Jessie suppressed most of his sneer, as he could not willingly direct his natural vitriol to this fifty something year old man. "Hello, Neilson. Urgh... not today. Tell him I'm busy."
"Master Jessie," the polite man began. "We know that isn't true. The shop isn't open today and your friends are surely sleeping off from the previous night's adventure, much as you were, yes?"
Jessie made some incoherent noise. Coffee sounded good. "Ehh, actually, we didn't do anything this weekend. I think they went to a carnival. I've been feeling under the weather with this knee. I worked yesterday, that's it."
"That's a shame, sir. Have you tried the chiropractor we referred you to?"
"Yeah. He didn't do anything but make it hurt more for a while and then asked that I keep coming back every month. Struck me as a colossal waste of time."
"I see. And how has Master Chang been?"
"In and out of the hospital," Jessie sighed. "Mostly in. I don't know. He gets better or worse by the day. I don't think he's ever coming back to the store at this rate."
"That is also a shame. Mm. You do remember that your uncle has offered to purchase the establishment. If Master Chang's health does not hold out, he will likely be obligated to sell the lot as it is. If you were to put in a good word-"
Jessie's face immediately darkened and his otherwise small eyes widened in disgust. The driver went quiet. "Nielson, do my uncle's work as you must, but do not broker deals for him. Not with me. I know how he works. Just because I won't listen to him doesn't mean he can hire a more social presence than himself to say the same shit to me and sell it like birthday cake."
"Master Jessie, do mind your language," Nielson softly scolded, suggesting it was unbecoming of the young man.
Jessie looked lost for a moment and then stared downwards as if embarrassed. "Er... yes. Sorry. But my point stands." He soon looked up again. "I don't want to control the shop like that. If Mister Chang insists I take it over, then maybe I will. But it won't be because my uncle threw money at the issue and bought the place from a man who is visibly ailing and not in his best state of mind. Okay?"
"Fair enough. I shall let him know. So, will you be joining us for lunch then?" Nielson asked in the most diplomatic of tones.
"Ah, yeah... let me... get dressed." It was hard to say no to Nielson's face. It was as if he was taken from a kinder age that never existed outside of a nineteen fifties family sitcom. Jessie somehow found it disarming. A few minutes later, Jessie was dressed cleanly, sitting in the passenger seat of a luxury model BMW. He didn't like the car for all the excess it had but at least it wasn't the limousine Nielson used to pick him up with. Jessie particularly had no patience for that long boat of a vehicle pulling up to his apartment.
Neither spoke along the way. Jessie was fairly content to be mute and stare out the window, not terribly unlike how his similarly quiet friend Simon rode in Ramone's Challenger. And Nielson would typically play classical music, AM frequency news, or CBS radio to fill the void. It was time for the monthly visit to his uncle.
He lived in a mansion on an isolated rocky hill section in the north part of Dresden Port, just barely within town borders. His name was Paul J Mannington, with the J standing for absolutely nothing. He was the richest man not only in all of Dresden Port, but in the greater area. If the newspapers could sum him up, he would be described as a respected figure to some and a faceless plutocrat to others.
Mannington Industries was a family owned enterprise starting back in the early eighteen hundreds. They were among the initial clans who settled in the area alongside Captain Dresden himself. They began as silversmiths, using ore from the lower Black Mountain region when it was still being mined. Soon they moved onto ironworks. They steadied their fortunes with pass produced horseshoes, reinforced wagon wheels, and farming implements. And then the modern age arrived, upon which they adapted to automotive steel and rode that path to wealth, before the American mills collapsed from a mixture of overseas pressure and unions. Still, the Manningtons would always find a niche as industrialists and produce something. Jessie was technically a Mannington, but he kept his mother's last name of Aberdeen. It was not out of any disdain for his late father. Both of his parents were good people. It was more due to complete disgust for PJ Mannington than anything.
Jessie's parents were both highly skilled blue collar workers. Anita Aberdeen met her husband while working as a civil engineer for the county while Robert Mannington was a career metallurgist. After they were married, Paul gave his brother and his new wife well paying jobs in his industrial factory. The two siblings were somewhat estranged at the time so the work brought them a bit closer as brothers. And Paul Mannington no doubt benefited greatly from Robert's natural expertise.
As a young boy, Jessie remembered his father and mother were rarely home after his uncle hired them. They worked long hours throughout the entire week, seeing Jessie maybe twice during that time. They still did things as a family, but these moments were few and far between. For every family vacation they had to the beach, there was a narrow ratio of events where his mother would even be available to throw together some boxed macaroni to boil or that his father would be able to talk to him about his school accomplishments. Nielson would occasionally be present, but he was hired help. Jessie's family couldn't buy the sort of thing he needed as a developing child.
