by Kimmy Love
The unveiling of another prototype would be next year, a mere wait of seven months, nothing his company couldn’t manage. It was his company, he thought with sudden relish and sudden trepidation. His father had stepped down a year ago after suffering from a stroke, and a debilitating one at that.
He had been thrust into the corporate limelight, barely after finishing his master’s degree in business administration at the age of twenty-six. He had also quietly taken up additional courses in automotive engineering without his father’s knowledge. He didn’t want his subordinates to assume he was just some asshole who happened to be the son of the head of one of the newer and most successful luxury automotive companies in the world. He had apparently been labeled as such the day his father’s stroke made headlines.
He hadn’t seen his father in a month. He always made it a point to visit, going so far as to give a detailed account of every aspect of their company. Ben did this at his father’s bedside, despite the fact that his father drooled every few minutes and had poor muscle control and function. There wasn’t much to talk about, as Ben did most of the talking, anyway.
His father, Claus Eriksson, had once been called the ‘auto maverick,’ building up the company at the age of twenty-one with his car-crazy, engineering graduate father. The company had done well enough to rival the great Italian luxury cars of Ben’s generation now. His father had partial German ancestry, courtesy of his mother, which was why the main factory was in Germany with a satellite one in Sweden. Ben flew to these countries every month to check on them personally, while studying the possibility of opening a factory in America, where he had studied and lived since college.
Had it really been eight years ago that he had moved to America? Time hadn’t slowed down for him. Every day had gone on schedule, and if it didn’t, he made it work around his schedule. He had been raised to think and act like a CEO from the day he was old enough to know the difference between semi-automatic and automatic transmissions. Ben was the only child and was both nurtured and spoiled by his parents and grandparents.
There was less than an hour to go before landing, and he checked his phone for messages and emails. There were fifty since his flight had taken off seven hours ago. He ignored them all. He saw a message from his girlfriend. He ignored it, too. All it said was We need to talk. About what? The fact that she wanted to get married and he didn’t? There was so much more to life than settling down with someone for the remainder of his life. He dated her because she was hard to covet, like a vintage or prototype car. He changed cars like he changed girlfriends and didn’t give it much thought. That was how he preferred life. He always had the last word.
He wondered how people stayed so long in relationships. Didn’t it bore them? Because it certainly bored his father. He had two much younger siblings from his father’s affairs; his mother had turned a blind eye to them. Perhaps the stroke had been karma. Or maybe there had been a logical reason to it. His father worked too hard and didn’t exercise as often as before. Nonetheless, he still respected his father as a businessman and as his mentor.
The “fasten seat belt” sign had turned on without him noticing. Another flight attendant approached him and asked him to elevate his reclined chair and fasten his seat belt. He nodded and gave another quick and easy smile. He hid his temper from the public, and only a few people knew how his moods shifted with the slightest calculation errors and even grammatical ones.
The plane landed with ease, and he smiled, wondering who the pilot was. He had been planning to expand to aviation technology in a few months, seeing how well-received Orion’s car engines were. At the airport’s entrance, his chauffeur was waiting. He slid into the car his father had designed two years ago as his chauffeur placed his luggage in the trunk of the luxury sedan.
“Where to, sir?” the chauffeur asked.
“241 West 17th,” he said languidly.
The chauffeur said nothing more and drove to the senior Mr. Eriksson’s house. It was a slow drive, exacerbated by Thursday traffic going into Manhattan. He reached his father’s home an hour later and told his driver to wait in the kitchen for him, where he could help himself to a good snack with his father’s staff.
It was an elegant, five-story townhouse, with an elevator and twenty-two foot ceilings.
His father’s designated nurse greeted him with a smile. “Sir, I didn’t know you were back.”
“How is he?” Ben asked, placing his coat on a hanger by the door.
“I just fed him ten minutes ago. He’s awake. I think he’d be happy to see you.”
“Has anyone visited?”
“Your mother came to see him last week. Around twenty minutes, just to check up on the house and his medications.”
He thanked the middle-aged woman and proceeded for his father’s room on the second floor of the house. His mother hadn’t lived with his father since his first affair had been discovered. She lived close to him in another apartment on the Upper East Side. It was actually remarkable that his mother still found the kindness in her to see the man who had cheated on her numerous times.
He walked up the steel and granite staircase and proceeded for the half-open room with its red mahogany doors.
“Hey Pop,” he greeted his father.
The senior Eriksson was wide awake; his blue eyes darted to meet his son’s. He tried to talk but only managed to make gurgling sounds. Ben knew his father was frustrated at the slow progress of his speech; it showed in his eyes.
“Flight was all right,” Ben said, assuming that was what his father meant. He almost always assumed he knew what his father was saying, until his father grunted and tried to make crazy eyes if he didn’t like Ben’s assumptions.
“So, I’ve been to Stuttgart; remember the plans I showed you a year ago?” he began, then he took out his iPad, scrolling through some images. “Well, look at this. I present to you the Orion 7 Iris.”
