by Maggie Twain
I set off for the entrance and the enormous glass frontage reveals that the damned piece of shit I arrived in is rolling backwards in the direction of a particularly tasty looking Bugatti Chiron. Quite honestly, I can do without the paperwork, so I run and shove my fingers through the crack in the window, thrust it down and stretch for the handbrake.
I concede there’s very little chance they didn’t notice that.
But, disaster averted, I finally make for the entrance and, squeezing between a Bentley and a Rolls Royce, I see the man with his hands in his hair. They lower and now he pinches at the skin atop his nose when he realizes that yes, I truly am about to enter the business. I pause to take a breath, scratch at the fake shaggy beard I’m wearing and pretend to flick away something I find living inside it. It’s a cold day and I clap my gloved hands together for warmth. When I reach the door, it says pull, so I push and spend the next few seconds shaking the door in a forlorn effort to enter. When I figure I’m meant to pull, the door’s exceptionally heavy for this supposed semi-starved homeless man and it does not escape my attention that neither of the watching staff bothers to help, maybe open the door, offer their assistance, say hello. Eventually, the woman, blonde, tidy, clearly inconvenienced, struts over out of pity and opens it for me, or maybe I’m scaring away the real customers and she wants me gone and out of the way as quickly as possible.
"Good morning," I rasp and her eyes instinctively roam over my clothes, the major component being the overcoat that an hour earlier, I bought off a homeless guy for $1000. It reeks of alcohol and so far, I’ve been too afraid to check the pockets.
Now that I’ve made it inside, the man’s quick to head straight for me, cutting off my gaze of the vehicles spread out across the sparkling tiles. "Yes?" He asks in a tone that suggests I’m a piece of shit he just stepped on. "May I help you?” He’s older than the girl and looks like he knows how to sell expensive cars, he has that very smooth look to him, and I’m guessing he’s the manager.
I try not to laugh inside, which I always find is the hardest part about doing this, and I take another step inside, puckering my lips in appreciation at all the flashy cars he’s half blocking from my view. The place smells so good, but then, I’m wearing an overcoat that has probably never been washed. The man’s wearing a name tag that says ‘Piers’ and his eyes drift down towards my feet, more specifically the farmer's boots I'm wearing, still caked in manure after my trip through the cattle field. Somehow, I can’t picture Piers with a mop, cleaning the mess after I leave. The boots themselves I've owned for a long time, since way before I had any money at all, and I still find them comfortable, even if they look like they should have long ago been consigned to the trash. I keep them as a reminder of where I’ve come from.
I exhale and open out my arms to encompass the vehicles inside the showroom. "I was hoping you wouldn't mind showing me your latest models, perhaps with a view to taking something out for a test." I gesture absentmindedly to my rear, to where there’s a hunk of tin being held together by string. "I can use this as part exchange if that would sweeten the deal?" Again, I have to bite my tongue to stop myself from bursting into hysterics.
How I love being a billionaire, the joy I feel in these moments is worth so much more than the cars, the yachts, the penthouses, the women even. It’s all in how they feel superior, that in moments like these I can see into their souls, the way they treat society’s most unfortunate people, all the while I’m the only one who knows that their feeling of being better, their smiles, will soon be wiped clean off their faces.
There’s another sales lady who’s trying to make herself look busy at the other end of the showroom, whilst the woman who opened the door for me is waiting around, though I’m getting the impression that’s because she wants to see where this is going, almost like she's taking some amusement from her manager having to deal with what they all think is a penniless hobo who’s probably high on meth.
Piers again bars my path, sniffs, and coughs into a closed fist. "I'm sorry sir but I'm afraid these vehicles are somewhat out of your price range, but thank you for stopping by." At this point the girl snorts.
But this is how poor people are treated all the time, I remember those days, indeed, I will never forget them.
“Oh, I understand, sir.” I make a sad face, shuffle about on my feet and clap my hands together for warmth. “In that case, I’ll leave you to your business.” I make a half turn but check myself.
