francesca Spiegel

The little girl

She must be about six. She’s wearing gold Tinkerbell earrings and a sweater with sequin heart patches on the sleeves. In another land, another little girl just about her age had sewn them all on one by one. Little fingers are best for little details such as beads and sequins. This is how it starts: you’re born part of the problem, if you're not born wretched. She's playing with the water in the Beverly Hills fountain, because Grampy lets her.

A silver fox

Grampy’s keeping an eye on her. More salt than pepper these days, you won’t catch him putting shoe polish on his hair any more. He wears his age with pride and with a velvet jacket, pinstripe no less. Old age comes for all of us, and what can you do, besides keep a paleo diet, track your steps on the Apple watch, and call yourself “experienced.” He uses words like “seasoned” on LinkedIn, where he's still listed on the boards of several startups he’s helped some young men build. They remind him of himself when he was younger—so he invested in them.

Bright young men

Clean shaven, crisp collars, wide-eyed and keen to learn, they're anxious to preserve the old order. They’ve built the tech to set the clocks back on worker’s rights, reinstate below-minimum wages even in industries that previously had pride, such as cab driving. They call it “disruption” but that’s just a lack of imagination. It’s a sure trait of tyranny when the kings eat first, and their software eats the world.

The guy who doesn’t fit in

Keto granola, cashew yogurt, ginger-and-ashwagandha shots: a cornucopia of Erewhon creations just splatted on the walkway, tinned fish sliding down the incline. Nobody helps this moron, who just stumbled over his own foot and who's now cursing the stupid bags, why are they paper, and why do they always tear! He has a beer belly, and also, he needs a haircut. Apparently, nobody has told him that these things matter. So he’ll never know why he won’t end up as a billionaire—a dream he believes he’s dreamed himself, when in fact it was planted there for him, so the shop girls could sell him a fat watch.

The shop girls

They commute in from god knows where but when the day is done, look around, you’re on Rodeo Drive, baby! For years now, the mannequins in windows have dressed for the same few themed parties: Christmas, beach vacay, the Mad Hatters tea party, riding horses on the merry-go-round, florals for spring (groundbreaking!), a flight in a hot air balloon, and kingdom of the animals… That’s all these windows will ever know, flat as a tradwife Instagram account that only knows spatulas, cookie dough and frilly apron; flat as the shoe of a waitress.

Young women with their hair professionally blowdried

In extra-high heels, bare shoulders with burgundy ostrich-feather sleeve details and short cream skirts, they’re in line outside Novikov’s restaurant. There's a preponderance of blonde, thin, young women, because even if your internet would have you believe that we’ve left those beauty standards behind, rich men can still buy what they want, and it is this. Looking this polished takes hours of preparation, but these girls have invested in themselves, in order that the right kind of man may invest in them. Influencers are egging both sides on, so both think they’re in power, tricking the other and getting what they want. Both sides think this is what success looks like.

The older couple

They look like they’re waiting for someone. She’s got her gray-bleached hair in a pearly clasp, and keeps turning her head nervously like a canary. Her man paces the perimeter, comes back with a hot drink in a paper cup. A little of it spills, she fiddles with the plastic lid. Yet even after she’s done rummaging through her frayed Gucci bag for a napkin and rubbing the tail of his coat, nobody comes. Reading the mix of anger and anxiety in both of their frowns, it must be one of their kids they’re waiting for.

But the kid is a grown man, and he’s not coming. He’s told them he’s not coming. As parents, they refuse to believe that. They’ll leave, shaking their heads. It’s easy to feel sorry for them when we don’t know what they’ve done.

Tourists

Boyfriends crouch down on one knee to take good-angle photos of girlfriends dressed up specially for their night in Beverly Hills, complete with the mandatory Chanel quilted-leather bag. At magic hour, the California sunset glows up people’s cheeks and everyone looks gorgeous. Fairy lights switch on, wrapped around the stems of palm trees—Cuban Royal palms, I think, non-native like everything else—begging you to suspend disbelief. Nothing bad could ever happen to you in a place like this—isn’t that a great line?

They only had this bench because the hotel complex, in order to secure their development permit, must have been forced to include a few square feet of public space. Visitors can sit at garden tables and eat a $15 crepe, or drink Starbucks and watch the world go by, the best-dressed world. If you go into the little quiet back streets, you might even spot a celebrity, jewelry shopping.

First wives club

These ladies walk comfy in soft sneakers with golden plaquettes. One of them is in a hot pink business suit. Stopping before a store window, the three of them debate. Arthritic and manicured hands mime the shape of big collars, the feel of a thin skirt fabric. In the window, the mannequins are dressed for the beach: white and blue horizontal stripes, sailor collar, embroidered with dolphins and starfish in tiny beads and sequins.

That’s such an adorable top, she thinks. I should get it for my granddaughter.

People in Beverly Hills

francesca Spiegel