I'd been away from home for seven years. When I finally returned, it was because I'd been reassigned to the local level for field training.
As luck would have it, a high school reunion happened to fall right around the same time. I hadn’t seen those people in years, and even though my current position made social gatherings… complicated, I decided to attend anyway.
Most of my old classmates were doing quite well. Mercedes. BMWs. Audis. All respectable cars.
Unfortunately, the entire municipal motor pool had come down with food poisoning, so I was left without a driver. Since I intended to keep a low profile anyway, I simply took a taxi to the hotel and didn’t even bring my secretary along.
Just my luck—I was spotted the moment I stepped out of the cab. They immediately began mocking me, saying that after all those years buried in books, I still couldn’t even afford a car.
Melvin Gilbert, who had arrived in a Bugatti Veyron, walked over, clapped me on the shoulder, and sneered.
“Come work for my company,” he said with open ridicule. “I don’t have any real positions for you—maybe janitorial. But I’ll make sure you get a company car. At least then you can say you own one.”
Fred Malone, who had never gotten along with me in high school, chimed in with a smirk.
“Or you could go look up your ex-girlfriend. Sharon Pruitt is a Kunqu maestro now—rolling in money. Maybe then you’ll finally get your chance to drive a luxury car.”
I only smiled faintly.
“With my job,” I said calmly, “I’ll never have the opportunity to drive a luxury car.”
——
I'd been away from home for seven years. When I finally came back, it was because I'd been sent down to the local level for training.
A high school reunion happened to fall right around the same time. I hadn't seen these people in years, and even though my position now made socializing complicated, I decided to go anyway.
High school—that was real youth. First love, raw and unpolished. The grind of studying for college entrance exams. That kind of thing stays with you. So even though my current role made it inappropriate to sit and drink with businesspeople, I still went.
Unfortunately, the entire municipal motor pool had come down with food poisoning, which left me without a driver. But keeping a low profile was the plan anyway, so I hailed a cab and didn't even bring my secretary along.
Still, I knew the reality of my situation. My movements were a matter of serious concern. Every inch of the route to the hotel, and the hotel itself, would have plainclothes protection in place.
Before long, the taxi pulled up in front of the hotel.
I stepped out and spotted a cluster of people chatting animatedly near the entrance—my old classmates. The cars parked around them were respectable. Mercedes, BMWs, Audis. Their clothes were sharp, polished. Everyone seemed to be doing well for themselves.
That genuinely made me happy.
But just as I was about to walk over and say hello, someone recognized me first.
No one greeted me. They just stared, expressions strange, eyes glinting with something that looked a lot like mockery.
Then came the roar of an engine—guttural, beastlike. A silver Bugatti Veyron swept into the parking lot.
A man climbed out. Custom-tailored suit. A flick of his wrist revealed a watch worth well over a million dollars. The kind of presence that demanded attention.
"Mr. Gilbert's here!"
"There you are! We've been talking about you all evening."
"Oh, and look—our old class genius showed up too. Came by taxi."
Not a single person so much as glanced my way. They swarmed toward him like moths to a flame.
This "Mr. Gilbert"—Melvin Gilbert—had been the biggest trust-fund kid in our class back in the day. He was also my old rival in love.
Melvin swept a dismissive glance over me, then pretended not to recognize me. "Who's this? Wait—is that Jeremy Swanson? What are you wearing? You look worse than the waitstaff. And what's with that haircut?"
Did I really look that bad?
I was wearing a standard-issue government jacket. My hair was a simple, regulation side part. My job didn't exactly allow me to show up in a six-figure suit with a salon blowout.
"Jeremy, all those years buried in books—and this is what you have to show for it?"
"Look at the rest of us. Everyone's got a car. Even the worst off is driving an Audi A6. You can't even manage that?"
"Forget the car—you could've at least called a black car service."
"Showing up in a taxi is one thing, but he couldn't even bother to clean himself up."
From the moment I'd stepped out of that cab, the jabs hadn't stopped. You'd think I was their sworn enemy.
Melvin Gilbert walked up to me, clapped a hand on my shoulder, and let a sneer spread across his face.
"Tell you what—come work at my company. I don't have any real positions for you. Janitorial, maybe. But I'll make sure you get a company car." He squeezed my shoulder. "At least then you can say you own a set of wheels."
I just smiled faintly.
"My line of work," I said, "means I'll never get to drive a luxury car."