Piers makes a show of checking his watch. “Yes?”
I sigh and lick my lips. “I don’t want to be an inconvenience, but is there any chance I might perhaps have a drink from your coffee machine? It was a cold night, only three of my doors have windows and I’m thirsty."
The man sighs in a way that’s meant to make me know I’m a nuisance and he then scrutinizes my face, the wig I bought from the Squatters movie set, the stick-on beard that’s itching for real, at the dirt I smeared over my face before arriving, and he sniffs again at the air around me. "I'm afraid, sir, that our coffee machine is out of order and besides, our facilities are for paying customers only. I hope you understand.” He nods in finality.
I nod sadly back and as usual, I find that the most difficult part of doing this is stopping myself from tearing off my disguise and flashing the Royal Gold credit card with its twenty-five thousand dollar annual fee I have inside my wallet before telling him he’s just made the biggest mistake of his life. Instead, I take quiet satisfaction in the knowledge that the next time we meet, my friend Piers will be acting somewhat differently towards me.
I leave, giddy with excitement, and head for my rented penthouse apartment in the city. I throw off the wig, beard and all the dirty clothes before jumping in the shower. I take my time dressing in my usual style, the tailored suit I bought on London’s Savile Row, the Italian leather shoes, I slip on my gold Rolex, cufflinks and bracelet. When I’m done, I look like a million dollars, and take a moment at the mirror to straighten my necktie, which alone is worth more than most of the cars in the place I’ve just left. I spray on some Clive Christian No. 1 and am about ready to go when my cell vibrates.
It’s a message from my sister. ‘Thor, you’re doing it again, aren’t you. You’re such a jerk. Aren’t you tired of putting the world to rights?’
I respond with, ‘you know I can’t stop.’
My cell rings. “Shit.” I answer, “Sissy.”
“Don’t you sissy me, jerk, and don’t think I don’t know exactly what you’ve been doing.”
I shrug, “what have I been doing?”
She breathes hard down the line. “You bought my favorite bakery in town, is what you’ve been doing.”
My mouth curls slyly at the memory. “The pastry chef wouldn’t let me take from the sampling tray, so I took his job instead.”
“Listen, you complete jackass, you took everyone’s job, including Milly’s. She’s worked there for twenty-five years. What’s she supposed to do now?”
“I like to bring in my own people, you know this, and besides, it was danish he wouldn’t let me sample. You know how much I love danish.”
“Fuck your danishes and you were refused because you smell like you’ve been living in the gutter. What did you expect him to do, allow you to contaminate the whole tray of samples? You’re not the only one who likes danishes, you know.”
I breathe hard down the line, I’m getting annoyed now. “You know I don’t stand for people being unkind to the homeless. Sissy, you must have a short memory. Just because now you live in a mansion doesn’t mean you have to forget what it used to be like for us.”
She’s silent for a while. “I haven’t forgotten. And you’re still a jerk.”
“I always will be.”
I can sense her shaking her head over the distance. The long silence usually means she’s about to change subject to the usual. “Don’t you think it’s about time you found a good woman and settled down? Maybe that would focus your mind and besides,
my children want cousins.”
I squeeze the cell and my knuckles turn white. “I have more important things than finding a woman and besides, they never seem to like me.”
It’s hard for her not to laugh at that. “That’s because you spend half your life looking like you sleep in a dumpster. What do you expect? Damn it, Thor, when you scrub up you could be on the cover of Men’s Health magazine. You’re so frustrating.”
“Father would be proud,” or so I assumed, I never knew him but it’s a private joke between the two of us.
“Ugh, men, I’m so glad my husband is nothing like you.” There’s another pause and again, I know what’s coming. “Thor, you know how much Kristina likes you…” Kristina’s her full-time life coach and new best friend, which basically means that she’s an employed shadow whose job is to constantly blow smoke up my sister’s ass. Maybe I pay Sissy too much for the work she does for me.
