Class

This is my entry for Café Writing.

The instructions were: Take seven minutes (you have to use all seven, you can’t go over), and write about class. Any format (fiction, essay, verse) is acceptable.

Forgive any typos – I took the time limit very seriously!

His fat ass occupied most of the rear seat of his Bentley. The simianesque chauffeur, who clearly doubled as his bodyguard, opened the door and stepped aside, fulfilling the secondary role of blocking the sidewalk to allow his employer unobstructed access to the bar.

Almost everybody watched his approach through the large picture window that looked out onto the street; some with admiration, some in awe. I only glanced with a mingled sense of envy and dislike.

The door opened and he swept in, heading for the bar, a modern day Moses, parting a red sea of party people who craved his acknowledgement, no matter how fleeting.

He owned the bar.
He owned every night club in town worth visiting.

He’d just moved into the penthouse of the most expensive new beachfront development for several miles. I worked on the construction and saw first hand his arrogance and unpleasant nature. An unfortunate worker missed a deadline on the day he took possession of his apartment. The worker was physically ejected from the property by the chauffeur and his tools launched from the balcony to the rising tide, twelve stories below.

He took the empty seat at the bar beside me and surveyed this minor outpost of his kingdom until the inevitable leggy blonde joined him, kissed his blubbery face and asked for a white wine spritzer.

With a click of his stumpy fingers, he made her wish his command. My girlfriend, the bar’s newest employee, dashed to attend to him and I swallowed back my anger as he barked: “White wine spritzer and a double Glenfiddich.”

No 'please', not even eye contact.

She returned in record time and set his drinks down on the bar. “Six seventy five, please Sir,” she said, flashing me a nervous smile. Without looking up he dug a hand into his pocket and extracted a pile of bills and random coins.

Her look begged me not to say anything as she sorted through the cash in his open hand, extracting the correct amount and turned back to enter it into the till.

Finally fatboy disengaged from his companion and looked at me.

“How much did she take? Did she rip me off?”

I stood up, drained my beer and put it down gently on the bar.

“You may be the richest man in this town, maybe even this county, but there’s something money will never get you,” I said.

“Oh really? And what’s that, fuckface?” he sneered.

“Class,” I said and walked away.