The Designer

by Aubrey Parker

  “It’s pretty simple. Competitors would climb up one of the faces on the north side, then run down the south. Then they’d turn around, make an ascent on the South, and clamber down the north.”

  “You can’t exactly ‘clamber down’ the faces here. They’re sheer.”

  “Then whatever this is. A path like we’re on now. The place has enough diversity.”

  “In my experience, the climbers who come to the nearby peaks aren’t exactly runners. And vice-versa.”

  I lean forward, finally more engaged than distracted. I’m passionate about my business, but with all the people under me, it runs more or less without my help these days. Today’s brightest passion has shifted to building something new, in a different realm. I’ve always been attracted to shattering thoughts around human potential — testing the limits we all believe we have, then growing with the discovery that those limits are shadows. This race is one thing to explore. One aspect of a larger vision that requires this mountain to bloom.

  “That’s just the thing, Damon,” I say. We’ve talked endlessly these past months as I’ve tried to convince him to sell. We’re friends from afar, I suppose, and his footing only makes me respect the man more. “Climbers aren’t usually runners, and runners aren’t usually climbers. Powerlifters tend to be neither, but there are parts of my challenge where I’d like to incorporate brute strength too, like a section where you have to move boulders. People get into perceptual ruts. They come to believe things that aren’t true just because someone said they used to be.” I spread my arms, puffing my chest a little. “Look at me. Do I have a climber’s build?”

  “Depends on the climber,” Damon says.

  “There are tall climbers. Strong, bigger climbers. Look at Chris Sharma or Dani Andrada, for instance. Or Alex Puccio, on the women’s side. But they’re rare. Most of them look like Adam Ondra. Skin and bones.”

  “I don’t know who those people are,” Damon says.

  “I’ve been talking to a lot of guys. You met some of them when I came up with Hampton Brooks. They’re big. And on the other side, I’ve talked to powerful runners — people from a sport that’s mostly legs, but these people have muscular forearms and backs. Weightlifters who look little and light — easier for climbing — but who are strong as hell. Do you see what I’m saying?”

  Damon has heard parts of this before. It’s clear he doesn’t get it, but he always plays along. Or maybe he gets it fine, and his passion is a only pebble to my boulder. He’s smiling, teeth bright against tan skin.

  “Not really, Mateo,” he says.

  “I just don’t understand why people tend to decide they’re one thing, then never try anything else. A person will say she’s an intellectual, then never try a sport — especially after thirty. I’m a businessman, and people are surprised that I’m an athlete. Why is that?”

  “Folks just specialize, I suppose.”

  I shake my head. “They settle. Then they wonder why life doesn’t seem to have lived up to their childhood expectations. The sky’s the limit when you’re young. I told my parents I wanted to fly fighter jets when I was a kid. Hell, I thought I could grow up to be Batman.” I laugh. “Everyone indulges kids because that’s just how kids are. They believe in things.” Now I half-scoff. “How foolish of them.”

  “This race of yours, it makes them believe in something?”

  “People come out of near-death experiences with renewed vigor. They’ll endure something awful and emerge triumphant, thankful that they went through it. We’ve heard stories about old men and women who’ve lifted impossibly heavy objects to save people they love, without even thinking about it. The limits were only in their heads.”

  “Look. I get that the best climbers aren’t likely to be the best runners or vice versa. But the people you let me bring out over summer? They’ve helped me scope a lot of the rock. Sure, I see the potential for some punishing routes. But there are plenty of scrambles that will likely be graded as ‘advanced beginner’ climbs. Anyone who trains a bit can climb them. Same for the running parts of the race. I wouldn’t pick long, straight stretches where only elite trail runners could succeed. I’d pick technical paths, hard to navigate and long as hell, but do-able by any non-runner who puts in the time. We want to take people who think they’re tough and make them cry. Let them emerge victorious and see themselves in a whole new way. It’ll carry over into everything else they do. I’ve seen it happen. Personal relationships will improve after they’ve tackled the mountain. They’ll get better at their jobs or leave bad ones behind them.”

