On a crisp autumn night, with the thermometer resting at a comfortable thirty-five degrees Celsius, Trevor Benson observes his surroundings as he walks along a familiar stretch of Grande Avenue.
This part of town, a one-kilometer strip at the very core of The Grande, is dubbed ‘The Diamond Dozen’ because it contains the finest establishments the city has to offer over the course of twelve blocks: 200-story condos housing the cream of New High Society and Upper-Echelon Info-Dealers; luxury hotels fit for the Faux Royale. At the shoulders of these towers, the Mighty Amazon’s tributaries swarm with cargo. At their feet lie six-star restaurants and retailers of the exorbitant.
The traffic here is constant but orderly. Cars glide silently, never more or never less than two meters apart, while their occupants busy themselves with more pressing matters – favorite television shows, casual foreplay (tints optional), or just good old-fashioned image hording; mostly they horde. The Diamond Dozen has that affect on people.
Trevor stops as he passes Ye Rare-Book Shoppe, the store’s stunning use of brass and synthetic oak having activated his periphi-lense mode. He turns and looks inside. There, precious first trade editions, bound galleys, and uncorrected proofs grace row-upon-row of well-stocked shelves. Persian rugs lay scattered across gleaming floors, and patrons, settled into plush sofas, read while holographic fireplaces crackle before them.
Before purchasing, the customers here want to peruse, linger, to experience for themselves an almost lost tactile experience: The feel and weight of thought on paper.
Directly in front of him, centered like the subject of a fine oil painting, a young woman sits upright in a wing-back chair of black, supple leather. She holds before her a multi-signed first edition of the post-postmodern classic, The Kardashian Blogs: A History of Genius.
The woman is stunning in a historical and scholarly manner, with auburn hair pulled back tight and antique, dark-rimmed glasses resting on the tip of her perfectly-proportioned nose. She looks up, doe-like, her eyes wide and pure and inviting behind those lenses as she pauses to turn a page, and for an instant Trevor wants desperately to step inside and be with her, to do what she is doing. Then she looks back to her book and the spell is broken.
He smiles.
Of course. Trevor has places to be and things to do, too. This thought prompts him to take a quick inventory of himself in the Shoppe’s window. Naturally, glass – even glass squeegeed with the speed and precision of a pit-stop crew every hour – can’t come close to reflecting the full depth of navy or truth of cut in his Savile Row bespoke suit. Nor can it capture the layered nuance of haircut, the glimmer of cufflinks, and the shine of his Forzieri wingtips.
Still, he knows how good he looks.
Trevor glances at his watch. He’s not late, but it is almost 9.00 p.m. so he strides on, approaches the Westmount Hotel. Doormen stand as stern and sartorially splendid as matching royal guards at its entrance. Beyond rows of jostling spectators and the hotel’s vast, spotless window, he observes a sea of beautiful, mingling people within. They gesture, laugh, and hold their champagne coupes aloft. It seems as if a special event, a red-carpet affair, is unfolding inside this spacious gold and marble lobby, and it is – but Trevor sees it take place every night.
As does Trevor’s rendezvous with Samantha, just one block West at Winston’s. He imagines her now, with an apple-mango martini in hand and a salade niçoise set before her. She’s ordered a glass of Macallan for him, neat, giving it a few minutes to breathe before his arrival.
And arrives he does, at 8:59:03 p.m. Marco opens the door as if he’s been waiting for him and Trevor steps into the foyer. For an instant he stands at the end of a two-abreast line of happy, wealthy patrons-in-waiting. They’re queued behind a red-velvet rope and chrome stanchion vis- barrier, chatting merrily. Or, they were chatting merrily until Marco ushers him past them.
Trevor hears their grousing: “. . . thinks he’s so special . . .!” rises above a host of pointed comments, but the voices drop lower in register, recede like an old-fashioned freight train’s rumble as he leaves the people in his wake.
At the restaurant’s reception podium, Marco hands him off to J.P., the maître d’, who leads Trevor past the bar, a nebula of polished glass, sparkling bottles, and smoked antique mirrors floating in the midst of the restaurant’s otherwise subdued lighting. Around this bar sit politicians, financiers, their spouses and dates, all trading secrets, wheeling and dealing, and sipping aperitifs while waiting for their tables to be cleared and reset.
