowers to your mother on her birthday. Fees when you send flowers to relatives on sad days of condolence. Airline fees, don’t even get started. Extra luggage. Some fees overt and in the open, some hidden and surreptitious: make sure you investigate your monthly statements. Raise a fuss and they’ll remove many of them. Or they won’t. It’s how you make it.
Celeste began implementing fees with her own consulting business. It went over fine, without a hitch. Research fees, fees to cover insurance if she has to hire outside help, library fees. “Okay,” the kid with acne who wanted to be a director said at the Video Room down the street, “You have late fees for Titanic and Barton Fink,” and Celeste smiled.
“I bet I do,” she said. She desired to tack on, and she did in her brain, a whisper to herself only, “Your days are numbered, son. Soon we’ll all be streaming and downloading the films and they’ll be no need for the bricks and mortar shop and pimply kids like you, and not even hipsterdom will save you.” To herself she was smug. And now she knew what to do. She would introduce the idea at the next cocktail party. In fact, she would send out invitations so that she could introduce her new system.
Her friends at first were the opposite of excited. But why would they be? “It’s okay,” she told Whiffly a few days before the event, “At first they’ll recoil. But at some point they’ll want our company. And then they’ll have to pay up. Don’t worry. In time, everybody will be doing it. It’s necessary. And, it’s fun.”
She was a woman with a singular purpose and a strong disposition. She marched around the streets in her leather jacket and her pocketbook and her iPhone and her bright idea. She printed up cards and an explanation packet and spreadsheets of the various packages you could purchase. You could upgrade to Premium. For her, or rather their, friendship. She brainstormed and she refined the numbers. She punched a calculator with a pencil. She drafted business plans, contacted startups in San Francisco. “We could actually be saving some money,” she said without looking up, in the family room, while Whiffly watched Michigan State play Iowa on the parquet on ESPN on their new plasma flat screen. He was sure everybody would reject the idea and Celeste would be humbled. She whistled while she worked.
On the night of the cocktail party and the unveiling of the Bright Idea, all possessed excellent moods. Celeste, of course, confident and not a bit nervous, Whiffly, because for him it was high humor and he had nothing to lose, and their friends because it was time to socialize and drink and continue having the time of their lives, whether in therapy or not, whether or not their kids had grown dreadlocks and smoked kind like chimneys and wore ridiculous pants. Gin and tonics, mojitos, Old Fashioned, whisky and soda, board games and storytelling and a game called “How Fucked Up Is That?!” Celeste allowed the party’s mood to stoke and fire. There was high laughter and middle-aged humor.
At a certain moment in the evening, between games and during a slight lull, drinks refilled, the playlist on shuffle, conversations splintering naturally into groups and bisections, Celeste tapped a glass with a pen and began her presentation. She should have purchased an overhead projector or used Power Point and the TV but instead, she handed our her packets. “What’s this,” Rachel said.
“You’ll see,” Celeste answered. “This is our last free cocktail party. And nobody gets a free lunch. It might seem a bit surprising at first, and perhaps even like a joke. But then you’ll get used to the idea. Allow it to sink in. Remember, some people are sponsoring their weddings. And at first everybody laughed at them.”
“Yes, so please,”Whiffly quietly added, “Hold your laughter.” He was smiling. This encouraged others, those who had already opened the packets and read The Bridges’s New Friend Fee Plan, to believe they were dealing with a joke.
“It’s not funny,” Celeste said, like a young girl attempting to control her tea party, “And I’m totally serious.”
“What’s the fucking idea?” Chris Winters said, beginning to chemical a tad peeved, reading as he was the packet’s inner sheets.
“The big idea,” Celeste responded, now sounding defensive, “Is that we have decided to charge everybody a Friendship Fee. It’s a small charge to help us pay for, say, evenings like this. There are Standard Membership Fees and there are Delux Membership Fees. And they’re not too expensive. And all of you,” she waved a hand at her leather jacket lawyers and doctors and art directors and BMW-driving friends, “can afford it, I assure you.”
“Jesus,” Chris wheezed. He sat back on the couch now, continuing to read. I mean, the dude and his wife owned two houses.
“A Standard Membership includes two cocktail parties a month and the understanding that we’ll meet you for dinner at least once a month. A Medium Friendship Membership Fee is two cocktail parties and one dinner party at our house. We wine and dine you. And, if you check that little box there, we’ll include a movie, on us, either a DVD here or out on the town.”
“What’s a Delux offer? Rachel asked quietly, without breath behind her words. She wasn’t shocked. But she wasn’t feeling well anymore, either. She looked within her packet.
“A Delux offers all of the above, plus we’ll take you out to dinner, on the town, theater tickets four times a year, attending with us, whichever show you desire to see, and you can use our museum passes. Also, if you have young enough children, which some of you do, we’ll watch them, with ours. Say, we’ll go on an outing and take your kids with us. It’ll give you time to yourselves. You’d have to pay a baby sitter anyway. Membership has its privileges.” She was proud of that last bit. “Look, our museum passes cost money. Theater tickets cost money. It’s a good deal.”
“This is ridiculous,” Chris said. Now he was growing angry. And with gin inside him.
“It might sound ridiculous at first,” Celeste countered. “But sit back, contemplate what you get out of the deal, and then decide. Babysitter costs money. Chris, how much are you paying that girl tonight? Huh? To watch Ashley and Jonathan?”
