The Designer

by Aubrey Parker

  “You know what I mean, asshole. You like her. Who are you, and what have you done with Hampton Brooks? That’s why you’re so fucked up lately. You’re, like, lovesick or something.”

  I scoff.

  “You went out on real dates, didn’t you?”

  “We had lunch.”

  And ice cream.

  “I’ll bet you talked about your feelings. You know, her hopes and dreams.”

  “Just that she didn’t want a factory in her town. She got super pissed.”

  “But you said you discussed it. That she knew all about it in advance.”

  “We did discuss it. But I think we got some lines crossed. Her dad said—”

  “Wait. You went on dates and talked to her father?”

  “Do you want to help me out, or not?”

  Mateo raises his hands. “Okay, okay. Sorry. Continue telling me about when you talked to the father of the girl you love.”

  I give him a look, then continue.

  “I guess the building meant something to her. The whole family used to go to a festival where they blocked off the street, had a few chintzy little rides, lots of fried food and drinks. I think there may even have been a place to bob for apples.”

  “What happened to the festival?”

  “It shut down. Years ago.”

  “So how is that your fault?”

  “It’s not. But apparently Williamsville sold the Billings & Pile Building to Newport when they were in a pinch. They tried to buy it back when a machine shop went in, then kept trying after it went bust. They were about to make a deal when I started showing interest.”

  “Oh, that sucks for them. The price went up, and the city couldn’t buy. You ruined their chance.”

  I nod.

  Mateo half-shrugs. “I still don’t see the problem. Shit happens. So you’re there, and the city isn’t. What of it? Maybe you could start the festival back up.”

  I give Mateo another stare.

  “Well, why not?” he asks.

  “I’ve already looked into it. I own the building, and the city obviously owns the street. I can’t throw a festival on the street because I don’t own it, and the city can’t throw a festival there, even if I donated the money because local ordinance says they can’t block my building’s front and impede my ability to do business.”

  “Can’t you just make an agreement? You and the city, working together?”

  “There’s an ordinance against that, too. Adjacent landowners can’t throw combined parties of any sort. It’s like an anti-block-party provision or something. When I asked, the clerk said it was something they did to prevent Newport from trying to buy off its neighbors. Apparently, the Newport Corporation is filled with cocks.”

  “There’s an ordinance against that?” Mateo says. “Who does that town think it is, Long Beach, California?”

  I stand and take the line Mateo spools out to me.

  “Doesn’t matter. Whatever the reason, she’s pissed at me and doesn’t seem like she’s going to stop. So I don’t have someone to run the Pillar Collection in this new factory I’m about to build. It’s all cleaned out. Structurally sound and up to code. The building is ready to go. But I sort of wonder if I should bother to take it the rest of the way and fill it with machines. This whole mess has made me lukewarm on even making the Pillar Collection.”

  “But you pushed the rest of us so hard for your idea.”

  Knowing how it will sound, I say, “It was our idea. Stacy’s and mine.”

  I think Mateo will mock me for the sad note I hear in my voice, but he doesn’t. Either he’s tired of pretending I’m attached to Stacy for reasons beyond wanting her to run the Pillar Collection, or we’re both realizing that he isn’t pretending at all.

  It’s taken this verbal abuse by Mateo to see it, but I’m beginning to suspect the real problem isn’t that Stacy wants nothing to do with Expendable Chic. I think I’m bothered most that she wants nothing to do with me. If Mateo isn’t making fun of me now, at this juiciest of opportunities, it’s probably because he feels sorry for me. And that sucks. Hard.

  His face is so unlike normal Mateo. I’ve never seen his sympathy, and I don’t like it aimed my way.

  “Look …”

  I have to nip this in the bud. “It’s fine. I’ll either find another operations director to run the line, or I’ll abandon it.”

  “Hampton …”

  “I can put one of our standard factories in that building. Doesn’t have to be a whole super-quality setup. In fact, that’s a hell of a lot easier. Nothing wrong with a sweatshop in America, right?”

