The Butler - 2. Chapter II

May 22nd 2005, New York.

Star Wars Episode 3 – Revenge of the Sith had been out for three days now and I couldn’t even get a ticket. Well...I didn’t have the money. One lousy ticket and I couldn’t even cough up enough dough to go see the most anticipated movie in decades! Damn. George Lucas owed it to the world to make up for that piece of shite that was the 2nd installment; from what I’d seen in trailers, this one did. If only I hadn’t wasted my last couple of dollars on lottery tickets. And that drinking binge last night at Joe’s.

I kicked a can halfway into the street, hitting a cab that just drove by. Oops. The driver gave me the finger.

“Yeah, so’s your mother,” I mumbled, casting a last glance at the queue at Loews on 34th street. “Fuckwit.”
Chagrined, I found another can to kick. This time I hit a black sedan and this one stopped. Double oops. I went back to my usual place and leaned with my back against the wall keeping an eye on it, watching out for the driver to disembark but instead of that happening, the backseat window slid down revealing a distinguished gentleman, staring at me.

“Charles?” he asked, sounding and looking as if he was seeing a ghost.

“Who? Charles?” I asked, frowning and thinking. “No, sorry; no Charles’s around here.”
He shook his head then and took a moment.

“My mistake…I’m sorry.”
He hesitated and then sat back into his seat, letting the electric window ride up again. Weirdo.

But the car remained parked at the sidewalk, and I got the distinct feeling I was being stared at, still. That was confirmed when the window slid down again.

“I apologize,” the old man called out again, “the mind of an old man, playing tricks on him. But I was wondering; can you spare me a moment of your time?”
I narrowed my eyes at him for a few seconds and then decided he was pretty harmless, and pushed off from the wall, approaching cautiously.

“Sure, grandpa; what can I do for ya?” I asked, trying not to sound too gruff, but I’d had a load of customers driving off without giving me any business; I was about to call it a day and find a safe spot, and get some sleep. Business always picked up at night, so I’d give it a try then. There was always some frustrated married guy, looking for a piece of good tight ass to screw, instead of staying at home with a PMS-ing wifey and her worn out cunt, sick and tired about her feigned headaches.

“I’d like to talk to you, for a while. Would that be alright with you? You… make me think of someone.”
He kept his eyes on me as I got closer. I didn’t see any judgment in them. Strange. We normally got a healthy dose of distrust.

“Sure, but it’s gonna cost ya,” I replied. “Time is money.”
If he paid up, I’d be anyone he’d want me to be. He was a little old, but from experience I knew age didn’t matter much; the equipment still worked.

That seemed to snap him out of it

“Of course,” he said, quickly, reaching into the inside of his coat. “Will one hundred cover an hour of your time?”
A hundred?! For that, I’d give him his, probably last, trip to paradise!

“Two, and pay up front,” I demanded, holding out my hand.
It never hurts to try…
He looked up, then, and regarded me with a long stare that had me giving in by looking away.

“You’ll get fifty now and fifty once the hour is up.”
I shrugged. So he wasn’t completely stupid. Oh well…as said, it never hurts to try.

He fished a fifty dollar bill from his wallet but kept it in his hand, opening the door for me to scoot on in. Once I closed the door, he signaled the driver with a small nod and the car pulled up and we drove off.

It was a nice car, a BMW. It smelled new.

“What is your name?”

“Joe,” I answered, automatically.

“I see. Your real name, please.”

Oh, this game, huh?

“Whatever you want it to be.”

He smiled.

“Joe it is, then. Tell me, Joe... does this kind of work do it for you?”

“What’re you, some sorta shrink?”

“No,” he smiled. “I’m not a shrink. I’m just an old man, and quite harmless. I just want to talk.”
He handed me the fifty.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”
He smiled again. He seemed…kind.
“Now tell me, Joe; how old are you?”