Trevor pays them no mind, for in the prime real estate to his right, he sees his beautiful partner. She sits alone, smiling, raising a hand in acknowledgement of his arrival. He smiles, waves in return as J.P. guides him to the table.
She stands now, leans over, her raven-black hair falling across the swell of her breasts, and kisses Trevor – just a peck. J.P. pulls out his chair and says, “If there’s anything I can get you or do for you two, just let me know.”
“Yes, thank you, J.P.,” Samantha says as he backs away.
They are together again, at last: Trevor and Samantha nestled in their special spot, a two-seat table in the restaurant’s bay-window alcove. Their view of the street is unobstructed.
“To this time and place,” Samantha says.
“And to our privileged lives,” Trevor adds.
They touch glasses, producing a small chime – it’s nine p.m. – and lift the rims to their lips.
At the only table next to theirs the city’s mayor, a corpulent red-faced man, presides over his small entourage. He pauses, nods to Trevor. Trevor nods back. They see each other here on occasion.
Trevor takes stock of the mayor’s companions as he savors the trace of wood spice his twenty-five-year-old scotch has just laid across his palate. Two male aides, well-dressed but non-descript, sit across from him; the woman stationed by his side, indiscreetly brushing her bare shoulder against his arm, exudes an air of laboratory-quality beauty. She is not his wife.
Trevor is always taking stock. Attention to detail is just one of the attributes that has elevated him to his station. Even now, as he looks into Samantha’s eyes, he listens as the mayor holds court.
“I’m telling you,” the mayor says, “if the businesses between Brendall Court and McCarthy Road want to be included in the Diamond-Dozen’s hierarchy, they’re going to have to pony up. We’re talking billions in upgrades and at least three or four new top-tier revenue earners.”
“If they get in, would it still be The Diamond Dozen?” one aide asks meekly.
“Of course not, stupid,” the mayor barks. “Do the high-level math. It’d be the Fabulous Fourteen . . . or something along those lines.”
The aide looks down, crestfallen, while the other aide nods his head vigorously and the mayor’s companion, fully hypnotized, watches her individual fingernails change color in sequence: Crimson to chartreuse; mauve to magenta; indigo to . . ..
Still attuned to his surroundings, Trevor returns most of his attention to Samantha.
“So what do you feel like ordering tonight?” he asks.
Samantha doesn’t respond for an instant. This happens sometimes when she’s lost in an adjacent conversation or perusing her Wiki-lenses. Trevor knows when it’s the Wiki-lenses, as it is now, because the tip of her tongue pokes from the left corner of her mouth and she looks slightly out of focus, as if she’s peering into some ungaugable distance. He’s talked to her about it before, but that’s all he can do.
“Huh . . . oh, I think I’ll go with the totally-endangered Pacific salmon.”
“What, no appetizer? Trevor asks. “I thought you loved the Almas caviar here.”
“I do. But if you want the truth, Trev, I don’t think either of us really need an appetizer.”
And, what, exactly, is that supposed to mean? Trevor thinks. He lets the comment fester, but only for a moment before filing it away as a possible misinterpretation. After all, they are meant for each other.
“You’re right,” he says. “No appetizer. I think I’ll have the GMO pork tartar and a Waldorf.”
With their orders placed, Trevor tastes his scotch again then says, “So, I should have asked the second I got here. How was your day?”
“Oh, you know. Hectic. Shoot after shoot, scooting from one location to the next.”
He can imagine the demands put on Samantha. She’s that kind of woman. Even now as they sit quietly at their table, he notes how passersby peer into the restaurant . . . and not to stare at the mayor. Sure, they notice him and his coterie in passing, but the collective gaze stops and lingers on their table. Trevor knows his presence plays a part in this, but Samantha’s pull, her stellar gravity, is the force behind the attraction.
“And how about you?” Samantha asks.
“I spent my morning at the office, but after that I just idled away the hours, waiting.”
They continue their small-talk, exchanging pleasantries and catching up. A short time later, J.P. himself brings out their meals, congratulates them on their impeccable choices, and once more fades back into the heart of the restaurant like a tuxedoed ninja.
