Chapter Five
Weston
I sat at my computer, trying to narrow down the million things necessary to write a proposal for Bridges Eaton to convince him that I’d succeed on the ride from New York to San Francisco.
Would I succeed? Damn if I wasn’t going to do my best. I owed it to my mother to prove I could take care of her. She’d taken care of me my whole life, and it was time for me to return the favor.
There was an article in a cycling magazine that gave a general outline of necessities for a biking trip the likes of which I was planning, so I took notes, needing to look up things like “panniers,” which are basically saddlebags, and “bivy sack.” The latter was a covering for a sleeping bag to make it waterproof and windproof for one person to sleep in anywhere, including on the side of a cliff. I think not.
The idea of sleeping on the ground—or the side of a cliff—for a month or more didn’t set my world on fire, and when I looked up how many hours it would take me to bike a hundred miles, I found out it would take five to seven hours, depending on my pace and if the terrain had steep hills.
Being on a bike that long didn’t sound conducive to sleeping on the ground, so I needed to figure out something else when it came to accommodations for the trip.
The elevator in the living room dinged, signaling Mom was home. I really needed to talk to her about some things, so I closed my laptop and went down the hallway to the kitchen. She came into the room carrying two cloth grocery bags and wearing a big smile.
“Let me help you.” I hurried over to take the bags from her as she hung her purse on the hook under the breakfast bar before stopping at the sink to wash her hands. “What did you do today?”
Mom grinned. “I looked for a job and did a little shopping. I also went to lunch with Edmond. We had a long talk, and he clarified a few things. We won’t have to move.
We can rent back the townhouse for the year at a reduced rate that we can afford.
He’s going to help me find a job, and he’s promised to give me access to his car service so I don’t have to ride the bus or the subway, though I have no problem doing either.
He said I can let you use the car service if you need it while you’re looking for a job. ”
I began unbagging the groceries when a brilliant thought came to me.
“I won’t need to use the car service. I have my bike.
Also, I sat down with Bridges today to discuss my charity proposal.
He’s agreed to help me with it, and he suggested that he’ll provide for you so you don’t have to get a job.
I’ll pay him back after the bike trip next year. ” It was a truth adjacent, after all.
Mom’s face fell. “Weston Edmond Aames, I absolutely refuse to take one red cent from Bridges Eaton. I’m a grown woman who can take care of myself. Have you lost your mind? I’m going to work at Chaney we just have to pay rent for the apartment back to the trust. Thank you for your offer to help, but Mom and I are going to figure this out. Thanks again. West
Did I sound sincere? The last thing I wanted to do was piss off Bridges. I had no idea how to deal with things that were uncomfortable. Mom and Dad always did those things for me. I definitely didn’t want to offend the man since he was offering to help me.
Later that evening, I continued the research I’d started the previous night. I found gear I’d need for the trip: padded biking shorts, brightly colored biking jerseys so I was visible to cars sharing the road, a waterproof jacket, and biking gloves.
I had a good helmet, and my bike was incredible, so I wouldn’t need either, but Bridges had mentioned tools for repairs along the way, and I had none. I looked up the costs and recommendations for a toolkit before I realized I had no idea how to repair a flat on my bike.
Maybe the best idea was to take a backup bike—maybe Dad’s bike—along in case anything happened to mine? It was best to make a list of questions for Bridges, so I pecked it into an app on my phone.
Opening another search window, I typed in careers that involve riding a bike. The first thing that popped up was bicycle courier. The salary listed was between twenty thousand and thirty-five thousand dollars, and the requirements of the job were right up my alley.
Physically fit? If the looks I got when I went out on the town by men and women alike were a barometer, then yeah, I was physically fit. Getting around Manhattan had never been a problem for me, so I could say I was proficient at navigating the city which was listed on the requirements for the job.
Good customer service skills? I was a nice enough guy, so how hard would it be to deal with customers?
Problem solving skills? I had a fucking MBA. I could solve any problem tossed my way.
Feeling quite accomplished, I went to the kitchen to get a drink of water, a smile on my face. Suddenly, I was on my ass looking at soap suds flooding the kitchen floor around me. They were flooding out of the dishwasher, covering everything. “Shit!”
I began plucking open cabinets to look for something to scoop them up with, finding a big metal bowl Renata used when she made fried chicken, though I had no idea why. I took off my socks and waded into the thick of it.
Once I had the bowl filled, I took it to the sink and dumped bubbles, turning on the faucet to rinse them away. For a moment, I considered using the sprayer on the floor to get rid of them, but then my common sense slapped me. That much water might do damage.
When I turned back to get another scoop, it appeared as if the bubbles had doubled in size. I was going to be there all night at this rate.
Mom’s bedroom door opened, and I knew if she saw the kitchen in its current shape, she’d lose her fucking mind. I rushed into the hallway. “Hi, Mom. Do you need something?”
She stared at me for a moment before smiling. “Good night, dear. I’m sorry I was sharp with you earlier. We’ll adjust to our new dynamic soon. Sleep well.”
Without waiting for a response, Mom went into her room and closed the door. I hurried back to the kitchen and continued the futile job of ridding the kitchen of more bubbles than a foam party at a gay club.