I bristle, we’ve had this conversation so many times. “This again?”
“Well, she does.”
“Hmm, I seem to recall she wasn’t all that impressed back when I was struggling with my first company, working nineteen-hour days. What changed?” I stroke my beard, it’s a tough one.
“Thor, of course the money’s not a complete turn-off, but I promise, it’s you she likes.”
“Uh-huh, right,” that sure wasn’t the impression I got back when I asked her out when I was outfitting my first bar. No, it’s too late for Kristina, I’ve already seen inside her soul. “I’m sorry, Sissy.”
“Ugh, I will wear you down yet, jerk.”
“You still love me, right?”
“Jackass, and if my favorite red velvet cupcakes don’t taste exactly the same as they have since I was a child, I swear I’ll never speak to you again.”
“I’m sure you’ll live.”
“Jackass.”
“I love you too.” I end the call. Now, where was I…
I take the long ride down the elevator to the underground parking lot and breeze over to where my Ferrari’s waiting. I sink into the soft leather and feel the power as the engine roars to life, that same power I now feel coursing through my veins, that same power I’m about to wield to devastating effect. It’s the power of money. Money is power. At least that’s what people believe and for so long as people continue believing, it will continue to be true.
In less than an hour after leaving the showroom, I’m rolling up a different man and for the thousandth time, I’m about to learn just how much difference money makes to how you’re treated. I park the Ferrari right beside the large glass display pane and spring out before striding confidently for the entrance.
Piers is already rushing to assist with the door. ”Good morning, sir," he says without the slightest hint of realization that we’re already acquainted, kind of, “welcome to Astor’s. If you require any assistance then please don't hesitate to ask."
For some reason, I’m almost pissed when usually I’m buzzing about now. Perhaps it was the conversation with my sister. "Oh, I'm sure we'll be having words very soon indeed, you can trust me on that."
“Excellent,” he nods and smiles, “in the meantime, can I get you anything? A glass of water, a cup of coffee, perhaps?”
I was in the process of stepping further inside but that checked me. “You mean, your coffee machine’s working?” I ask with a squint.
He doesn’t so much as flinch, “of course. Clara?” he calls across the length of the showroom, “one coffee for the gentleman, if you’d be so kind.”
A minute later, the girl who’d earlier snorted at me and who’d proven equally unhelpful brings over a cup on a saucer. I accept it with good grace and it’s not lost on me the way she checks me out in my expertly tailored suit. She has no clue either.
I inhale the aroma, it’s definitely not cheap vending machine crap. “A Central American blend?” I take a sip. “Costa Rica, maybe Panama?”
Clara puckers her lips in appreciation. “Panama would be correct.” She’s about to say something else but I turn away before she can speak and begin stepping across the tiles, admiring the beautiful craftsmanship of their overpriced wares whilst they follow closely behind like a pair of puppies.
Piers’ voice comes from near my ass. ”Would you like to see the latest Ferrari, or how about our newest Porsche model?”
Suddenly, I turn on a very expensive Italian heel. "You know something, what I'd really like is to meet the owner of this fine purveyor of luxury cars.”
Now, this is the point where the reactions often differ. Mostly, they’re happy to oblige because hey, I just arrived in a Ferrari and like I always say, people are very good to you when they know you have money. Very often, they’ll make excuses and attempt to deal with you themselves, especially when commission’s involved. Occasionally, your demand is refused outright or they might even lie, saying the manager’s not present and you should deal with them instead. On this occasion, Piers merely blinks away his surprise but is soon on the phone to the owner, who I’m told needs thirty minutes to arrive from across town.
I stand around, sipping coffee, admiring the cars and being admired by Clara. Eventually, a very smart looking Range Rover SUV pulls into the lot and then an older man, perhaps seventy years of age with white hair, gets out and steps into the showroom. Earlier, I’d overheard Piers telling him there’s a customer who requires particular treatment and he’d like it from the owner, which is not unusual when dealing with high-end items, in fact it’s often how I like to roll.
