“Regardless of what you have been taught to believe; your most important asset is time - not money or possessions, your most important impact will be made through relationships - not through positions or certifications."
                                                 – Allan R. Wallace

     It roared through streets, above cars, past apartment windows with sleepy occupants, on black steel, and under the gray, 6 AM urban sky scattered with clouds that depicted New York City on the verge of another day, another execution of a grand plan. The buildings were the canvas of the sun, and the paint was the light that illuminated occasional patches in varying degrees and shades, as if they were the first strokes of absolute, immaculate genius. Sol had until it set again to create yet another masterpiece without fail, and amongst the pools of light here and there was a movement that the early birds chased, the famed L-train of New York, formally known as the Elevated Rapid Transit System that hurled itself through the city, off to pick up the office workers who’d rather go green, save on gas, or just plain travel cheaper.
     But amongst these typical New Yorkers with their expected hats, glasses, brown trench-coats and briefcases, was one who quite obviously stood out. He was one who attracted attentive gazes in his direction as well as questions as to why is he on a train and not in a limousine, for this individual was clad in a gray pinstripe three-piece suit which somehow held a stark contrast to the skies above, coupled with a fine blue shirt and navy blue tie. Needless to say all these articles of clothing were from some expensive brand or another, not that he’d care, for all he’d want others to know was that he could probably buy the whole dang train instead of pay for a ticket almost religiously every single day at 5:50 AM. This little pilgrimage of his was something he looked forward to every single day, being the insomniac he was. The ability to go to sleep at any time before 2 AM and yet wake up at 5 AM, regardless of the hours he slept, proved to be delightedly useful to him considering the field he was in. Arbitrageur extraordinaire, undefeatable champion of real estate, die-hard acquisitionist; he was all that and more, and anything, anything at all that snatched his fancy even for the slightest of moments could be his with minimal effort, for life to him was much like his favourite game, chess. Although he did play golf as traditionally expected amongst high-class entrepreneurs and businessmen, he considered it as a rather oversized game of pinball; “merely old men swinging about metal sticks in hopes of sinking a tiny ball down a numbered gutter.” No, his game of choice was chess. Others thought you could judge the success of a businessman through a game of golf, but to him this applied exclusively to chess and chess alone. He swore by it, as luck could play a part in any other sport, especially golf, but not this fine game of wits and intellect. It was a real test of strategy and long-term thinking, which is exactly what’s needed to be applied to the fast-paced corporate world of money and manipulation, and his favourite part was that it was just two players against each other, black and white, yin and yang, one and the significant other, or as the Spanish put it best, ‘Mano-a-Mano’. As expected of such a man with fine tastes, he collected chess sets of all sorts and varieties from all the ages, but sadly found no one he considered competent enough to be a worthy adversary. In business and chess, any opponent requiring him to think for ten seconds or less of a move on the way to certain victory was a waste of his time.
     And time was something that he had plenty of, at least on the morning train rides to the building he worked and co-incidentally owned as well. Yes, indeed, an hour’s journey every day proved sufficient for all the contemplation he could afford, and as he wondered what adventures his mind would take him on this time round, he enjoyed one of his favourite inconveniences; at six feet and two inches (coupled with a remarkably good build) he would have to duck slightly in order to prevent his brownish blonde hair from scraping against the doorframe as he boarded the train, or as he ‘affectionately’ called it, the rattlesnake. A double entendre, for as it hurtled through the city, it sounded much like rattling cans, or as can be alternatively interpreted, the rattlesnake that slid through the tracks, poisonous and deadly, covered in graffiti, proclaiming for the timid to stay away from the dangerous sorts and riff-raff it enveloped, full of murderers and muggers. And strangely enough, this is what kept him coming back for more and more. He had no fear, but the thought of being surrounded by such lethal individuals is what kept him on his toes. Strange, how he saw all the negativities of the world and embraced it all, and stranger still that unbeknownst to him he would finally encounter what he was searching for in the midst of a journey itself, his ultimate destination before he arrived.