  Mateo doesn’t laugh. He waits until my put-on smile fades. Then he leans against the rock face, slowly composing his next words.

  He opens his mouth, and I brace myself for Mateo to tell me that it’ll be all right if I cared for this girl — that it would never have worked out anyway, that I’m a rich man and there are plenty of fish in the sea.

  Instead, he says, “You’re a fucking idiot, you know that?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You think I’ve never had a breakup? I have. Everyone has. When I was in fourth grade, Judy Gregorski told me we’d grow up, get married, and live in Switzerland. Then she got tired of me and hooked up with Jack Reyes. Now Jack’s pouring concrete and I own PEZA. Guess that bitch made the wrong choice.”

  “This isn’t about a breakup. This is about me needing someone to fill a position at my company.” But I’m not fooling Mateo or myself, so when he ignores me, I drop the argument.

  “Point is, look at what you’re breaking up over. Stacy didn’t like someone else’s crayons better. She got pissed because you bought her building and are putting a factory in her town.”

  “Which she should have known was coming. Because we basically discussed it.”

  “I don’t know if you got the memo, but there’s a rumor out there that sometimes men and women misunderstand each other.”

  “Doesn’t matter. It’s done, and I have a business to run.”

  “This is the part where you’re a fucking idiot. You’re a smart guy most of the time, Hampton, but you don’t stop often enough to think about your why.”

  “My why?”

  Mateo slaps the rock. “I’m trying to buy a mountain, right? Why am I doing that?”

  There’s an expectant pause. I guess I’m supposed to answer. “You’re trying to buy a mountain because you want to own a mountain.”

  I’ve walked into a trap. Mateo slaps the rock again.

  “No. Idiot. I’m buying a mountain because I want to run a rock climbing challenge. Because I want to spend my days outdoors instead of in an office, and I can manage PEZA just fine from wherever I am, not just at headquarters. I’m buying a mountain because it seems like the perfect vehicle to get what I actually want, not because the mountain is special in and of itself. If it turned out that my goals would be met better by digging a giant pit and climbing out of it — or by buying an outdoor rock gym, made entirely of artificial walls — then I’d do that instead, and fuck the mountain. Don’t you see?”

  “Of course, but …”

  “Know your why, Hampton. I know mine, but you clearly haven’t considered yours.”

  “Yes, I have.”

  “No, you haven’t. You bought the Billings & Pile Building because you wanted a place to put your all-American clothing line. But you secretly also wanted to please Stacy. That was your hidden, second why. The problem with buying the building is that it earned you your first why but not the second.”

  “I don’t see your point.”

  “Don’t buy the building. Owning the building isn’t your true goal any more than owning the mountain is mine. Choose a better option. One that gets you both of the things you want, rather than only one of them.”

  “But I already bought the building.”

  “Sell it.”

  “But then I won’t have a place in America, which was the whole point of this to begin with! The co
mpany’s problems remain. I still need an American plant. Too many people think we only run sweatshops in third-world countries, so we need to prove them wrong. And dammit, once Stacy gave me the idea, I started to feel like we need a quality wing to the company, too. She said some things about Expendable Chic’s true values being … well, never mind; I believed her. And it did make me want to do the Pillar Collection. But you were right about the numbers not working for an American plant. The only reason I could make this work was that I knew the lowball deal I could negotiate on the Billings & Pile building. It had to be that specific building. Not to mention all the money I’ve already poured into it, to fix it up and make it habitable. Am I just supposed to eat that cost, then start over somewhere else? How the hell can I sell the building and still make this work?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  STACY

  I’M SWEEPING THE FLOOR OF The Perfect Fit when I first notice the smell.

  It draws me like a siren’s song. I find myself drifting toward my propped-open front door like a floating cartoon, nose forward and eyes closed, toward something pleasant.