He saw the flicker in his father’s eyes. His father approved, but Ben knew that if he could talk, he would be questioning a lot about it. “We’re planning to finalize key aspects, but other than that, it’s all good to go for the auto shows lined up for the remainder of the year.”
Some dribble fell on his father’s bib. Ben calmly wiped it away with a tissue and threw the tissue into the trash can close to his father’s bedside.
“You like it, huh?” he asked his father. “Well, I like it too. We’ve retained key aspects from the 94 Aurora. I’ve test-driven the 7 Iris. Still needs a bit of work, but it’s really beautiful. You’ll like the dashboard, too; I made it wider, with better touch sensitivity.”
Ben zoomed in on the key aspects that he knew would make the auto world abuzz with expectation and delight. The color was his father’s favorite, a deep, almost midnight blue. He saw his father’s eyes light up, another sign of approval.
His phone rang, and Ben excused himself with a sigh. He had just begun his momentum with his father and hated being interrupted from it. He saw it was his mother, and he headed for another room, one further down the hall.
“Ma,” he greeted.
“Are you back?” his mother asked from the other line.
“Just two hours ago,” he said.
“Are you at your father’s place?”
“Of course I am.”
“When are you coming to visit me? I never see you anymore.”
“You know you can interrupt me anytime at the office.”
“I don’t do that. It’s unprofessional.”
“Ma, you don’t even work for the company,” Ben said lightly.
“Would have and could have,” she replied tersely. “Now, please let me see you soon?”
Ben sighed. “Maybe the day after tomorrow or the day after that. Dinner?” he suggested.
“Park Hyatt?” his mother suggested.
“How about at your place?” he said tiredly. “I’m kind of tired of eating in restaurants all of the time. I’d like a home cooked meal I didn’t cook myself.�
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Grace Eriksson laughed. “Fine, your grandma’s gonna help.”
“But—”
Grace had by then hung up. Ben sighed again, looking at his iPhone’s screen for a few seconds. There was a reason he avoided his mother (and his grandmother). He didn’t want to think about it much, so he slipped the phone back into his pocket. Walking back into the room, he found that his father had dozed off while propped up by pillows on his bed.
He nodded to himself, knowing his father needed every chance of rest he could have. The whole thought of another near-successful prototype excited him and had worn him out. Walking down, he met up with his father’s nurse in the kitchen. A few of the household help and his chauffeur were there, watching a rerun of a football game.
“Shall we?” he said to the uniformed chauffeur.
“Where to, sir?” the chauffeur asked as soon as Ben was in the car.
“The office, please.”
Ben worked until it was eight in the evening. He had just gotten home when his phone rang again. He ignored it and took a long, warm shower first. He enjoyed the solitude of a shower; he had enjoyed it since childhood. It was probably cathartic to some degree, he thought to himself. Wash away all the shit of the day.
As soon as he had gotten out of the shower, he heard his phone ring again. He ignored it once more, telling himself he’d call back as soon as he put on clothes. He forgot about it the moment he plopped down on his favorite couch and turned on the television set to catch some late-night news.
For the eighth time, his phone rang. Oh damn it, he thought, hurriedly picking it up.
“Baby,” a pinched voice began.
“Hey,” he replied, closing his eyes and cradling his head on the fluffy headrest. He braced himself for another long conversation, reclining his legs on the low rise table across him.
“You arrived today?”
“Yep,” he responded to his girlfriend of one year.
“You didn’t text me at least?” Denise Holt sounded irate. “I had to find out from your mom an hour ago.”
“Sorry, I was really busy. Wait, you called my mom?”
“I wasn’t sure when you were coming back. I can’t believe you didn’t think of telling me.”
“Like I said, I was really busy. First the airport, then I had to see the old man, then I raced back to the office to get some paperwork done.”
“You have people to do that for you.”
“You know that’s not how I work.”
“Micromanaging isn’t good for you.”
“That’s how I like it,” Ben replied, feeling a tad bit annoyed at her insistence of avoiding micromanagement. She wanted him to adapt to her style of working, bossing people around in her father’s company.
“Anyway, lunch tomorrow?”
“I need to check my schedule.”
“You make your schedule,” Denise told him.
Ben didn’t like where the conversation was going. She would coerce him again into dropping a few meetings just to meet up with her for lunch and maybe a quickie, although he didn’t mind the latter.
“Fine, let’s have lunch.”
He had already decided to break up with her tomorrow.
Chapter2
Sierra’s heart was pounding as she walked up the street, fresh from her first New York subway ride. She was excited, and with good reason, holding the card in her hand and placing it back into her trench coat and then holding it inside her trench coat. It was a good luck charm, no matter how stupid it sounded.
She passed by old buildings and newer-looking ones. The streets were full of busy-minded people whose paces outmatched hers easily. Some bumped into her without apologizing, and she suddenly felt like a little country bumpkin. Some of these people were rude to a T or were maybe just in a hurry. She didn’t want to hurry up. Despite the cold weather, she could feel her temperature elevating, and she didn’t want to break out into sweat upon entering the agency.
