Salon.com > Tobin Levy

My sister’s perfect life

Wed, 04 Jul 2012 00:00:00 +0000

“We bought a new house,” my older sister said a few months ago, in one of our rare phone conversations.

“I’m so happy for you,” I said, though I’m sure the octaves and intonation were off. “You deserve it.” And she does. My sister has worked tirelessly ever since I can remember. Unlike me, she’s always been responsible, never leaving a job before accepting another, and certainly never leaving a job and then, instead of finding new employment, flying to Southeast Asia and staying for three months.

“We’re finally going to live in a grown-up house,” she continued. (By “we” she meant her two girls, ages 4 and 7, and my photogenic, equally successful brother-in-law.) I thought about their soon-to-be old house — the quaint rooms, small closets, the inevitable, maniacal clutter. The neighbor’s orange tree, the tall branches of which extended just over my sister’s fence, taunted my nieces with unreachable fruit. But it was a nice neighborhood. The house was on a tree-lined street that was abundant with young, attractive professionals, all of whom had young, attractive children, all of whom played together before dinnertime and on the weekends. What wasn’t grown-up about that?

Tales of an accidental grease monkey

Mon, 13 Jul 2009 10:18:00 +0000

It was only because of the recession that I moved in with a roommate, after more than a decade of living on my own. And it was only because of the roommate situation that I began renting a cramped office space in the garage of a hot rod and auto shop in Austin, Texas. There was a desk, a chair, Internet access. I’m a freelance writer. It was all that I needed.

My office came with other things: a dirty brown carpet, drum sets and car parts, a pit bull, a vintage record player, old issues of Playboy, Hot Rod, Super Chevy and Motor Trend magazines. It also came with the Guys.

"The Guys" is my collective name for Kenny, the owner of the shop, which is known as the International House of Hot Rods, and the three other men who work there: Miles the Brit and Oliver and Olivier, both French. The window in front of my desk looks out onto the smaller of the shop’s two car lifts, and on any given day, when I look up from my computer, I can stare out at the underbelly, for example, of a '59 Dodge, a '63 Lincoln Continental, a classic Pontiac Bonneville or a Chevelle SS. (Five months ago, I didn’t know the difference between any of them.) And at an assortment of regal motorcycles -- Triumphs, Harleys and BSAs -- parked below.

Bridesmaid revisited

Sat, 02 Aug 2008 11:42:00 +0000

When a good friend asked 29-year-old Sarah Foreman to be a bridesmaid in her wedding, she was elated. She was also confident that the bride, her former college roommate with whom she'd struggled to afford low-cost, high-sodium, zero nutritional value meals, would be sensitive to Sarah's precarious financial situation.

Foreman lived in Los Angeles and worked at a nonprofit (read: she was broke). The bride, however, had long since traded Ramen noodles for steak frites. She and her fiancé each earned six figures and together they owned two homes.

As if the three destination bachelorette parties -- one in Santa Fe, one in Chicago and one in South Beach, Fla., which all the bridesmaids were expected to attend at their own cost -- weren't enough, the bride-to-be also told Foreman to set up a PayPal account for her wedding gifts and to encourage guests to make monetary contributions.

Before I continue, it should be noted that if my interview with Foreman were televised, she'd be wearing sunglasses and a never before and never again to be worn sweater, her face blurred and her voice altered with an electronic box. For this story, she asked that her name and identifying details be changed to prevent the bride from hiring a hit man. (In the course of my research, this was not an uncommon request.)