  I’ve fallen into waxing philosophical. It happens when I discuss this stuff. I get so fucking sick of people telling each other what they can’t do without so much as trying.

  Damon absorbs for a moment, then frowns and nods. Maybe he’s getting this more than I imagined.

  “It’s not a bad notion,” he says. “I’ve thought about letting guests climb here, but I didn’t want to mess with the insurance. And we’ve intentionally kept things small. There are the homes you’ve seen, and some larger buildings. Most of it is legacy. From my father’s days. We’ve kept up some, let others go. I never wanted to run a resort, so I more or less didn’t. But I like what you see here, Mateo. It’s better than mining or cutting trees for lumber.”

  We’ve had that discussion before, too. It’s something I’ve used to prod him. We both know he inherited this land and, after thirty years owning it alone, has tired of the burden. Deep down, I know he wants to sell. I’ve been trying to show him that it’s right to do so and that I’m a buyer who will respect the land rather than raze it down and exploit his legacy.

  I wait, letting silence bargain for me. Then Damon sighs.

  “I like you, Mateo,” he finally says. “I think you’d be a good father to my granddaddy’s mountain, and I think it’d suit you. I believe in what you say you want to do, and I believe in all I think you want to do here, along with all you haven’t told me because you think I’d find it boring.”

  I open my mouth, but Damon raises a hand.

  “I’m getting older. I have other things I want to do, too, and it includes more than running along ledges and cutting dead trees. I’m game. For the right price, under the right terms, you’ve sold me. Except for one thing.”

  I already know what the “one thing” is. I make my face neutral, so I don’t react in a way that’ll offend Damon when he says it.

  “Elizabeth loves this place. She wants to take it over, and keep it in the family.”

  Time for a direct talk. I try to be respectful and not overstep my boundaries, but this trip has, from the start, felt like my last good push. I won’t get another chance if I lose him now. And of all the land I’ve looked into, Damon’s mountain is the only spot for sale that’s close to what I need.

  “Damon,” I say in my let’s-be-honest voice, “you said yourself that your daughter isn’t an outdoorsy type. What will she do with a mountain?”

  “She has her plans.”

  “But are they just plans? Will they ever take shape?”

  Damon’s eyes tick away. He sighs again. And in that, I think I have my answer.

  And as a two-in-one, I also get an idea for my way to end this. To solve the problem, once and for all. Because although I’ve never met Elizabeth, I’ve gotten what I think is a fair picture of her through some things Damon has said. I know Damon is wealthy thanks to his inheritance, and he has been since his twenties. Elizabeth went to a college so exclusive and snooty they don’t even have to teach you anything. I looked it up; the place costs a hundred grand per year. She drives a BMW M4; I took a ride in it with Damon once when he explained she’d swapped it so she could borrow his truck. I doubt Damon has ever denied his princess a thing. I’ve even seen her handwriting and could smell pretense and privilege in every paragraph.

  Elizabeth doesn’t want a mountain. She wants to keep Daddy’s property close because she dislikes the thought of losing an asset and isn’t the one who ha
s to work up here every damn day. It’s selfish. But fortunately for Damon and me, I know how to wedge a crowbar under just about anyone.

  “Let me talk to her.”

  “Talk to Elizabeth?” He says this as if it’s amusing.

  “Sure. Let’s be honest. I want this mountain and you want to sell it. Tell me if I’m wrong.”

  “You’re not wrong. But—”

  “I just want a chance to try,” I say, holding up a hand. “For both of us.”

  After a moment, Damon shrugs. He seems a little amused, then serious. We stand as if to continue our hike — the last leg of my new owner’s tour, if I play things right.

  “All right,” Damon says. “I’ll set it up. But I just want to warn you. Because I like you, kid, and you should be prepared.”

  “Prepared for what?”

  The almost-smile becomes a laugh.

  “I love my little girl very much,” Damon says. “But she can be difficult.”

