Redemption: Part I

“Slow down, Howard. We’re already late and it won’t help if you get pulled over for speeding,” Chuck pleaded.

“What are you worried about? They’re not going to ticket you,” Howard spat back, annoyed at being told what to do. “Plus, they have speed cameras now—so I’ll get a ticket and a $75 fine. Big deal. I pay more to detail the car every week.

“You’re going to get us killed, man.”

“When did you turn into such a whiney little girl? You want me to drop you at the next corner and call you an Uber--or your mommy? I’m sure they both obey the speed limit,” Howard chuckled.

“Look out!” Chuck yelled as Howard stomped on the brakes just shy of rear-ending a Lincoln Town Car that stopped short at a yellow light.

“Goddamned idiot!” Howard yelled. “Who the hell stops at yellow lights? Now we’re stuck here!”

As he said that, a man emerged from the grass divider that formed the median between the North- and South-bound Park Avenue lanes and began wiping at the spotless windshield with a filthy rag. Enraged, Howard opened his window and yelled obscenities at the man, telling him to get the hell away from his car. The man continued wiping the spotless windshield, smearing it with oily residue from the filthy, once-white cloth after looking at Howard in seeming incomprehension. Howard then reached into his pocket and pulled out some loose change and bills he had received for a liquor purchase earlier and threw it at the man, hitting him on the chest with coins and folded bills. The latter stopped his attempts at wiping the windshield and staggered, barely able to keep his balance while bending down to pick up his wages for the cleaning service. Chuck noticed that the man was not wearing any shoes or a winter coat despite the 20-degree temperature. He hoped the man would find shelter for the night or he might well freeze to death. But he said nothing to his friend, knowing the response he was likely to receive if he did.

“Filthy bastard,” Howard fumed as the light finally changed and he peeled out, burning rubber for at least fifty yards while passing the slow-moving Town Car and giving its driver the finger. “You can’t drive or walk even in Midtown anymore without tripping over the lower end of the gene pool these days.”

“The guy’s just trying to get by. You didn’t have to throw the money at him.”

“Like I was going to let him touch me!” Howard scoffed. The city’s lousy with these parasites. You can’t walk on the sidewalk without being harassed by aggressive panhandlers. And a car like mine is a magnet for the bastards.”

“Why do you even own a car living in Manhattan? You must pay more for garage space than I do for my apartment in Astoria.” Chuck said.

“I paid more for my outfit than you pay for your apartment in Astoria for the year. Buying my garage spaces by work and by my condo cost me more than you’ll pay in rent in the next five years. You can’t leave a Ferrari on the streets, even if there were any place to park it!”

“But why do you even own any car? Don’t you have a driver assigned to you?”

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“Yeah, work provides me with a driver on call. That’s fine for transportation to and from the office and routine trips around town, but this is a status symbol to impress clients, just like the TOPDOG vanity plates. This Ferrari 812 set me back more than $370,000. And it’s worth every penny to see my competitors turn green, to say nothing of its effect on women,” Howard said looking at Chuck with a lecherous grin.

Chuck said nothing, just shook his head, wondering what had happened to his old college roommate in the several years since he had last seen him. Had he known about his transformation, he would gladly have taken a cab or the subway to their friend’s party.

“Well, we’re almost there. I’ll park in the garage in the middle of the block and you can help me carry the liquor in—it’s a short walk to her building.

Howard parked, took his ticket from the attendant, and winced as he heard his car screeching on its way to a spot in the nether regions of the garage. “I hate having to let these idiots touch my car, but what can you do?” He said, frowning, then gave Chuck a plastic bag with three bottles of Dom Perignon P2 and took a second identical bag himself which he had pulled from the car’s diminutive trunk.

“What did these set you back?” Chuck asked, curious.

“$370 each,” Howard responded, grinning.

Chuck whistled.

“I’m fortunate to be able to buy what I like, and I like my Dom.”

“But we’re only going to be maybe twenty people celebrating her birthday. Did you really need to buy a half case?”

“You can never have too much bubbly. Plus, I like Monica. She’s a good kid and I have not seen her for years. I was surprised when she sent the invitation to her party. She, you, and I used to be close in college but then grew apart, which is why I called you up, hoping she had also invited you. She brought back some pleasant memories,” Howard said. Then, turning to Chuck as they walked side by side towards Monica’s building, he added. “Look, I know I can be a bit of a dick. I don’t mean anything by it. I’m in a highly competitive business surrounded by pretentious idiots and I guess it rubs off. I catch myself sometimes, like just now. I’m sorry. I really don’t mean anything by it, and I’m not as big an ass as I must seem to you right now. Please don’t mention anything about my stupid car or the cost of this ridiculously over-priced champagne. She won’t notice or care. I bought it precisely for that reason as I know she’d refuse to accept an expensive birthday gift, but she won’t have a clue as to what the champagne cost so I can do something nice for her and just give her what she will think is a simple silk scarf as her gift. Despite all appearances to the contrary, I am really not trying to impress her or you and know that even if I were you’d just see me for the ass I’ve made of myself.”

Chuck was taken aback by this and said nothing, but he smiled. Perhaps there was hope for his friend yet, he thought.

They soon arrived at Monica’s address. It was a modest-looking four-story brownstone building, albeit in a pricey neighborhood. A row of doorbells in a polished brass plate in which the names of tenants were engraved showed Monica’s apartment was on the fourth floor. They pressed the doorbell button and a woman’s voice came over the intercom.

“Who is it?” She asked.

“It’s Chuck and Howard,” Howard answered.

“Come un up guys!” came the cheerful reply accompanied by a buzzing sound inviting them to enter.

There was no elevator. They walked up the four flights of stairs and found their friend waiting for them on the top landing. “By golly, you’re both still alive,” she quipped. “Never would have known it from the complete lack of communication!” She then hugged them in turn.

“We know, we know,” Chuck and Howard both answered at the same time, sheepishly. “But look, we come bearing olive branches in the form of libations. These are from both of us, and we had to carry them for miles through the bitter cold fending off other winos just for you.” Howard said, extending his bag of champagne bottles to her, as Chuck did the same, then squeezed Chuck’s arm hard as the latter opened his mouth to object that he had nothing to do with the gift.

“It is good to see you both,” she said smiling, hugging, and kissing each man again. “Your being here is the best present you could have given me today.” She then waved both men into her apartment where more than a dozen guests were already gathered, some of whom were known to both men, and others they met for the first time.

*. *. *