They eat in quasi-silence for a while, listening, savoring the intricacies Guillermo has spun into their respective fares until, suddenly, three ragged, grime-streaked men materialize on the far side of their window: The Squeegee Squad. Often, upon their arrival, Trevor thinks of Dickens – without all of that crazy dystopian despair, naturally. These men have gainful employment, a raison d’etre, as it were. With the Cleanpaks strapped to their backs pumping solution through wire-thin lines, they clutch their spewing squeegees with hands clad in sopping, fingerless gloves and carve swift, graceful “W” s into cascading foam until the glass before them all but disappears.
Trevor has nothing but respect for these men and their ilk. Following Herb Grotmeyer’s startling victories in Battle of the Network Stars Presidential Debates (resulting in The Great Reform, when unemployment plummeted from 60% to its present rate of 0.01% under the Jobs-For-All Program), his father had been allotted a similar, prototypical duty – Windshield Wiper – at the corners of Sheridan and Main beneath the downtown expressway. Unfortunately, his father couldn’t withstand the rigors of the job – after all, not everyone wanted their windshields wiped back then – but he’d lasted long enough and done well enough to give Trevor a full education and, ultimately, facilitate his rags-to-riches story.
The Squeegee Squad scurries off, hunched and small against the restaurant’s facade, and slips into the bordering alleyway: Out of sight, out of mind until, at the squad leader’s discretion, they will reappear in front of the adjacent business – Extremely Expensive Toys ‘R’ Us – to perform their five-second service all over again.
This is how it should be, with the Squeegee Squad, the Litter Lads, and all of the other necessary units coursing with the purpose and discretion of white bloods cells through a main artery, leaving the Diamond Dozen healthy and sparkling for the enjoyment of its patrons.
But there’s always room for improvement in one form or another. Trevor knows this. In fact, since the mayor’s earlier statement about expansion, Trevor has done more than dole out occasional and easily-overheard adulation; he’s been researching, fashioning thoughts to both compliment the mayor’s ideas and insinuate his and Samantha’s presence into some bustling new venture on the ground floor.
“You know, I’ve been thinking,” Trevor says. “What Grande Avenue really needs is a new opera house, or maybe an arts center with an opera, ballet, and theatre – the works. World class, of course. Right at the corner on Brendall would be a good spot. After all, the Nouveau Met over on Front Street is eight years old.”
And there it is again, that faraway look, punctuated with tongue tip and a healthy pause.
“You’re absolutely right,” Samantha says at last. “Studies show that cultural centers of that nature can generate up to a twelve-percent increase in revenues for surrounding establishments within the first business quarter.”
“Well for all of the incredible goods and services the strip has to offer, there’s nothing quite like it on The Grande right now,” Trevor says. “And it would certainly attract the right kind of people.”
From the corner of his right eye, periphi-lense on, Trevor thinks he sees the mayor turning their way, perhaps to join their conversation, then, BAM!, a number of events unfold in rapid succession: First, the mayor’s companion places her right palm on his knee. With fingernails flashing, her hand scuttles up his pant leg and burrows into his gathered trouser lap. The mayor’s head stops in mid-pivot, his eyes wide with delight; next, he clamps his hand onto her upper thigh, his portly index finger extended and wiggling, probing the recesses of her skirt like a quivering hog’s snout rooting for damp, succulent truffles. The aides, sensing the events unfolding under their table, quickly busy themselves, with one turning away to inspect long-neglected cuticles and the other burying himself in vital statistics on his omni-watch.
Suddenly, the mayor stands – his pants’ front tented, the pleats pulled straight – and takes his companion’s hand. “You guys settle up here,” he says to his aides. “I’ve got some work to finish back at the office.” As he sidles between his table and Trevor’s, companion in tow, he nods to Trevor again. His trouser lap swings by, nods in agreement.
The moment is lost for now but Trevor knows he’ll have a table next to the mayor again sometime soon, and he’s planted a seed. This is how business opportunities grow.
At the mayor’s table, the aide who had been studying his omni-watch says, “Twenty-five-thousand-eight-hundred, gratuity included.” As both men rise, he asks, “So, what do you think the chances are he’ll be finishing business back at the office?”
His companion replies, “Are you kidding? None. He’ll have work wrapped up twenty seconds after they’ve hit the back seat of the limo.”
Both men laugh heartily, and as they depart, the cuticle-inspector lifts the untouched Old-Newfoundland albino-lobster tail from the mayor’s abandoned plate and slips it into his manly-bag.