     As always, he sat in his usually sullen, sunken spot in the train, where the seats were chewed off by some nocturnal insect or undocumented variety of fungus, the windows had splotches and stains of coffee and vomit across them, the floor encrusted with rust and caked blood from forgotten violations, the light bulbs flickering or broken, and the scent of decay in the air held for him his ‘throne’ of sorts. He didn’t mind any of it, but rather lavished the feel, for anywhere else in the world he would remain unchallenged, but here, and here alone nobody would care if you were Donald Trump, the President, some poor bloke with heavy debt from a night in Vegas, or any sort of celebrity the gossipers kept yammering on about. It would always be “Fork over the dough,” a classic, albeit clichéd line, and if you were lucky, or extremely skilled, it wouldn’t be “Fork over your life,” too. No such incident had occurred as yet, probably due to his build, but the threat was always imminent. He waited patiently, and synced his wristwatch to the very moment the train lurched and jerked onwards. As the train began accelerating, he waited for the moment, his favourite part of the day; no, it was not the conquest of another rival, or his net worth going up a considerable percentage in his sleep, but the train leaving the station and waiting for the decrepit building to the left of the tracks to go out of the view from his window, and there it was, a gold sky scattered with small packs of clouds that greeted him with the rising of the sun, now a bit above the horizon, and as the light shone across his face and brought out the best of his slightly tanned complexion, he smiled, and took out a book that he randomly picked from his secretary’s desk last night, entitled A Teardrop Avotello penned by a certain Catherine Breuster. Somehow his secretary, Heather, picked the most interesting books to read, but that would not be his objective for he cared not about this particular story, but for one of his favourite hobbies; intimidation through alienation, an absolutely classic, great way to start off the day. What with the train being packed with commuters, inevitably someone or another would sit across him, usually a young woman, for that’s the type that would tend to be attracted to a man in his mid-thirties wearing an expensive suit, and should chance have it that the right sort of woman should sit across him, he could play one of his tricks. As he waited, though, he pondered on the title of said novel and went to the page about the author. Taking a quick glance, he thought to himself, Avotello’s not even a word, and she gets a publishing deal for her debut novel. What’s the world come to? Of course, that question was rhetorical, seeing as if the world wasn’t in the state it was today, he wouldn’t be such a successful king amongst champions, then. He smiled again, but only briefly for a woman just fell for his trap. He took a quick glance for less than a split-second.
     A long haired brunette with astonishingly sparkling, unmistakeably black eyes, a creamy complexion, faint, yet defined eyebrows, long, distinct eyelashes, an appropriately small nose in proportion with the rest of her elevated face that came to a slightly pointed apex at her chin, minimalistic lips that could speak a thousand beautiful words, beige jacket, scarf, and khakis that accentuated her figure perfectly, and…sneakers.
     His skill at physiognomy proved itself useful here, and the very sight of her told him what he needed to know. Arrogant, European, quite possibly French. Perfect. His deadpan, ‘award-winning’ poker face was in play, and he knew she was definitely going to fall for his ploy. They always do. He made sure it seemed like he was intensely involved in the book, and waited ever so patiently until she looked at the cover, and from what he could tell with his limited vision still appearing to be reading, she just glanced at the cover. Her expression told him everything. She thinks I’m cute for reading chick-lit. Waiting for a few seconds, he then pretended to have caught sight of her, and as he looked up, he appeared to have blushed, and looked down bashfully as he resumed reading. She fell for it. Waiting for a few seconds more, he then looked up again to see her smiling at him, and he rolled his eyes before returning a rude, sharp glare back at her. He resumed ‘reading’ once more, and thought to himself; Hah, the alienation’s going to haunt her all day. He then proceeded to mentally mark another victory notch, but noticed instead that she remained seated instead of expectedly scurrying off to another seat to drown herself in her own self-pity. He looked up, curious, as she was the first to be still seated amongst the hundreds who had fallen for his trick before, and much to his surprise, she was smiling even more so.
     “Enjoying your Oscar?” she said with a smirk in a subtly French accent, as correctly guessed. Hah, she’s enjoying this.
     “I’d like to thank the Academy and the young woman seated across me, whose name would be…”
     “I wouldn’t disclose that, regardless of how well you acted out that little trick of yours.”
     “Oh, pray tell, what set of circumstances would lead me to know that precious little secret, then?”
     “One in which you wouldn’t read a book with a non-existent word such as Avotello.”
     “All part of a delicately crafted ploy that never fails to entrap your peers.”
     “My peers? Please, I’m an endangered species.”
     “Indeed, the intelligent female is the rarest of all catches.”
     “Of course. There’s no other quite like myself.”
     “I guess that sentiment applies to me as well. Is this where I, as the expectedly chauvinistic male, make a sexual innuendo about us having to save the species?”