  There’s a vendor’s cart outside. I have no idea why. This isn’t that type of street. I’ve never seen one anywhere near my shop. Even in downtown, we only get them during special events.

  But it’s not just any cart.

  It’s one selling donuts.

  And it’s not just any cart selling donuts. It’s the same cart — selling pumpkin donuts — that mom and dad and I used to visit every time we went to that old street festival in front of what my mother calls the smithery.

  Curious, I walk to the cart. The man is fat, with a little mustache. Same guy, if my memory serves.

  “Hi.”

  “Hello, Miss.”

  “You’re selling donuts? Here?”

  “Yes, Miss. You want a bag?”

  They smell amazing. “How much?”

  “Six dollars.”

  The donuts are miniature, and the bags are tiny. Two dollars would be overpriced. But I pull cash out of my pocket anyway. “You’d get more customers at three. People around here don’t like to spend money.”

  “Not up to me, Miss. Carnival pricing.”

  “What carnival?”

  “Up there, Miss.” He points.

  I strain to listen, because now that I’m out here, I do hear something.

  I give the man his money, but he has to call after me to give me my donuts. I’m walking slowly up the slight hill, rounding onto Telford Avenue. I hear the clatter and clank of activity. More commotion than I’d expect during the week, at this time of day, in this part of town.

  I can hear a few kids laughing. I look at my phone. I suppose school is out by now, but what the hell are they doing up here?

  I realize where I’m headed, toward that stupid building. I’ve built a blind spot in my head. On my mental map, there’s nothing in this part of the city. It’s a big black hole that once held my childhood.

  But now that I’m closer, I see strange things. Things that I remember, even though they are from years ago. Things I never expected to see again.

  Thick black electrical cords and hoses, bound into bundles, snake through the streets. Blocked roads, detouring traffic.

  And when I emerge onto Elm, I see that it’s filled with food carts, booths, laid-out family games. Not a lot of people yet, but I know festival prep when I see it.

  Vendors are blowing up balloons.

  Roadie-types are milling between the new booths, checking connections.

  Food trailers are prepping, filling the air with the scent of nostalgia.

  And the police horses. As in my memories, the police horses are outside of the stable next door.

  Across the street, the Billings & Pile building looms. It’s enormous. The festival is in its foreground, its entrances all obscured. There’s one way in, through the emergency exits. If Hampton were here to see what’s happened during his construction, he’d be pissed.

  I look at the building to see what he’s done to it.

  But the chimneys aren’t belching.

  There is no ridiculous, eyesore of an Expendable Chic store facade at the forward corner.

  In fact, there’s something wrong with the old building that it takes me a while to place. It’s something across the front. Having to do with the original brick, or what’s on it.

  But then I have it. There used to be a plain-looking sign bearing the name of the candle company, but it’s gone. There’s no sign at all in its place, for Expendable Chic or anything else. Even the brackets have been removed, and the anchor holes patched. In its place, sprawling across the front is this stencil in white paint: Billings & Pile Smithery.

  Someone’s re-done the original signage. It was there the entire time, but faded. Now, while still looking original and perfectly weathered, I can read it just fine. Same as a century before.

  “I see you got my donuts,” says a voice.

  I look back and see Hampton Brooks.

  “They’re not your donuts,” is all I can think to say. But obviously, he had the cart placed where I’d see it. He spoke to the vendor. All of this, somehow, is his doing.

  “Well, can I have one?”

  “No.”

  “Maybe I’ll get a corn dog, then.”

  I’m still shell-shocked. The festival is just as I remember, save the relocated donut cart. It’s the wrong time of year, but it’s here and happening. I’m having trouble keeping my mouth closed.

  “I don’t suppose you want to ride the Tilt-a-Whirl. It looks phenomenally unsafe, and the guy running it looks like he’s on heroin.”

  “You can’t just buy me off,” I say.

  “Fine. Get your own Tilt-a-Whirl tickets. I don’t want to be responsible for getting you on that death trap.”

  “I mean by throwing this festival. You can’t just buy your way into my good graces.”

