Green Money

Who: Lauren
Age: 35
City: New York, NY
Profession: Professional Gardener

“I can’t believe this!”

I just met Lauren. She shoots her head back towards the projection room and pierces her eyes. The crew, diligently trying to solve the projection issues, hide behind a small window that faces the theatre. They’re lucky to be missing the daggers. She’s not the only one complaining; people on all sides are harping on the delay. We have a right; it’s been an hour. “I have to be at a meeting tomorrow at 8:30am!” She huffs. I empathize; I too, am on roughly that same schedule. But this is the Tribeca Film Festival; glitches such as these are part of the festivities.

Lauren is a gardener in New York! I can’t get over it. “Gardens, like, real ones, are the symbol to wealth in New York.” I nod my head in full agreement. I mean, we all have the odd plant or two but who hires a gardener? “You should’ve seen the apartment I was in last week. The penthouse of a building that sits south of Central Park, so the park just looks like it’s been placed there for them. You see all of it.” Lauren works for a woman who has been catering greens to old money in New York for the past twenty years. “My boss is cool, and she knows how to handles these people.” Her boss has been generous enough to hand over some pretty deep-pocket accounts. “I mean, I work with some wealth, but she’s got the A list players of the city.” I ask her what’s the common profession for these people. “Finance, always finance.” I can only imagine your boss’ apartment, I say. Lauren points, “She actually lives across the street from here. She’s got a pretty messy, small, apartment. Nothing to write home about.”

Lauren just fell into this job. “I’m lucky. I guess.” What frustrates her is being at the mercy of other people, usually the wives. And it’s not as artistic as she thought it would be. She confesses, “I get more out of being a script supervisor for an indie than I do agreeing to some woman’s ugly choices in vegetation. Just let me do my job!” I can understand.

“Should I just leave?” She checks the time on her phone, and looks back at the projection window. “Ugh. I was treating myself tonight.” I don’t know what to say.

“Well, it was fun,” Andrea picks up her bag. We play courteous and she leaves.