Chapter 6 - The Curbside Meltdown and the Uber Ride of Shame
The wind whipped across the JFK departures curb, turning the autumn chill into stinging needles.
Eleanor Vance sat directly on top of her largest Louis Vuitton trunk, her ivory silk coat dragging against the dirty concrete.
She was sobbing so hard that her mascara ran in thick, black lines down her foundation.
Bystanders continued to walk past, their suitcases clicking rhythmic beats against the pavement.
Some pointed.
Others smirked and nudged their companions, murmuring about the wealthy woman melting down on the sidewalk.
“Richard, what did he say?” Eleanor gasped between choked breaths, clutching her chest.
“Tell me he didn't say the house.
Tell me Arthur was just trying to scare us.
He wouldn't do that to his own flesh and blood.
He bought that mortgage to protect us!”
Richard stood motionless, holding his phone in a white-knuckled grip.
His face had drained of all color, shifting from purple rage to the sickly gray of an ash heap.
The screen was black.
The call had ended over two minutes ago, but he couldn't bring himself to lower his arm.
“He meant every word,” Richard whispered, his voice trembling so violently his teeth clicked.
“The boy has gone completely rogue.
He canceled the lines of credit.
He canceled the mortgage deferment.
He is calling the debt due on Monday morning.”
“No!” Vanessa shrieked, stomping her foot onto the pavement with enough force to twist her ankle.
She winced, grabbed her knee, and then let out a wail of pure outrage.
“He cannot evict me from Tribeca!
I have brand collaborations scheduled at that loft next week!
I’m hosting a dinner party for fashion week influencers on Thursday!
Where am I supposed to put my clothes?
Where am I supposed to live?!”
“Will you shut your mouth about your clothes?!” Richard roared, finally turning his fury onto his daughter.
His roar was so loud that an airport security guard twenty feet away rested his hand on his baton and glared at him.
Richard lowered his voice to a venomous hiss, leaning into Vanessa’s face.
“We are about to lose the estate in Westchester!
Do you have any concept of what seven hundred and eighty thousand dollars in sixty days means?!
I don't have seventy-eight hundred dollars in liquid cash, let alone seven hundred thousand!
And you are whining about a dinner party with internet clowns!”
“Don't you dare talk to me like that!” Vanessa hissed back, her eyes wild.
“You’re the one who raised him!
You’re the one who told him last night to send Clara to the kitchen!
You laughed, Dad!
You were the one carving the lamb and telling her to walk home in the dark!
If you hadn't opened your big mouth, Arthur wouldn't have snapped!”
“You threw the water, you idiot!” Richard snarled, jabbing his finger within an inch of Vanessa’s nose.
“You threw a goblet of ice water at a pregnant woman!
Who does that?!
What kind of brainless brat does that over a chair?!”
“Both of you, stop it!” Eleanor wailed, covering her ears and swaying on the trunk.
“Stop it right now!
People are staring!
Look at them with their phones!
Call a car, Richard!
Get us away from this horrible place before someone posts my face on the internet!”
Richard swallowed hard, his throat dry as sandpaper.
He pulled up his rideshare app with trembling thumbs.
He typed in the Westchester estate address.
The app calculated the fare: $185 for an XL vehicle capable of fitting their seven massive pieces of luggage.
Richard pressed Confirm Ride.
A red banner flashed across the top of his phone screen:
Payment Failed: The card on file has been declined. Please select an alternative payment method.
Richard froze.
He stared at the red text in utter disbelief.
“No... no, no, no,” he muttered, frantically tapping the screen.
He selected his secondary corporate card.
Declined.
He selected his personal credit card—the one he hadn't checked in six months because Arthur's accountant handled the autopay.
Declined: Card limit exceeded.
A cold, suffocating panic clamped around Richard Vance’s throat.
Every single credit line connected to Vance Logistics was dead.
His personal credit cards had been maxed out for years, kept alive only through the minimum monthly payments issued by Arthur’s payroll department.
Without Arthur’s corporate accounts backing them, Richard Vance was fundamentally, entirely broke.
“Vanessa,” Richard said, his voice dropping into a desperate, hollow whisper.
“Give me your card.”
“I told you, Arthur canceled my Amex!” Vanessa spat back, crossing her arms defensively.
“Not the Amex!
Your personal debit card!
The account where your influencer payments go!”
Vanessa’s eyes darted away, avoiding her father’s gaze.
She bit her bottom lip, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.
“Well?” Richard demanded, stepping closer.
“Vanessa!
Give me your card!”
“I... I don't have any money in that checking account, Dad,” she mumbled, barely audible over the roar of a passing shuttle bus.
“What do you mean you don't have any money?
You claimed you made thirty thousand dollars last quarter from sponsorships!”
“I spent it!” she screamed back, tears of humiliation welling up in her eyes.
“I bought the vintage Chanel jacket!
I bought the Cartier bracelet!
I had to pay for my hair extensions and my personal trainer!
I only have forty-two dollars in my checking account until next month!”
Eleanor let out a sharp, theatrical gasp and slumped further down onto the trunk.
“Dear God in heaven,” she wept into her hands.
“We are penniless.
My own children have ruined me.
We are stranded on the street like beggars.”
Richard stood in the terminal exhaust fumes, clutching his phone like a lifeline that had gone limp.
He had no car.
He had no working cards.
He had two hysterical women and hundreds of pounds of useless luxury leather luggage on the sidewalk of Queens.
He swallowed his pride, a boulder of bitter ash sliding down his throat, and dialed his brother-in-law, Eleanor’s younger brother Gregory.
Gregory picked up on the fifth ring.
“Richard?
Aren't you halfway to Italy right now?”
Richard closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against the cold concrete pillar of Terminal Four.
“Gregory... we had an emergency,” Richard croaked, his voice stripped of every shred of dignity.
“The flights were delayed due to a... a booking conflict.
We are at Terminal Four.
Our accounts are temporarily frozen because of a banking error.
We need you to send an Uber XL to pick us up and take us back to Westchester.”
On the other end of the line, Gregory was silent for three painful seconds.
“You want me to pay for an Uber to Westchester from JFK?
Richard, that’s almost two hundred dollars on a Saturday morning.”
“I will pay you back on Monday!” Richard pleaded, his voice breaking.
“Gregory, please.
Your sister is sitting on the sidewalk crying.
We have nowhere to go.”
“Fine,” Gregory sighed, sounding deeply annoyed.
“I’ll send the car.
Stand by Door Three.
And don't make the driver wait, Richard.
I don't have money to burn on wait-time fees like you people do.”
Gregory hung up.
Richard lowered the phone, looking down at his polished leather shoes.
He had spent decades looking down on Gregory as a middle-class accountant who drove an ordinary sedan and clipped coupons.
Now, Gregory was paying for their cab ride home.
Twenty minutes later, a battered black minivan pulled up to the curb.
The driver didn't get out to help them.
Richard, sweating profusely through his bespoke wool blazer, had to hoist the four massive trunks and three heavy garment bags into the back himself, pulling a muscle in his lower back on the third trunk.
He climbed into the middle row beside Eleanor, groaning in agony as his back locked up.
Vanessa squeezed into the third row, surrounded by hanging clothes bags that smelled faintly of stale perfume.
No one spoke during the entire eighty-minute drive north toward Westchester.
The only sound was the clicking of the minivan’s turn signal and Eleanor’s quiet, steady weeping.
May you like
The golden holiday had turned into an ash-filled funeral march.
And when the minivan finally pulled into the circular driveway of the Westchester estate, the nightmare found its true starting line.
