The Rules of the Red - 2014 Watty Award Winner |✓|

Chapter One - Part One

The Maison was a stately structure made of wine-colored brick, and holding several balconied windows on each of its three floors. Two smartly dressed, but rather generic doormen framed the entrance on either side. They were waiting, motionless, beneath a tall awning when we arrived, but in seconds one of them had opened my door and was extending his arm.

“Thank you.” I said politely, accepting his arm.

“Sir, here’s a hundred now for you to keep my bags in the trunk.” I told the driver, handing him a bright, crisp note. “You’ll get another two hundred – plus fare – if you come back in an hour with all my stuff.”  

Without hesitation, he nodded fervently in agreement, leaving the doormen to escort me into the threshold. And as the door was opened, I was immediately enveloped me in a thick fragrance of countless perfumes and tobaccos, all dispersed by perfectly regulated air conditioning. There was no doubt indeed that this was a ritzy place.

Before approaching the front desk, I took the time to notice a door directly to my left. From it wafted the lulling hum of conversation and polite laughter. There were light clinking noises coming from the shiny silverware at the tables, and the glitter of women’s jewelry and men’s watches was undeniably eye-catching. Just being in such an opulently beautiful setting, you couldn’t help but wonder if it wasn’t all a lie that the rich are unhappy.

 But as the guests all dined and made bubbly conversation, smiling all the while from seemingly unconcerned faces, meanwhile the stony, concentrated looks on the faces of their servers served as excellent contrast. Unlike their patrons, these men and women sported expensive black suits or sophisticated black frocks with shiny shoes and all-white gloves. And it was all of these details combined that gave the restaurant its allure. It let you know that money-spinning business and gossip of the sophisticated kind was held here. This was a place of either work or private debauchery, but no matter what, the Maison would always remain tasteful.

“Hello,” I said, approaching the long neat-looking counter that served as the check-in point for the hotel. A sharply dressed employee stood behind the counter, waiting with forced-looking patience to take my information. The first thing I observed was that she was standing directly in front of a heavy wooden door, as if to guard it from view of the public. And then I noticed that she was tall, and thin too, with a long, broad face that immediately reminded me of a horse. And her eyes were a disdainful, brown color, set above a sharp nose and thin lips that were now pinched at the sight of me.

She returned the greeting, stiffly, but only after having given me an extremely noticeable once-over. And I could tell from her scowl that she disapproved of my outfit. While travel-worn jeans and a sweat-shirt might have cut it at Applebee’s, it was made quite clear that here, attire was everything.

“Hi. Welcome to The Maison. I’m afraid we aren’t currently accepting applications at the moment…”

Had I not experienced this type of reaction from others who had also thought that they were my superiors, I might have faltered, or perhaps even had my feelings hurt. But fortunately, I was wiser than I looked.

“Ma’am, actually I’m here to eat and –”