Weekday At Bernie's

January 16, 2009 at 12:00 PM | by egw | Comment (1)

Jaunted assistant editor Ellen Wernecke went to visit America's least favorite financier.

If you heard a soft fwap emanating from New York City on Tuesday, it may have been the sound of thousands of Upper East Siders unsubscribing from the New York Times, which arguably committed a cardinal sin: It published the city address of one of its own.

That that member was Bernie Madoff, fraud superstar, may not matter much to those who find their East Side co-ops swamped with reporters this week. That Madoff's address is not hard to find on the Internet anyway--photos of said reporters show the building number or, at the very most, 10 minutes of Googling should do it--is separate as well. Maybe instead of sending a note on nice cardstock apologizing for the inconvenience, the disgraced financier should be giving his nearest the jewelry he can no longer send out of the country.

I didn't go to Madoff's penthouse to ruin his neighbors' lives, nor did I honestly expect to see the man himself, famously on house arrest after posting a $10 million bail. I can remember precisely once in the past year where I joined a crowd waiting for someone on the street, and that was Usain Bolt leaving "Letterman," only because I happened to be walking past and saw the commotion.

I got off a city bus at Fifth Avenue and walked east. Even before I could say to myself, "Hello, Upper East Siders!" I hit a JP Morgan branch, a Pucci, a gleaming Chanel store. On 64th Street a real life gaggle of gossip girls conferred on the sidewalk in tights and Uggs. The heat lamps under the awning at the Hotel Plaza Athenee burned for no one.

But crossing back to Lexington Avenue, there were branches I recognized from less august parts of town, a yoga center, a Hale & Hearty Soups. The building across the street from Bernie's was empty; the office next door advertised a "parlor floor" rental.

This is not where the other half lives. This is where people who don't want the other half to know how they live, live. New York is unique in that, unlike Los Angeles or Miami, there are only so many boundaries rich people can put between themselves in the world: They can't order a street to be blocked off just because they're having a bad day.

Which brings us to 133 East 64th St., an address which anyone can walk up to and past. That day, I was the only one. The news trucks are parked over on Lex, so if you didn't know it was currently being used as an expensive jail, nothing would tip you off. An indifferent doorman swept the walk out front; two cameras, draped, stood pointed at the doors without anyone to operate them. It's probably not worth it to wait in 20-degree weather for a man banned by the court from leaving his gilded cage. Those reporters, those crowds were probably needed downtown as yet another champion of industry announced unanticipated losses.

Embarrassed a little to be the only member of the audience, I retreated to Madison Avenue, ducking into a cafe that looked more casual than it actually was. Waiting for the bus, I noticed how the woman in front of me had matched her fur coat and hat. Silently, we watched as one workman held up a tipped-over stove in gleaming steel. The fingertips of his gray wool gloves were red.

133 East 64th Street is accessible via the 6, F or N/R/W trains or the M4 bus. Admission is free but restricted to those who actually live there. Nearby attractions include MarieBelle chocolate boutique, the Margo Feiden Galleries featuring the work of cartoonist Al Hirschfeld and the Asia Society and Museum.

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