“Whatever,” Chris said. “This is disgusting. This is anti-friendship. It’s, it’s like buying friends!”
“I disagree. It’s like insuring what you get out of a friendship. You come over here, drink our alcohol, have a great time, leave this stupid mess for us to clean up, go home to your beds, and Whiffly is doing dishes half the night. And, you always borrow our museum passes, anyway. We . . .”
“We’ll buy our own fucking museum passes then!” Chris near-shouting.
“Fine.” Celeste attempted calm; she lowered her voice. “You do that then. You don’t need to come to our cocktail parties anymore, either.”
“I can assure you we won’t!”
“Calm down, Chris,” Rachel said. “This won’t last. It’s just a . . . It’s just a, a joke.”
“No, it is not a joke. I am, We . . . are serious. And, you’ll see, it’s a good idea. You all will implement your own friendship fees at some point.”
“Ha!” from Chris.
“You will. It’s the wave of the future. We’ve got to make some money on the side. We brand ourselves, right? We’re funny and entertaining with advanced degrees, right? We come up with ideas that you all use, right? We’ve got to pay for all the gas, ski trips to Tahoe. You guys use our condo all the time. Now, purchase a Deluxe Friendship Membership and you may use the Tahoe condo once a month. You can rent Pay-Per-View up there . . . Unlimited Netflix” – she turned to Chris sharply, with a look of scolding – “ . . . Which you do all the time, sir, and we’ll pay for whatever movies or porn you order. It’s part of the membership. And!” She almost shouted this, growing in her excitement, “It’s not that expensive. 100 dollars, 150, or 200 for the Deluxe. Need I remind you all,” she cleared her throat, “You can all afford it.”
“Jesus,” Chris said, “This is so anal.’
“You’ll – be - on - board - soon - enough,” Celeste almost sung it. She turned to Rachel and asked, “Should we make some more cheese mix for the fondue?” Rachel didn’t know how to answer. “How much is it going to cost us?” Tom asked. He thought this was a humorous retort.
“Very funny,” Celeste said. Whiffly was as quiet as he usually is. Celeste, completely composed and unflustered, suggested “Hey, why don’t we play another round? Or maybe play team Scrabble?”
“I’m not playing any games,” Tom again. Apparently he had adopted a hard line. Celeste frowned at him disapprovingly. He looked down at the packet again. She said, “Oh, and we may as well tell you, there are late fees.”
“Late fees?!” Tom stood up and paced the living room, in front of the titanium stereo unit. He looked at Whiffly’s framed photographs on the wall and thought they were amateurish. He was about to explain how he hated amateurs who framed their own work and hung them on their own walls. But Celeste was defending her incredible bright idea.
“Yes, late fees. If we plan on meeting you for dinner, say, and you’re more than fifteen minutes late, it’s a fifteen dollar charge. If you make us wait outside a theater. Fifteen dollars. If you don’t use the tickets for the show that we send, as per the membership agreement, there’s a charge. Our season tickets may not go unused. Therefore, we must charge the user. It is only fair. It is right.”
“Right my fucking ass!” and Tom was at it again. His wife, Naomi, attempted to grab his arm. Instead, he grabbed hers. “Come on. Let’s get our of here. These people are wack.” Naomi in her heels clicked after her fast-moving husband. He was grabbing coats off the hallway tree. He spotted yet another framed photograph and he snorted.
“You’ll-be-ba-ackk,” sang Celeste. She began busying herself with napkins and the cheese plate, a wooden cheese plate with small, curved cheese knives from Belgium. Naomi shouted “Bye,” as she was dragged out the front door. Tom didn’t slam the front door. He left it open.
Celeste, humming and near-skipping, walked to shut the door. “Now then,” she said on her return to the living room, “let’s play another round.”
The other guests agreed. Rachel took Naomi’s spot on the couch. There was an unspoken agreement, during the heavy quiet that resulted from their discussion and Tom’s fiery exit, not to talk about the bright idea. Subdued conversation with little laughter. Celeste seemed not to notice. Either that or she was professional ignoring the situation, the heaviness in her living room, how odd the music on the titanium stereo now sounded. After one more round of the game the guests leaned back heavily in their chairs, on the couch, slouching. There were groans upon the suggestion of Team Scrabble.
Rachel looked at her watch. “We’re going to go,” she said. The others jumped on this train, as often happens. Coats off the hallway tree in front of the framed photograph and coats off the bed in the master bedroom. Already Whiffly removing plates and silverware from the coffee table. In preparation. The guests were gone and Celeste closed the door. She was humming.
“Well, that went over well, don’t you think?”
Whiffly looked at her for a moment. He was standing at the kitchen sink. He chose not to answer.
“Of course, there was some minor resistance. But that will pass. Good ideas always last. Hmm, maybe I could write a book about this? There’s something.”
Whiffly began doing the dishes, as per his tired, standard routine. Celeste looked at him, a touch the mother. “Oh, Whiffly, we can save those until morning?”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes . . . Come on. Let’s go to bed.” She held out her hand. Whiffly turned off the faucet and took her hand. They walked to the bedroom, turning out the lights as they went, Celeste humming into the bathroom to prepare and Whiffly seated heavily on the edge of their large bed.
