This flash was inspired from a magazine photo. Next week I’ll share the valet’s point of view. Hope you enjoy.
The silver CX75 concept car sliced to the curb of Chicago’s Palmer Hotel. The Jag’s door swung up like a wing. Bill cursed. His nine hundred dollar boot drowned in a puddle of gray slush left by the last vehicle. He stood with a grunt. His disheveled black trench coat clung to the seat unwilling to leave the warm leather.
“Good morning, sir.” The valet smiled, drool practically running down his chin.
Bill squinted through his round Lennon glasses. A steely blue gaze, known to wilt boardrooms, was wasted behind fogged lenses. He pulled his Cubs cap from his pocket and mashed it down over his large forehead that reached back to a nest of white hair.
The kid stared at the car. At least he looked like a kid to Bill, but he towered over the CEO’s five foot nine frame. His red short waste jacket accentuated his height and the gold trim reminded Bill of an organ grinder’s monkey.
“What’s your name?” Bill was excellent with names. To use someone’s name commanded a person’s attention.
“Collin, sir.” The kid turned to meet Bill’s eyes. “May I get your bags from the trunk?”
“No, Collin. I’m here for a meeting.” His wife and only child, Lucy, were planning her wedding. He was there to simulate interest and provide funding.
The kid looked at Bill with intensity. “Very well, sir.”
Eye contact—good training, Bill thought, retrieving the case containing his lap top from behind the seat.
“Gorgeous car, sir.” Collin ran his hand along the door frame above Bill’s head.
“Yes, it is.” How could anyone not appreciate the simple lines? Bill looked over his shoulder. Lucy hated the car. A Jaguar for Christ’s sake. He pressed the valet fob into Collin’s palm. “I checked the millage, Collin. No joy rides.”
“Of course not, sir.” Collin’s smile shone like a toothpaste ad. He jumped into the car, the engine still running, and looked over the dash panel.
“Push that.” Bill indicated the button for the door closure. The silver wing descended as Bill stepped away. The car roared and disappeared quickly into the bowels of the hotel’s garage. Bill looked up with a grimace while the car tires squealed with every turn and shift to the top of the parking garage.
“Son-of-a-bitch.” The revolving glass door whooshed, as Bill walked inside. A smile creased his face for the first time in a week.