Nine Inch Bride
Book One: An Epiphany On Wall Street
Available at:
http://nineinchbride.com/download-novel-now.html
In Paperback: https://www.createspace.com/4286182
Chapter 2
Takes two to tango
The road was smooth and the traffic light, orderly and efficient, a stark contrast to the Manhattan of old movies, where foul-belching dinosaurs roared deafeningly along pot-holed streets jammed with cars, their exhaust fumes stoically endured by pedestrians assembled at the crosswalks.
Electric-only zones had been established, and air in the Island City felt clean, at least when the wind came from the ocean or the Catskills. Since the City had been privatized, all commercial traffic stopped in the boroughs, and bridge and tunnel rail depots dotted the East River shores. The odor of fossil fuels only reached us when the wind blew in from the industrial Jersey shore across the Hudson to the west.
Residents were given preference in the private car quota set for the City, so for the better part of the day, driving along the canyon streets was actually pleasant. The uptown drive took me through the heart of its architectural splendor, an eclectic chaos of angular glass and steel monoliths, pyramids and spires. All around me stood the aspiration of mankind and the temples of our undoing.
Pedestrian zones on the West Side were graced with low, ivy-clad stone and brick buildings, embracing whole neighborhoods of colorful antique residences, quaint shops, and private gardens enclosed in wrought iron.
The Old Man profited at every turn from beautification mandates the City Board imposed, like clinging vines. The Board required solar installations, feeding profits to Solar Skin Technology, one of the Old Man's myriad holdings under Green Con. Everything relating to nature was a Green Con product, from the soil in the tree pots to the walls and levees holding the sea back from flooding the lower island.
As Chairman of the Board of Empire City, virtually every profit center was his treasure, from raspberries to real estate; and what he did not own outright, he had a share in. There were pieces of sidewalk he owned, the property demarcated with a line of brass inlaid in the concrete and duly noted in a small corner plaque embedded in the sidewalk.
I knew Keira would be at the Old Man's estate or at home in Connecticut if he drove her crazy at the guesthouse. The Old Man had forbidden her the City to punish her for the Porsche under me. I was already the cause of considerable frustration to her and, under the circumstances, she could not overlook a dive in my financial condition or the gaping void in my financial prospects.
That void changed everything. My liabilities as a mate had grown like warts. I was an imposter in these credit card clothes and gifted sports car. Approaching the GW Bridge gate, where I waited in line beside a panorama of the great City sparkling in the sunlight to the south, I felt ashamed. I was an orphan from the sticks who made good, heading down, down, down. Dark pessimism returned and I flushed with anger at these mood swings against which I seemed to have no defense.
I had to keep my spirits buoyant. It was a matter of survival. I could not face these people in this crippled state of mind. I spoke for jazz guitar, very loud, heater on, and let the windows down as well.
The gate scanners on the Jersey side of the bridge uploaded identity, ownership, insurance, residency, and travel data from the vehicle while debiting the toll, and I left a brief rip with the tires in departing, the plaintive yelp noted by more than one person in uniform. But I was not speeding, and I knew such behavior by the youthful and privileged was common at the gate.
