It's hot. Not just the kind of summer sweet heat but a blanketing humid Big Apple blaze. The sky is a vast bright blue so, you've been told, there's not a single merciful cloud for shade in sight. No two plus story buildings either since you are heading west though the tourists and between 9-to-5er's on the way to work, so quite unfortunately the sun is directly blazing just behind you. It's a BRIGHT 8:45 in the morning. Your migraine grows and the worry for getting sunburn is seeming more of a possibility since you forgot to grab a hat long before heading out for the day. Your hair is styled decently well too. A larger man directly beside you takes a slow drag from the cigar he just lit, guessing by the smell and clicking of the lighter, it's an expensive brand and takes a savoring breath under the protection of his own hat.
'The hell you smoking that sin-stick for, it's not even noon. . . ' you sigh aloud but keep the thoughts in your head.
Your Boss, the dummy smoking besides you, mistakes your action as a complaint for the weather. He looks down his nose at you as the smoke drifts away in the same direction that he breaths since there's no wind to direct it as he says,
"Oh, do cheer up. That expression isn't very selling."
His suit is made by one of the finest craftsman or craftswomen in New York (you know this because you had to not only play messenger boy but delivery boy to some fancy hardworking tailor commission that for some reason couldn't send their own delivery boy that day and Mr. Pissy didn't want to wait another night. You also remember painfully well working overtime that day, in shitty lighting working on shitty wires from some machine someone couldn't follow the fine print blue prints too.) So Mr. Piedmont was wearing his favorite tie to match. An 'Ash silver' he'd told you, a ghastly striped thing, that looked 'colorless like cartoons and the rest of your world.' But you're familiar enough with its detailed patterns to tell it apart.
Meaning this meeting you were heading to was someone he greedily wanted to make a contract with. Not that you were much better, you were dressed in your finest button down and polished leather shoes because deep down you were hoping to make a good first impression here, to move out from your current boss, and find employment on what you heard booming and growing Studio asap.
Bertrum snaps his fingers by your ear and you hear it clear as day. You'd missed something he'd said.
"It's not a very attractive trait, Doll. Surely you know this," He scolds the zoning out but note without any venom so you know better than to take it to heart. Except the way he casually uses your nickname, an endearing name used by your friend, leaves a bitter taste in your mouth. Family be damned, bastard Grunkle Bertie or not he was your Boss first and for most in the front of your mind.
So you say "Of course, sorry sir," in a understanding and polite tone. At least you can afford to not sound sincere and have it brushed off as your usual laidback behavior. He lets out a sigh of his own forward you and rolls his shoulders while idle but finally the attention is off each other and back to the crosswalk the cars finally slowed enough to cross. Just a few steps closer to your destination now.
"Just stay behind me and let ME do the talking." You nod at your great uncle Mr. Piedmont but have most attention on the street signs you cross. There's sweat on your temple and sliding down your neck, 'it's not fear,' you say to yourself surely 'it's just the heat.' Just a little closer to Joey Drew Studios now.
'Lord, please let me get hired . . .'