  Hampton is looking at the street full of workers and early festival-goers. He doesn’t look over when he says, “Oh, no. I didn’t do this.”

  “You didn’t?”

  “No. The city did it. They wouldn’t let me do something like this no matter how much I wanted it. The local ordinances around here are really strict.”

  But obviously, something is up. I’m not an idiot. There was a donut cart practically on my front stoop, and Hampton put it there. This is happening too early in the year, and shouldn’t be happening at all. He just walks up to me while I’m surveying the scene? No. That man is behind this.

  “What is this, Hampton?”

  “It’s a good time for all. At least that’s what I’ve heard.”

  “Why is it happening? What did you do?”

  “I didn’t do anything.”

  “Why does your building say ‘Billings & Pile Smithery’ across the front? Shouldn’t it have some big, ugly Expendable Chic logo? You know, to modern up this dull little town?”

  Hampton doesn’t flinch. “That’s not my building.”

  “You own it.”

  He shakes his head. “The city of Williamsville owns it. This festival couldn’t be happening if it didn’t.”

  That’s true. I remember the heated discussions at the town hall meetings, about this very thing. The city enacted the ordinance to keep Williamsville from coercion, but it ended up putting a nail in the festival’s coffin forever after.

  “You sold it to the city?”

  He nods.

  “They couldn’t afford it.”

  “They could afford my price.”

  “Which was?”

  “One dollar.”

  I look over at him.

  “I’d have made it zero, but there had to be a monetary exchange unless I wanted to figure out how to donate it. The city would have to form a charitable LLC … oh, it’s a whole thing. I’m a busy man with a company to run.”

  I look at the building. I know, without him telling me, that Hampton had the white stencil re-done. I can’t believe what I’m hear
ing. Or seeing.

  “What about your factory?”

  “Plant.”

  “Fine. What about your plant?”

  He nods. “It’s in there.”

  “You said you sold the building to the city.”

  “I did. Then I leased it back from them. I took one hell of a loss on the building itself, but my CFO likes it that way. It’s a whole tax thing. We lose now, then make it up over time. The city gave me a very nice, low rent as a condition of sale. And it’s a 99-year lease, so we’re now a permanent part of this town whether you like it or not.”

  I look up at Hampton. He’s trying to pretend he doesn’t see me looking, but he sees me fine. His smile is small, but it isn’t a smirk. It’s clear he’s pleased with my reaction. Confident. Kind of like an asshole, but the sort I’m finding it harder and harder to hate.

  He finally looks down. “Would you like a tour?”

  I blink at the building. “It’s done?”

  “We move fast. It was cleared out by the time I gave up trying to call you. After I signed with the city, we still had 30 days with an expedited commercial closing. Plenty of time to do all that the lease allowed us to do.

  “‘What the lease allowed you to do’? But you were in control of the lease!”

  “We set some of the conditions, yes. But as I said, this town’s council is a stickler about ordinances. Zoning laws. What kinds of things they’d let a big, bad corporation like Expendable Chic do within its borders.” He takes my hand. “Come. I want to show you all the things we’ve ruined, dragging this backward little burg into the 21st century with our modern, disgusting factory.”

  Hampton leads. I follow. I’m still not sure of the feel of my hand in his. Twenty minutes ago, I was minding my little alterations shop, never wanting to see him again. Now he’s here, skin on skin, and all I can do is let him drag me.

  We move around to the back, where a door next to the loading bay has been propped open. The first glance steals my breath. Someone — Hampton, maybe the city — has had the brick restored, and all of the original woodwork re-done. The big space is bright. It looks like something from old Philadelphia, like an original town hall.

  “We don’t need much in the way of a loading bay,” Hampton says. “Trucks may pull up here from time to time, but they’ll be small, and half the time I bet they won’t have high enough decks to use the big door. We can load and unload mostly by hand, and there’s a small forklift over there if we get lucky matching deck heights.”