The Asshole App (Expanded Version) ✅ Wattys2023

15 Raymond

Raymond parked his fully loaded, self-driving Tesla outside of the Fifth Street Men's Shelter. The facility was a one-story, run down building built next to a strip bar. "This whole block looks seedy," he observed. Frowning, he removed his sunglasses and pulled on a Calvin Klein black leather jacket. He was dressed in fashionably worn Affliction jeans and a black t-shirt. A dark green, cashmere scarf was casually wound around his neck. The color matched his new rough terrain Adidas sneakers. He stepped out of his vehicle and a disorientating sense of deja overcame him. The copy shop he had worked at in his twenties had been in an area not much better than this one.

At one point in my life, I was comfortable on the streets.

Raymond headed for the front shelter doors. A large rat emerged from behind a dumpster and raced across his path with a squeal. "Oh, God." He jumped sideways and collided with a rusty trash can. To his horror, he accidentally bumped into a long-haired hippie. Wearing sunglasses and a western poncho, the man had been slouched against the wall like an aging Clint Eastwood.

"Hey, watch it!" The vagrant eased off the wall and took a menacing step forward. 

Seeing spittle in the man's beard, Raymond took two quick steps back. The streets had changed since he'd been on them. The hirsute man was cohabitating with rodents.

Jeezus—what if he has rabies?

The grungy vagrant spun around and grabbed the handle of an old shopping cart. Leaning forward, he slowly pushed it towards the garbage bins stationed in front of the next-door topless bar. The cart's rusty wheels squeaked and Sinclair winced. He didn't notice the white catering van parked a few spaces away from his Tesla. Two men wearing catering uniforms watched carefully as he entered the brick building.

Inside the shelter, his aesthetic senses were assaulted by the harsh lighting and cheap furniture. The drab decor and cheap lights made electricity crackle in his brain. He swiped his chin and pushed an imaginary pillow from his face as he tried to breathe as little as possible. The building was obviously not up to code and should be ripped down. Probably full of mold an asbestos. A small whine made him look down. A mangy, fawn colored dog ran up to him and sniffed his sneaker. He sidestepped the overweight beast and addressed the hoody clad youth at the front desk.

"I'm here to talk to Evelyn Simmons. I understand she's works here now."

Joe's chin tilted up slightly. His eyes narrowed at the visitor's arrogant tone. "Who are you?"

Unable to read verbal social cues, the CEO didn't recognize the warning timbre of the young man's voice. "Raymond Sinclair—I own CENTIEN." He pointed to the computer the hoodlum squatting at the desk was using. "People usually know who I am. That's one of our laptops," he said with a smirk.

The young man shut his device. "Yeah, I thought that's who you were." His tone conveyed that he recognized an ex-boyfriend stalker when he saw one. He crossed his arms over his chest. "Evelyn's not available right now. Why don't you leave a phone number. I'll see she gets it."

Raymond's face froze. She's keeping me at arm's length. That's rich. "What's with the Five-star restaurant screening? Just tell me where she is."

"It's none of your business." Joe leaned back in his chair and took a sip of water. The youth observed him as if he was a privileged asshole. Eyes gleaming, the ruffian took a bite of a shiny red apple.

Raymond remembered a piece of advice from Dennis's book. When thwarted, try a conciliatory approach—honey tames bees. "Listen, you look intelligent. This is important—I have good news for her."

"Why don't you give me the message and I'll make sure she gets it." Under the table, the heels of Joe's high-topped Converse thumped against the floor.