He was around the middle of his eleventh year, still just a cub in elementary school, when Nielson picked him up early one day. There had been a family emergency. Robert and Anita were caught in a chemical explosion at the factory. And what followed was a long scary time for a child. Of mother and father not only being away, but not being allowed to see them as they were hurried to the hospital. Of hearing rumors being whispered, while Nielson shooed and screened individuals with the knowledge about the situation away from Jessie. And the waiting on a fake leather chair in a sterile hospital with doctors rushing past, never really sure if they were going to his parents’ operating room or someone else's. He remembered the ugly white and brown argyle pattern on the tiled lobby floor more than any other lesson from school that year.
It seemed so quick after everything happened. And there he was with Nielson and Uncle Paul alongside other estranged family members, putting a respectful shovel full of damp dirt on their caskets before they lowered them into the ground. It was wet outside that afternoon from frequent storming, but the earth still seemed infested with hungry red ants, heedless of the mud.
Distant white haired relatives he could not recall outside of rare Thanksgiving get-togethers at Paul's manor, patted Jessie on the shoulder and cried, praising his initiative to put dirt on his parent's caskets as a great sign of honor. And there was Uncle Paul, saying he would take care of Jessie as best he could. Like he was one of his own. Jessie just stared at the milling ants in the saturated earthen walls of the cemetery plots, both red and black.
They arrived at Mannington Manor, sitting above it all on the rocky hill in the northern section of Dresden Port, away from the piney rabble. The view was impressive from here. One could see the barren horizon of the backwoods town below, from the empty canal and defunct train tracks near Simon's house to the half working capacity Mannington industrial yards in the south side. There were no trees here, but a lot of sunlight and stone. Jessie was used to squinting at this point. Together, they walked inside.
PJ's manor was not the dirty dingy little apartment of components and old magazines that Jessie's was. Every person who visited was walked through a short maze of interconnecting trophy rooms displaying opulent looking paintings by artists with unpronounceable French names, Bronze Age pottery contained within glass cubed pedestals, and that stupid eleven foot stuffed grizzly standing on its hind legs. Jessie was never clear what the story with it was, but doubtless Paul either bought it from someone with actual testosterone in their system or shot the thing at such an amazing distance that the poor animal didn't know if it died from a high powered gunshot out of nowhere or from enjoy
ing too much Canadian maple syrup. And the place smelled of mothballs. Always mothballs.
Jessie was brought to the 'casual' dining room, which consisted of a long gilded table, many fancy imported chairs, and empty standing suits of armor. Additionally, there were three crystal chandeliers hanging over the dining table and even more oil paintings, one of them depicting Hessians participating in the Revolutionary War.
The table was set for dozens of potential guests who were never invited. Jessie was sat next to his uncle at the end of the table closest to the kitchen area. Uncle Paul looked like he always did. Stumpy, piebald, nineteen seventies moustache contained in a brown woolen business suit and striped pants. Quietly, Jessie thought he looked like a cross between Danny Devito and a used car salesman. "Uncle." He stated lowly.
"Jessie! Give your old uncle a hug! It's been a while, eh?" By habit, his uncle was notably more positive than Jessie ever was. It was irritating.
Jessie did so, albeit lightly. "It's been a month. Like always," he said dryly. Nielson began to bring out glasses of liquor for the two, meanwhile. Scotch for Paul. Jessie tolerated most beer, typically.
"Well, yes," Paul began, pouring himself a glass. "But it always seems like such a long time when you're gone. You don't visit on your own, you don't call..."
"No, I don't." Jessie closed his eyes and took a swig. "I'm busy."
Paul sighed. "Still working that appliance shop for Mister Chang, eh? Jessie, you're wasting your time and your talent. You know, my offer for the-"
"I'm fine." Jessie did not make eye contact, only staring at the mouth of his beer. His voice was like ice. "I just had this conversation with Nielson. I don't want to talk about Mister Chang." The routine was the same every time. PJ would try to convince Jessie to join a spot in one of his factories, Jessie would get disgusted with the idea, and then Paul would indirectly imply Jeffery Chang probably wasn't long for the world with his illnesses. It was a sore issue for the young man and his uncle never really learned to dance around it.
Nielson came in briefly. "Lunch today will be canard a la rouennaise accompanied by lamb stuffed mushrooms with wild rice and an autumn vegetable medley. It will be available shortly."
"That sounds wonderful, thank you, Nielson." Uncle Paul took a drink of his scotch and made a pleasant sigh. "Sure you don't want some? It's not the throat burning kind, you know."
"I'm fine." Jessie preferred giving short terse answers when he really didn't want to talk but had to. It was the kind PJ heard most from him. And Scotch reminded him entirely of his uncle these days. He did whatever he could to avoid mentally associating himself with PJ.
"As the doctor said to the ungrateful patient, suture self!" His uncle laughed. One of his overused corny puns. Jessie didn't respond so Paul quickly composed himself. His uncle seemed to think he told that joke for the first time, every time. Jessie believed this might have been recreated joke number two hundred six, but he wasn't keeping a firm count.
"So come on, open up. What's new with you, Jessie? Meet any pretty girls with that womanizing friend of yours? What's his name...? Raymond? He must know someone good for you."