“Hello, sir, I’m Mr. Astor,” he holds out his hand and I can tell immediately he’s an old-style gentleman, “how might I be of assistance?”
I take his hand and glance airily toward the far side of the showroom before suggesting that we take a meeting in his office. His eyes widen in slight surprise as Piers’ eyebrows furrow on his head, as well they might, but he leads the way and then he’s gesturing for me to take a seat in a comfortable Chesterfield style couch in an office decorated in a way that betrays the man’s age. I’ll soon get my people in to give it a modern touch.
He sits behind the big desk and opens out his palms. "I'm assuming you’re interested in one, maybe two or more of our outstanding vehicles and would require a special discount?” This, of course, is all very standard, but what I say next stuns him.
I lean back into the leather. ”What I'd like to do is buy every single car you have.”
For a moment, he’s speechless. “I … I beg your pardon?”
“You heard, and I’ll take the garage too. In fact, I’d like to buy your entire business and I'm not going to take no for an answer."
His eyes widen and he remains in this comical pose for several seconds whilst he tries to find his voice. He must be close to retiring anyway, so surely the prospect of selling everything might not be such a bad idea to him.
He squints and shuffles uncomfortably in his seat, which will soon belong to me. “You … you’d like to buy my showroom?”
“Mr. Astor, I am buying your showroom," I lean forward and slap the table, “all you have to do is name your price.”
Only very rarely do people refuse to sell willingly, given the sums I offer, though occasionally some very hard bargaining is required. But I’m dealing with a seasoned car salesman here and for a moment I fear this might not be one of the easier transactions I’ve had to make.
We get our lawyers on a conference call and as anticipated, thirty minutes later, he’s handing over the papers and a bunch of keys, and it looks like I’ve now added a luxury car showroom to my ever expanding portfolio of businesses.
“Well, that was quite unexpected.” He blows out air. “Would you like me to introduce you to the staff, let them know that you’re the boss now?”
I’m quick to jump in here and request that he simply walks out the back door without saying a word. He’s a bit weirded out by this, but given the fact I've just paid the man $20 million and he’s almost certainly thinking only of purchasin
g a villa on some Greek island, he puts up no argument and soon disappears, scratching his head.
I sink back into my new chair, prop one Italian shoe on my new table, exhale and take in my new toy. I consider strutting back into the showroom this minute and firing them all on the spot but decide it might be more enjoyable if instead, I return as my alter ego, Jimmy the homeless guy, just to see if this time they treat me any differently. It would be their final chance at redemption.
I leave via the back door and an hour later I’m returning, though this time I’m not Thor in his Ferrari, but Jimmy driving the three hundred thousand dollar car instead, just to fuck with them further.
Piers, the manager, or should I say, former manager, comes over immediately and opens the door, but does so with the most comical expression I’ve ever seen. Both women have also dropped what they were doing to rush over. "Sir, um, how may I help you?” His voice is several octaves higher than it was before.
I scratch at the beard and flick a piece of crust onto my new floor. “Coffee?”
He jerks. “Excuse me?”
“I’d like some coffee.”
“Um, what?” He remembers our earlier exchange and now seems lost for words. If he complies then it’s an admittance that he was lying before, if he doesn’t then he’s making a rich man unhappy.
But it’s already too late for him, I only like honest people working for me, so I set off in the direction of my new office. “Follow me, all of you.”
This is the part I really love, that feeling of power you get from firing those who treated you poorly and I find that there's no better feeling in this world. At least, if there is, I've yet to find it.
I sit and gesture for the three of them to occupy the Chesterfield. It’s a tight squeeze and the leather squeaks when they sit.
Piers’ eyes are darting about the room, he’s probably wondering where all of Mr. Astor’s old family photos are, not to mention why there’s a homeless guy now strutting about like he owns the place. He’s quick to preempt me. “Sir, um, how about that test drive you were wanting.”