Within seconds, The Clean-up Crew – a waifish trio of table-clearing pre-adolescent girls – moves in, scraping leftovers into their stained and crusty side pouches. Their haul is good, with rolls buttered but not bitten and a generous amount of barely-disturbed vegetables left on plates, although the lobster tail would have made someone’s day. They stack the cleared dishes and fold the used linen with the speed and dexterity of circus performers before sliding away, leaving a slightly gamey slipstream in their wakes.
With the table next to theirs empty, Trevor relaxes. “So, how about dessert?” he asks Samantha, who pokes idly at the remnants of her salad.
“Again, Trev, I don’t think either of us need the extra calories.”
This time, Trevor allows himself to fully grasp her ‘I don’t think either of us need’ response, a running theme for the last week or so, but he is still not angered so much as mystified. And, since they have nine minutes left at the table, he ignores her and states, “Globally-baked Alaska and a synthcaff-decaff, double-sweet.”
As he orders, two beautiful young women stop in front of the restaurant and peer through the window. Trevor recognizes them. One is China Stevens, daughter of the sole owner of the rights to the world’s remaining oil; the other, Thyme Warner, is also an heiress-trillionaire. Both are tipsy, and both stare directly at Trevor. He sees China eye the empty table beside theirs and elbow Thyme, causing her latex breast paint and the bountiful flesh beneath to undulate. They exchange a few words, giggle, then hook elbows and march toward the restaurant entrance.
Trevor feels vindicated. He may have been talked out of an appetizer, but, obviously, he still has what it takes and can order dessert if he wants to.
Within the minute, a waiter arrives with his coffee and globally-baked Alaska. As Trevor digs in, he notices two things: One, the layer of crisp meringue that had partially covered the dessert when he’d first ordered it two years ago has totally disappeared, reflecting either the true ecological state of Alaska or hidden budgetary cutbacks, and, two: J.P, himself, hasn’t delivered it.
The reason behind his second observation becomes apparent when he sees J.P. leading the two heiresses their way. Befitting their statuses, they too have been expedited.
The girls arrive at the adjacent table, bringing with them a draught of spilt liquor, spent weed, and that unmistakable home-chemistry-set aroma of too many Bangkok risers.
China sidles between the two tables with a saucy wiggle and settles into the window seat. J.P. pulls out Thyme’s chair; as she sits, she insinuates her right arm behind him and pinches an ample wedge of his bum, eliciting a small yelp: cheeky but cute.
“Oh, you,” J.P. says coyly. He backs away with his eyes watering and his right hand protecting his crotch.
Unlike the mayor and his entourage, the couple sitting next to them now communicate in a series of whispers and giggles, prompting Trevor to eat his dessert in silence. Samantha quits talking, too. Both have their acu-hearing set at 100%, so they’re not surprised when China turns to their table and says:
“Hey, handsome, you wanna fuck?”
Thyme waits a second before adding, “And while you’re doing her, well . . . I’m packing something a lot more defoliated than Alaska if you know what I mean.”
“You won’t have to floss, that’s for sure,” China says.
“You wanna see?” Thyme adds.
As the duo laugh heartily, Samantha says, “Sorry girls, he’s taken.”
China responds, “Who says we’re not inviting you?”
Again, the laughter.
This scenario, Trevor knows, is common. The e-tabs and news drenches have covered them forever, revering their love of life, and the public has soaked up their good-natured high-jinx on Compulso-View’s The World’s Most Important People series since they were in utero. In fact, although glassy with drugs and liquor, their eyes remain in focus so he knows they’re in record-mode this instant.
Samantha is well aware of their status and modus operandi, also, which prompts her to say, “Well, I think we’re about done here.”
She dabs her lips with her napkin, an exclamation point to her statement, and rises.
Trevor stands, too. He has no choice, really, even though four minutes remain on the clock, a sizable portion of dessert sits melting on his plate, and another possible career-enhancing connection sits at the table next to theirs – this one dazed, receptive, and offering valuable nation-wide screen-time.