Jessie restrained a sneer. Ramone had tried several times in the past to hook him up. All bimbos he had nothing in common with. Every date he ever agreed to was awkward on so many levels. "I'm not that interested in dating. I have work. Ramone can be enough of a man-whore for a small nation. I'm not interested in the type he likes." Jessie had flat out told Ramone as much several times. His charismatic friend could only laugh, mentally unfazed and perpetually amused.
"You shouldn't be so afraid to live a little, Jessie. You should think about your future. A wife, college, a career-"
"Stop."
"Hmph. Well. What about that slacker friend with the beatnik hair? Simon? You still associate with him?"
"Yeah. More or less. If Ramone is around, so is he."
"Is he still kind of an oddball? I'm pretty sure Nielson saw him driving around at night with his sunglasses on."
"We think he's light sensitive. He's all right."
"No offense... Ramone is one thing, but your other friend is a bit of a loser, isn't he? I get the impression he's kind of a social parasite around the Italian kid. Do you think he's gay or...?"
"I don't recall asking for your opinion about either of them," Jessie interrupted, barely containing a snarl at the implications. Paul had only briefly met the two in previous years at a Christmas function he annually held, but that seemed to be enough for him to think he knew them. Gods, how he hated how Paul talked with such a thin yet judgmental sense of familiarity!
"Hey, it was just simple question-"
"No, no, it was not. It was you being a prick again. You can't take two seconds out of your busy day to just shut up, take a deep breath, and stop pretending you think you know what the hell is going on. You're surrounded by all of this and my god; it must make you feel like a big shot. A little ivory tower nestled in the back of Dresden Port to snub your nose at anyone less than yourself."
"Jessie? Where did this come from?" The man was oblivious. They'd been through this almost as many times as the suture joke.
"Every fucking month with this," Jessie growled between his teeth. "You're like my goddamned heavy flow period on an otherwise sunny day."
Nielson was about to walk in, but heard the shouting and sublimely closed the door in front of him. The meal would have to wait.
Paul finally managed to look a bit indignant. "You know, you could be more grateful, Jessie. I've given you every opportunity to get out of that basement you call your home or that dead end repair job. I promised your father I would look after you. And this is what I get?"
Jessie harshly stood up, his chair sliding back against the stony floor with a horrid screech. He had had enough. Paul seemed startled by the noise and leaned back in his seat with a jolt. "YOU. You do not mention him. Not to me. He and my mother, died in YOUR factory. You want to protect people? Watch over them like some earthly god? Where were you then? Where did you cut corners, Paul? Was the money you saved on safety worth this house? This, feeling of being self-entitled... to speak like you know anything?"
"And you promised my dad you'd watch over me? What, after he died? Well, that makes all the difference then! Does it make you feel like you're repenting for what happened? And now that you're retired and no one wants to talk to you, I may as well be the captive audience to your opinions delivered from on high? Or do you need me because I won't tell you what you want to hear, like hired help will?" It was a very direct way of saying Nielson without actually doing so. Even in anger, Jessie wouldn't turn on him.
"I don't want your involvement. I have a job, friends, and a place to live. I have no debt and no one pays my rent. I have something resembling freedom until you start your beck and call routine every month. The problem isn't that I don't have what I need to get by; it's that you're not satisfied with what I do have. It's not enough for you. Do I make you look like less because I'm not drowning in money and a fancy house? I want to achieve things on my own. Why is that so hard for you to understand?"
Paul stared, as if a confused deer in the headlights, merely standing in the road before an impatient braked car. "The point... Jessie," he began, trying to lower the tone. "Is that you don't need to do all the mundane things. You could do almost anything you want. You can live somewhere nice. And I can give you a career worthy of your technical prowess. It's about not wasting your potential when the opportunity is right there, just waiting for you. But you make such bad decisions-"
Jessie kicked his chair behind him, letting it clatter loudly against the floor. "Go to hell! And unconditionally, go fuck yourself! I don't need your condescending charity, you empty headed prick. And don't call on me again." He turned around and stormed off. "Tell Nielson I said goodbye."
Paul simply sat there and watched his nephew leave. It seemed that every few months, Jessie was getting angrier and angrier with him. It was the sort of thing Nielson
couldn't fix, something money couldn't be thrown at. He listened for the front door and the telltale slamming of it. He lowered his gaze to his dining table, surrounded by empty chairs and plates. And the one where a guest was invited, there was only a toppled seat. Following that moment, he was attended by the stillness of the floating dust in the air, as he often was when the attendants and aging gold diggers weren't around.
Fuming to himself, Jessie stubbornly made it most of the way down the rocky hill with his limp, when Nielson's BMW crept up alongside him. A window opened with the tunes of CBS radio in the background. Jessie continued to walk.
"Master Jessie..." he began.
"Nielson, save it. I'm not going back here."
"I understand that. I'm here to give you a ride home."
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