In “Breakfast at Tiffany’s,” Holly said that when she got the mean reds the only thing that did any good was to go to Tiffany’s, but the only time I went to Tiffany’s it was actually really sad because the San Francisco store was nothing like the one in New York—instead of the high ceilings and elegant, old-fashioned atmosphere that I remembered from the movie, our Tiffany’s was stark and modern, all cold marble, dim light, and banks of low, glass cases—and the reason I was there was kind of depressing—after our Initial Public Offering, my boss at the software startup company suddenly became filthy rich and after our weekly meeting he asked me if I knew a good place to buy pearls (he said that he had decided that even though his wife was leaving him because he’d been ignoring her and putting all his time and energy into the new company, he wanted to buy her the pearls he had always promised he’d get her “one day when I’m rich”) and I had replied to his question by saying, “Tiffany’s, of course,” because even though I’d never been shopping for expensive jewelry in my life, I knew that this was clearly the place you went to when you wanted to make a grand romantic gesture and cost was no object, and then, because he looked so pathetic and I thought that maybe him buying these pearls for his soon-to-be-ex would be a great relief—a way of saying that his old life was really over, and that he finally accepted her decision to leave him after seventeen years—I offered to take him pearl shopping in downtown San Francisco that coming weekend, and at first I had a little fun with it—and maybe he did too—especially when we rejected the very modest string of pearls the sales associate wearing a perfect suit and tie first showed us—well, even though he was rich now, my boss was still wearing the same shapeless jeans, baggy polo shirt, totally uncool athletic shoes, and unassuming air of middle-aged resignation he always did—and I smiled coyly and asked to see the largest pearls they carried, but after I tried on the most expensive pearls in every length they had so my boss could see how they might look on his wife who was about my size and my boss said, “Hmm. I’m not really sure. It looks like I’m going to have to do some thinking about this,” I realized that I wasn’t going to experience the thrill of seeing him impulsively drop $50,000 dollars on a string of Tiffany’s “very finest, triple A-quality” pearls—which to be honest weren't all that gorgeous—and it was so disturbing to see my super competent and normally self-confident boss being so indecisive that I suggested that we leave for now, maybe get a coffee somewhere, and then after we walked out the front door and stood there deciding where to go next, he smiled ruefully and said, “You know, this may sound kind of strange, but all this is a bit overwhelming. Not just my wife, I mean. It’s the money, too. I just don’t have any real concept of it” so even though Holly had said, “Isn’t it wonderful? Don’t you feel as if nothing bad could ever happen to you in a place like this? Not that I care about jewelry” neither of us ever wanted to go back to Tiffany's again.
by Nina Zolotow
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