Samantha brushes by him and he falls in behind. They wend their way back through the restaurant, turning heads and pausing conversations en route until, out of nowhere, the clean-up-crew darts in front of them with an aromatic swish. The two lead girls brandish extended forefingers (refrigo-wrap pumps at the ready), boney shoulders colliding as they jockey for position. They exude a desperation that reminds Trevor of gangstas in those old-time music videos, with guns drawn, scrambling to escape the heat; of course, desperation against encroaching heat is warranted here, too. It will be first-come-first-serve concerning his rapidly melting dessert.
When Trevor and Samantha arrive at the reception podium, J.P. peers up from the reservations list and offers them a tight-lipped smile.
“So, tomorrow then, same time?” Samantha asks.
“Yes, tomorrow, same time,” he says. He pauses, just an instant, before slipping Trevor a covert glance and drawing the palms of his hands, fingertips curled in, from navel to hip tops along his waistline.
Trevor grins, acknowledging the compliment. Yes, indeed, he still does have what it takes.
He carries this thought with him, past the chattering customers queued behind the vis-barrier and onto the street. The temperature is still a pleasant thirty-five degrees, and Grande Avenue now bristles with the sensory intensity of an old-fashioned midway. Trevor ignores the buzz; despite the evening’s shortcomings, he almost feels good . . . until Samantha turns to him and says:
“I hope you’re happy?”
From the tone of her voice, Trevor understands that the question is rhetorical.
“I was attempting to be,” he says.
“Well you shouldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Did you not notice J.P.’s gesture toward you as we were leaving?”
He knows that Samantha knows he noticed. He studied her observation peripherally, and now her needling elusiveness is starting to annoy him. If she’s going to make statements and ask questions, she should be straightforward.
“If you’re talking about his ‘championship belt’ gesture, of course I noticed.”
“Ha!” Samantha’s laugh is explosive, a monosyllabic bark. “Is that what you thought it was?”
“Again, why not?” Trevor says. “The Girls saw us, came in, and sat down – along with their countless followers. I . . . we . . . drew them in and performed at the highest level.”
They stand there, as cold and silent as two rocks in a stream, while a babbling flow of pedestrians breaks and re-converges around them. Finally, Samantha says, “He didn’t mean championship belt, you know.”
Trevor says nothing.
“He meant you’ve put some weight on around the middle in the past year – half a kilo, to be exact. You can deny it, but body mass indicators don’t lie.”
She taps her temple with her forefinger, right by the corner of her left eye, when she says ‘body mass indicator,’ inadvertently drawing attention to the faint beginnings of crow’s feet. Trevor’s been able to see them under x5 for some time but has never mentioned it; he’s sure she’s aware of them, so instead, he says:
“Maybe we can continue this conversation tomorrow, after dinner again. I’ve really got to get going.”
“Alright, we’ll continue.”
Samantha weaves her way to the curb; a cab’s door lifts quietly and she slips into its back seat. With her departure, the tension knotting his shoulders begins its slow, ratcheting descent.
Trevor turns, starts walking and thinking, not heeding the bustle around him. He becomes so lost in thought – about his successes and failures and his possible futures – that he doesn’t realize he’s left the Diamond Dozen until an intoxicating waft of opiated-deep-fry and accompanying hard-core jingle, tied together with just a soupcon of trail pheromones, assaults his senses and reactivate his state of awareness.
He now finds himself deep within the Kitchen Kommons. A Rodent Wrangler darts in front of Trevor as he pivots and takes an involuntary step towards the sensory input that beckons him:
McDonald’s.
A few strides later he reminds himself that he’s already eaten and wills himself to stop. For a moment, though, his vision lingers on the crowded restaurant, particularly on the family sitting up front, mid-smudged-window. They’re a robust group, exuding a vibrant heartland appeal: The twins are apple-cheeked and towheaded; the mother would look at home bedecked in a flowered apron and standing before her own stove, although Trevor knows she owns neither; and the father?
Well, a decade from now. . ..
With a shake of his head, Trevor turns and starts walking again. But he’ll have to hurry. He has miles to go before he sleeps, and Chloe will be waiting for him . . . holding their prime location front-and-center in The Mattress King’s display window on the eve of its Fall-sale blow-out.
Thank you for reading.
As Anita and I prepare to move back to Toronto, I will not be focused on writing for awhile. Therefore, on July 1, 2023, I will begin posting my critically-acclaimed novel, The Unexpected and Fictional Career Change of Jim Kearns, in a weekly serialized format.