“Nineteen,” I lied, automatically. Usually they went for it. I still look the part. Sort of...
For some reason, he didn’t go for it.
“23,” I corrected then, my real age. “And my real name’s Christopher.”
I don’t know why I admitted my real name; maybe it was because he made me think of my granddad.

“Thank you, Christopher. I am Gregory Montgomery.”

“Hmm,” I replied, “so where are we going, Mr. Montgomery? ‘Cause there’s no need to go far. I could take care of you right here, if you want…”
He chuckled and…did he blush?

“Oh no. No, Christopher, that is not the kind of encounter I had in mind for us. Those days are long past for me, but thank you for giving an old man a compliment as such.”

I frowned. What the hell did he want, then? He actually wanted to…talk?

Just then, the driver turned left, heading straight for Central Park. Somewhat later he turned left again, onto Fifth Avenue heading south. When he stopped and parked and, at Mr. Montgomery’s request, I disembarked, I found myself staring up at 834th Fifth Avenue.

Okay, now he had my attention.

“You’re kidding, right? You live here?” I said, craning my neck up at the building.
He softly chuckled again and looked up with me, setting his umbrella on the pavement in front of him.

“No kidding, Christopher. Yes, I live here. And you’re my guest. Please, come...”
And with that, he stepped towards the entrance, turning around there and waiting patiently for me to join him.

**********

The entrance of 834th was guarded by a big son of a bitch, I kid you not. Holy shit, if that guy backed up his ass would probably beep. He was L.A.R.G.E.! I suddenly was sweating, thinking everybody was looking at me. Which, in fact, they actually were. Going into this building, where the apartments Mr. Montgomery lived in cost well into the ten digits, tends to turn a few heads, no matter who walks into the entrance.

Once inside, I didn’t even think about saying anything; the building was grand in its simplicity. I’d see a lot more of it in the weeks to come (but I didn’t know that yet), but I was saddened when the elevator doors closed, ripping all that awesome and expensive beauty from my view.
We rode up in silence, once the driver also joined us, up to the thirteenth floor, (although it said 14 on the panel) the only interruption being mine, asking “did Rupert Murdoch really buy the penthouse here for forty-fou...” and a simultaneous answer from both men, it being an exasperated “yes”, before I even finished my question. Holy shit!

**********

I suddenly looked at Mr. Montgomery with something of respect. This guy wasn’t rich. He was filthy rich! I’d heard a rumor once that you couldn’t get a place here unless you had at least ten times the value of your apartment in liquid assets. Yeah, I went to school. Once. And I also read the rags.

It turned out the driver was also his butler, going by the name of Basil. Ouch. I wouldn’t even name my dog Basil, let alone a human being. I’d never name my son Basil. On the other hand, there was no way I’d ever father a son, so that event would never occur. I grinned to myself, eliciting an amused smile from Mr. Montgomery.

The elevator doors opened into the grand hall of the apartment and I really had to fight a mental battle not to gawk at everything. Because of the building's reputation, I expected opulence but instead got elegance, at least the part I could see. It was enough. When I had an apartment of my own, about seven months back, it could fit right into this hall. The whole thing. The one from that annoying bitch next door as well, probably.
Mr. Montgomery smiled when he found me gawking.

“May Basil take your coat?” he asked after several minutes and I looked up. The driver/butler held out his hand to me, patiently waiting.
I shrugged my jacket off of my shoulders and handed it to him, noticing he took it with his index finger and thumb, clearly cringing his nose.

“May I suggest a bath, sir?” Basil suggested, speaking to Mr. Montgomery in the most pure British way, it made my hair stand on end.

“I think that’s a good idea. Take Mr... what is your surname, Christopher?”

“McAllister.”

“Irish?”

“Scottish,” I answered, with some pride. It’s an innate thing. And although I was thrice removed from it, I’d have loved to have the lilt of my ancestors. My accent, unfortunately, is pure American.

“Basil, take Mr. McAllister to a guestroom and supply him with whatever he needs.”
He then turned to me.
“Christopher, I will see you in one hour.”