Peter's building is in the East 80s, on the Park.
Of course it is.
The limo pulls into the porte-cochère. A solemn top-coated doorman helps me out of the car. Another holds the front door as Peter escorts me inside.
The lobby is mirrors and marble. An angel in a fountain. Chandeliers and gilded trim. Antiques and oil paintings. Dark wood and arched doorways. Well-lit, but feels gloomy anyway, you know?
Almost Medieval. Maybe Renaissance.
Either way, old.
Old World. Old money. Old stuff.
The concierge at the desk looks older than the furniture.
Bald. Wrinkled. Lots of age spots.
He nods to Peter. Otherwise, he doesn't move. His eyes track us across the lobby.
Reminds me of a crocodile.
The elevator is ancient too.
Inlaid wood and mirrors. Brass cage. Cylinder buttons.
Complete with uniformed operator.
No lie. They pay someone just to run the elevator.
He looks like he's been on the job since the elevator was invented. Wears a velvet fez. One eye is filmed over, all white.
Creepy.
He nods too. Doesn't speak.
Gives me a once over with his one good eye.
It makes my skin crawl. I shudder and move closer to Peter.
The elevator takes us straight to the top.
The very top.
The whole top floor is his.
Peter owns the penthouse.
Of course he does.
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Losing Charity © Dan McGirt 2019. All rights reserved.
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