After the dishwasher stopped, I opened the door to see it was still full of bubbles, so I pulled the dishes out and rinsed them in the sink, propping them in the dish drainer on the counter to the right.
The smarter thing to do would have been to run the dishwasher through a rinse cycle to rid the dishes of all the soap. Problem was, would the bubbles start over again? I couldn’t take that chance.
I left the dishwasher door open in hopes that the bubbles would dissipate, and then I found the mop in the laundry room and cleaned the floor, which was quite slick with the leftover soap.
Why the hell were simple chores so damn hard? Shouldn’t I know how to handle shit like this?
After a restless night’s sleep where I woke several times to jot down questions for Bridges that popped into my dreams between the sexy times I envisioned between us, I finally gave up. I went to the kitchen where Mom was already sitting with a cup of coffee and her tablet.
“Good morning, dear. Thank you for mopping the floor last night. I didn’t expect it, but I appreciate it.” Her bright smile was a soothing salve to me because she didn’t know what a fucked-up situation I had on my hands.
And then, Mom continued. “I think I’ll turn over grocery pickup to you. Can you get these things today? What are your plans?”
She handed me a list and at the bottom of it, I saw “dishwasher pods.” So, I hadn’t imagined them?
“I have a question, Mom. What’s the difference between dishwasher pods and dishwashing liquid?”
A quick smile curved her lips before she tamed it.
“Dishwasher pods are specifically formulated for using in the dishwasher. Dishwashing liquid is only for handwashing dishes in the sink. Oh, and you didn’t know this, but we handwash the pots and pans.
One trip through the dishwasher won’t hurt them, but continuing to send them through the dishwasher ruins them. Please don’t do it again.”
How the fuck was I supposed to know that?
On the Friday before Memorial Day, I rode my bike to Superior Courier Service on Fifth Avenue. The business occupied a small storefront with the name painted on the front window in big white letters surrounded by red outlines.
There was a bike stand in front of the business with about eight bikes chained to it. I fastened the chain around mine and slid off the leg band from my pant leg, shoving it into my pocket as I adjusted my button-down shirt.
I wasn’t interviewing at a Forbes five-hundred company, but Mom suggested I wear more than bike shorts and a T-shirt for the interview.
“It’s respectful if you show them you want to make a good impression.
” She had an interview at Chaney & Associates the next week, and I trusted she knew what she was talking about.
I ruffled my fingers through my hair, taking in my reflection in the window. Once I had my courage controlled, I went inside. There was a pretty girl who couldn’t be more than nineteen sitting at the desk with four guys and two girls in a line in front of her.
“Okay, ladies and gents. Who wants to go to the Financial District and deliver on the Upper West Side?” A guy in a red and white jersey and black bike shorts lifted his hand.
“Great. Here’s the sheet. Call me when your done and I’ll give you another assignment.” It went on that way until everyone had an assignment and it was only me and the young woman.
“You must be Weston Edmonds?” I didn’t use my real last name when I applied because my father’s investment firm was at the end of the block. I didn’t want to be associated with it.
I was sure they made plenty of deliveries to the mailroom at the Aames Tower. Aames Investments owned the whole building and housed several other businesses on its thirty-two floors.
“I am. I’m here to see Andy Makris.”
The young woman giggled. “You’re talking to her.”
My face must have shown my surprise. “Uh, the person I spoke with had a very deep voice that I believe was male. Was that you?”
Again, she giggled. “No, that was my dad. He insists on screening my calls. He’s afraid of creeps, and he’s convinced he can tell by listening to their voice.”
I laughed. “Well, Ms. Makris, tell your father I’m gay, so you’re completely safe with me. So, this is your business?”
She stood and opened the little gate between her desk and the entrance. “Come on in. Coffee or water?”
“Coffee, please. How long have you been in business?”
The little office was nicely appointed. There was a sitting area with a vinyl couch and matching chairs. A coffee station and a basket of pods—apparently my word of the day—was situated on a quartz counter next to a fridge and a microwave. It was a nice setup.
Andy—or Andi, as I suspected—pointed to the basket as she put a mug under the coffee maker. I picked a pod and handed it to her, not sure how the fuck the coffee maker worked.
Andi made me a cup of coffee, and we went over to the sitting area, me sitting on the couch and her taking a seat in a chair. “So, Joe College, you know your way around Manhattan well enough to make deliveries?”
I was more intrigued with her than interested in the job, but the more she told me about herself, how she was a fucking genius who had finished high school at twelve and NYU at sixteen, my respect grew for her.
We talked for twenty minutes before she laughed.
“You’ll start at fifteen dollars an hour, working eight hours a day.
I need you to come in at seven for the corporate deliveries, but you get off at three.
Most of my messengers work straight through, but if you want to take a lunch hour mid-day, then you get off at four. ”
If I worked for Andi until three, I could go to Brooklyn and work two hours for Bridges. It would be the perfect setup. It seemed the fates were smiling at me.
There were times when I believed there was a dark cloud over my head.
There were times when I wanted to disappear, but regardless of what my mother said about me looking after myself and her looking after herself, I knew in my heart it was still my job to make sure Mom was okay.
Clearly, it was what my father expected of me, and if I had let him down over the years, I wouldn’t do it again.