CHAPTER TEN
HAMPTON
“NEVER GIVE MONEY TO A girl you want to fuck, dude,” says the guy with no neck.
Aaaaand … that’s enough of that. I grab Mateo by the arm and pull him aside. I think for a second that his meathead posse will come with us, thinking this is a game of Follow the Leader. Thankfully, they stay with Evan. The group of muscleheads and hippies seems as fascinated by Evan as ancient people might be by a golden idol. They know he invented LiveLyfe, and they’re all on LiveLyfe. What are the chances? Clearly, he’ll want to be their best friend and talk to them for hours.
“Are we about done here?” I ask Mateo.
“You don’t like the scenery?” He extends an arm, gesturing at the vista. It’s breathtaking, this mountain Mateo wants to buy. Almost literally. Like, the first time he dragged me here, I almost couldn’t breathe from looking at it.
“I don’t like the company.”
“I’m insulted,” Mateo said.
“I didn’t mean you and Evan. I meant that group of idiots you’re trying to hire.”
“I’m still insulted. Those are my guest ambassadors.”
I look back at the group, clustered around Evan enough to swallow him. Maybe I should be fairer to them, but all I can think of is those ‘90s movies where strapping instructors party, have sex, buck the system, and ultimately save the day. If Mateo buys this place and hires these people, I’m picturing 1991’s Ski School on a mountain.
“The guy without a neck thinks he’s part of our conversation,” Mateo says.
“That’s Meat.”
“What’s meat?”
“That guy. His real name is Jason, but everyone calls him Meat.”
“Because he’s so huge?”
“The girls gave him that name,” Mateo says.
I turn away. Look at my watch.
“He’s right, though.”
“Who’s right?”
“Meat.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You shouldn’t give money to a girl you want to fuck. The best-case scenario is that she’ll feel obligated because of the money, and that gives you an unfair advantage that comes with a burden. But half the time, she’s going to feel like a hooker.”
“I don’t understand.”
“A hooker is a girl you pay to have sex with you.”
“I know what a hooker is. I meant I don’t …” Then I get it. “You’re talking about Stacy Grace.”
“Who did you think I was talking about? How many women that you want to fuck are you paying?”
“I don’t want to fuck Stacy. I asked her to make some sketches because …”
But Mateo is laughing.
“What?”
“You’re hilarious.”
“I’m not hilarious.”
Insultingly, Mateo puts his hand on my shoulder. He’s still hitching with laughter.
“Hampton. Buddy. I’ve known you for a long time. I know what it looks like when you want to fuck a girl. And the way you look at her? Dude.”
“The only times you’ve seen me looking at her were that first day in her shop.”
“Right. That was the first day you wanted to fuck her.”
“She was yelling at me. I was yelling at her.”
“That’s what makes it so hot.” Mateo pulls me closer. “But the good news is that she wants to fuck you, too.”
“She does not want to fuck me.”
“Absolutely she does. She kept making hot eyes at you.”
“What are hot eyes?”
“You can’t tell by now how to tell when a girl wants to fuck you? How old are you?”
I shake it away. Mateo gets like this with me. It’s karma, I guess because I get this way with Evan. It’s the ball-busting circle of life.
“Hey,” Mateo says, “you brought it up. If you hadn’t, Meat never would have been able to butt in and offer his perfectly logical advice.”
“I didn’t bring it up at all!”
“You started saying how you’re flying back to Williamsville to—”
“To see the Billings & Pile Building again!”
“And?”
“And obviously to check on Stacy’s designs.” Pause. “What? Don’t look at me that way. You saw her first-rate job on my blazer.”
“And first-rate is what Expendable Chic is looking for in its designers and tailors? That’s what you want, someone who’s a stickler for quality?”
Mateo didn’t get my insistence on exploring a made-in-America line, so I’m thinking he won’t understand the place I see for a quality maker — working within a limited, very specific function. This isn’t about bulk and rock-bottom cost savings like the rest of Expendable Chic. This is fundamentally different, enough so that I can’t fully articulate it yet. This needs to percolate. And whatever its final form, my thoughts on it all continue to center on Stacy Grace.
“Look,” Mateo says. “If you want to hire her, I guess that’s your funeral. Same as with that shit-heap building in Williamsville. Just don’t fuck her if you do. Or if you want to fuck her, don’t hire her. Keep your cock and your briefcase separate. Don’t confuse the two.”
“I don’t know that it’s going to work out anyway.”
“What?”
“Her as a designer. She fundamentally doesn’t understand the business. It’s all personal to her.”
Mateo softens, a bit more serious. “What do you mean?”
“I’ve been looking her up. She writes a blog about custom clothing. Vintage clothing, too, since the two go hand-in-hand.”
“How does vintage go with custom?”
“People like her don’t want new things. They want old stuff and to keep repairing it over and over again. She’d get an old tablecloth from the thrift store and make a dress out of it, I swear.”
“And why is that a problem?”
“Because nothing new has a chance. She’s published long rants against what she calls ‘fast fashion’ stores. Keeps calling out Expendable Chic by name. Calling me out by name.”
“You said you thought she ‘got it,’ though. At least enough to hear you out.”
“Yeah, but like I said, she makes it personal. She keeps sniping at me. Like: Todd wanted to meet her because … well, because Todd. I flew her out to our retreat. And I thought it went well. But what happens as we’re getting ready to leave, after I thought the vibe was finally better? She fucking insults me. You remember what she said about my blazer? When she said it was a piece of shit?”
“She didn’t say it was a piece of shit, Hampton. I could hear everything you guys said through the window.”
“She said it was made wrong, and like I didn’t know any better.”
“It was made wrong. And you didn’t know any better.”
Fucking Mateo. I wish he’d stop arguing with me, using logic.
“And then at the retreat, it’s about my shoes. She fucking knocked my shoes.”
“So what? She can still design stuff without liking your wardrobe.”
“It’s a symptom of a bigger problem,” I say. “She’s smart and talented, but she’s such a righteous bitch about her work! She’s this fucking FairTraded selling, recycling, planet-saving, classic-values-having Mother Theresa, whereas I’m the enemy. I’m the guy polluting with microfibers or whatever and filling up landfills with shitty clothes.”
Mateo tips his head. “Well …”
“I just can’t have someone working for me who doesn’t respect me.”
At this exact moment, one of Mateo’s future climbing instructors shouts, “Hey Mr. Saint! You wanna grab some beer for us over here?”
“Not that you’d ever have that problem,” I say.