  Did you enjoy this sample chapter? Be sure to pick up your copy — TRILLIONAIRE BOYS’ CLUB: THE RESTAURATEUR — available now!

  SHIT YOU SHOULD KNOW

  (You have to know I’m a man for the story I’m about to tell to make sense. So for those of you who didn’t know that already (damn ambiguous-gender names!), consider yourself informed.)

  Just a few days ago, I got a DHL package in the mail from a company called Proper Cloth. Inside the package was a folded dress shirt. I removed the fancy little stainless stays they use to keep the shirt’s shape (no pins; that was a nice touch) and shook it out. Then I tried it on. It fit like a glove.

  It wasn’t that way last time I got this shirt, before I returned it to ask for alterations. Last time it was close, but a bit tight through the chest and with too much fabric around my lower back. I’m broad at the shoulders and narrow at the waist. It’s a hell of a shape to find a shirt that fits properly, so when my business partner, Sean, got me credit at Proper Cloth as a gift, it was cool to be able to order one specifically to fit. And when it wasn’t exactly right, it was cool to be able to take photos and send them in for analysis … and for the tailors there to re-make the shirt to fit even better.

  The second time, they got it perfect.

  Such was the experience of my first made-to-measure shirt — just one rung down from true bespoke tailoring, which is what Stacy does in the book you’ve just finished.

  I wouldn’t go so far as to say I’m “into clothes,” but I do care how I look. At some point a few years ago, I noticed that half of my dress shirts looked like dresses on me. I even saw video of me wearing one such shirt at a speaking gig and it was like I’d donned a mumu. That wasn’t cool.

  The shirts weren’t the problem; it was the fit that was off. That had to be fixed, because … well, you know how once you notice something one place, you start seeing it everywhere? I started to notice people who looked like hell but didn’t need to look like hell. I went in to see a banker and the dude was wearing a sport coat that was maybe three sizes too big. He looked dumpy and unprofessional — not like someone I wanted to trust with my money. I didn’t want to be that guy.

  It’s not about vanity. It’s about unrealized potential. You are you, so shouldn’t you be all you’re able to be?

  I had a public event coming up, so I donated my too-big shirts and bought some that were properly fitted. One was a bit off, so the store clerk suggested I take it to a tailor. That was when I started to realize that all garments are not created equal. And it’s also when I started to realize that having good clothes is not the same thing as having expensive clothes … something Hampton Brooks sure didn’t realize at first.

  Quality doesn’t have to cost more. A great fit doesn’t have to cost more. You can have one tough-as-hell shirt that fits you perfectly and it’ll last ten years. Or you can buy shitty shirts that cost half as much, and watch as they fall apart in a year. Plus, you never want to wear them because every time you do, someone remarks that you’ve gained weight. In the long term, quality costs less.

  And that, my friends, is the thing that Stacy and Hampton pretend they’re fighting about … although of course, we know they’re actually fighting about bigger issues.

  Most of the things that a good story appear to be about are not actually the things that matter. Surface-level readers might think this is a romance about clothes, but it’s so not. Stacy just happens to be a bespoke seamstress and Hampton just happens to own a disposable clothing chain. That gives them something obvious to argue about, but it goes deeper.

  Stacy doesn’t believe that care should go into straight seams and tight buttonhole stitching. She believes that care should go into everything.

  Hampton isn’t trying to take shortcuts with Expendable Chic’s manufacturing. He’s trying to take a shortcut through what he believes is a piece of life that’s easy to make efficient … because he has big dreams, and doesn’t want to take an unnecessarily long time to reach them.

  But also like in any good romance, they soon realize that the differences between them aren’t always so different. Hampton does care about quality, just in different ways. And Stacy could, if she wanted, get more of what matters to her if she’ll just relax her dogmatic way of going after it.

  That, folks, is what makes the two of them a perfect fit for one another. It couldn’t be clearer (in my mind, anyway) than when Stacy subconsciously creates garments that fit their bodies to a T — a matched pair, meant to be together.

  Thanks so much for reading.

  See you inside!

  - Aubrey