She saw a four-story, quaint-looking commercial building with large windows and a brick façade. This was it. She took a deep breath and took the elevator to the third floor. It was surprising that the building wasn’t too busy on a weekday. She got off at the floor where Ramp Agency was billeted. It was apparently a whole floor, a whole empty floor.
There had to be some mistake. No one was here. Just a few tables, some empty filing cabinets, and a few lonely chairs. The place was a mess with papers strewn about. Its glass doors were wide open, as if to welcome her mockingly. She checked her phone again. She had the right floor. She fished for her good luck charm. She had the right address.
Sierra looked confused, and she took a step into the agency. Someone might still be here.
“Hello?” she called out.
There were outlines of large frames on the walls that had been stained from years of display. She saw folders on the floor with pictures of various young women in different poses, all fully clothed with poker faces. There were a few wires scattered about as well. What in the world was going on? She carefully avoided the folders, suddenly apprehensive about checking the papers inside it to at least find out if this was some ugly, totally-not-funny prank.
She must have the wrong floor.
“Can I help you, miss?” a voice interrupted her.
She spun around and saw a mousy-looking woman wearing a stylish jacket and jeans with ballet flats.
“Is this Ramp?” Sierra began, hope springing into her again. Yes, she must have the wrong floor.
“Was,” the woman corrected her.
“Sorry?”
“Look, honey, if you’re here to achieve your dreams of becoming a supermodel, find it somewhere else.”
“Mrs. Chesterton asked me to come over—”
“And that was before she died, I bet.”
“She’s dead?” Sierra whispered, unable to believe it, “but I—”
“The agency’s been dissolved,” the woman told her brusquely.
“But you’re here.”
“I forgot to grab a file from my desk.”
“You were Mrs. Chesterton’s colleague?”
“Her secretary for five years. Mrs. Chesterton died two weeks ago from a heart attack.”
“But what will—”
“Happen to you? Did she promise you anything?” the woman interrupted.
“No, but she told me to apply if I was interested.”
“Well, I’m sorry to tell you this, but you’re gonna have to apply somewhere else.”
“But I don’t know anyone here.”
“Neither did I when I first moved here. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” she walked past Sierra, with Sierra towering over the woman by at least four inches.
“Please, I need—”
“We all need a job; we all lost our jobs here. Some of our models were luckily absorbed. But I’m not a model now, am I?” she said bitterly, pausing before digging into some papers from a desk’s cupboard.
Sierra didn’t know what to say. She was still trying to absorb the shock of the news. The woman must’ve sensed this because her tone softened.
“Look, if I were you, I’d go back to my hometown and work like any other normal person would work, and that’s work hard,” she said.
Sierra watched as the woman grabbed a charger and some papers, stashing them into her bag. Then she walked past Sierra, who was still glued to the same spot. She eyed Sierra and approved of Vanessa’s choice. Vanessa Chesterton always had a critical eye, and this young and lost-looking stranger was definitely model material, supermodel material. But then, so were the many jobless models. She sighed and took a breath.
“Good luck,” she simply told Sierra as she walked into the elevator.
Sierra watched the woman disappear from her view, trying to make sense of what was happening.
“Do you plan to stay here forever?” Vanessa had asked her. It was a question that surprisingly joggled Sierra’s thoughts.
She had found herself shaking her h
ead. It was an honest response.
“And you think you can afford it while working here?” Mrs. Chesterton had pressed on, knowing full well where this conversation was leading.
“Well, this is an opportunity you might like,” Mrs. Chesterton had told her.
An opportunity that had fizzled out as soon as she’d stepped into the agency’s office. The sweet and kind woman was dead. And here she was, alone and friendless in New York, with no other source of income. The secretary had told her to go home. Going home meant defeat. There was pride in her, after all. She wanted to prove to her parents that she could do it. She had persuaded them to allow it. Sierra had researched Ramp, and it had been a legit agency.
What was she going to tell her parents? She couldn’t stand the idea of taking that six-hour train ride back to Rushport with nothing up her sleeve. Perhaps she had let the notion of her being beautiful go to her head. She wasn’t a standout. Just another, better-looking face in New York. Good God, what was she going to do now? She took a deep breath, trying to calm her suddenly-frazzled nerves. She had once tried smoking a cigarette in high school, and she’d hated it. Now, smoking a whole pack of cigarettes didn’t seem like a bad idea.
Sierra found her posture slumping as she walked out of the building. She leaned against the brick staircase and closed her eyes. She had no one here. And her funds were going to run out in a week for rent alone. Tyrone had booked her in a sad-looking apartment with a broken heater, a single bed, and a stained bathroom that also had broken tiles. It looked like a crack den, but she had told herself it would be temporary. That temporary suddenly seemed permanent.
She dialed Tyrone’s number, but he didn’t answer her call. She decided to walk home instead of riding the subway. It would take her at least forty minutes, but she needed to calm her nerves. She took out her phone and checked online for news about Vanessa Chesterton. There were hundreds of articles about her, the most recent was the announcement in a New York daily of her passing, exactly two weeks ago.