     “No, love. This is where I highly doubt your capabilities of satisfying someone such as I.”
     “Oh, so you admit that you’re hard to please?”
     “And that’s a bad thing?”
     “Not in the slightest.”
     They smiled coyly and remained silent for a few seconds as he took the time to notice some sunlight breaking out across the clouds again, shining across her face, illuminating it and magnifying her beauty exponentially. Hmm, she really is a pretty thing, he thought as her head bobbed from side to side slightly as the train throttled onward, all other passengers in his view a blur, yet moving in sync with her motions. Everyone else bore the most drawling of clothes, himself included, but she was the only one who dared to defy conformity, giving her a radiant shine that glowed and reflected light, and attracted attention in return. Oh, the irony. The gradient across her face was in the smoothest, most perfect of ratios, so fitting as if…
     “So typical, eyeing me up and down like that. How do you think I look when I’m naked?”
     “Since when is ‘eyeing you up and down’ looking solely at your face?”
     “Since you men got an imagination. A highly limited, perverted one at that, but an imagination nonetheless.”
     “I think it’s my turn to ask if that’s a bad thing.”
     “Only when in pursuit of women who have more plastic in them than mannequins.”
     “I guess not, then, though I prefer Russian redheads, solely for the alliteration. Busty blondes are far too cliché.”
     She gave him a look that spoke volumes.
     “I jest, but in all seriousness, nature would be envious of just how devoid of artificiality you are,” he said in response to her expression.
     “You flatter me, but you try too hard.”
     “At least I try. Other men would give up what little wit they have and attempt to lull the weaker varieties of women with material objects such as roses, perfume, jewellery and other such nonsensical symbols of affection.”
     “Oh? What then, do you think would be an appropriate symbol?”
     “Need there be a symbol at all?”
     “Of course. We require symbolism for a lot of abstract concepts. I could use what you do as an example; the bundle of money in your inside jacket pocket symbolises power and the ability to control. I’m guessing it’s somewhere around $650?”
     “You could tell that from a barely perceptible bulge?”
     “That it may be, but I prefer claiming that I possess heightened senses. It makes me look more skilful, albeit to me that bulge looks big enough to colonise. How’s the share market going?”
     “Quite well.”
     “Despite the recession?”
     “Naturally. I sink what I can afford to lose into put options. You win when the rest of the market loses. Trade secret.”
     She laughed lightly, and continued, “You give away too much, Mister…”
     “Crown. Thomas Crown,” he proclaimed with a hint of pride. He'd practised this line hundreds of times in the mirror. The way you say your name is stronger than your business card, he always believed.
     “What an interesting alias indeed. Very fitting for an arbitrageur such as yourself,” she said as she shifted in her seat, her right elbow now on the windowsill, balancing her now slightly tilted head with her index finger.
     “Alias? What makes you think that would be an alias?”
     “No matter how many times you practise such a line, you can’t slip lies past me. Call me hypersensitive to expressions.”
     “I would take it that you work in law enforcement or some legal profession where your skills would demand top price, but that certainly can’t be the case.”
     “And why not?”
     “I could say that your clothes aren’t designer label, but you’re the kind who doesn’t hold tastes in names, but rather fine quality. The kind that makes you look like that girl.”
     “Right so far. I love the ambiguity with which you imply that girl.”
     “I love the way you pronounce ambiguity.”
     “The mystique works, I suppose. Go on, then.”
     “That thermos mug you hold isn’t cheap.  $19.95?”
     “$19.99. Amusing how a single cent can work miracles in price psychology.”
     “It’s why I exploit it. That single cent is worth a million dollars.”
     “I asked for what you believe my occupation to be, not for kleptocratic ramblings.”
     “But you can’t deny that it works.”
     “It works on common sheep and those who cling on to their conventions, cliques and conformities set by celebrities. Why, are you their shepherd?”
     “Only when I need to be. Ironic, how Jesus was the shepherd who saved the people, and now I’m the one who—”
     “Let’s not get into religion, Tommy, save it for another day. Now, are you going to elaborate as to why you pointed out the price of my thermos, or are you going to enforce the fact that deviation is your forte?”
     “$19.99 is a considerable amount to pay for a rather specific brand of thermos.”
     “Nothing you’d think twice over.”
     “But see,” he said as he reached over for the thermos and took it out of her hand. “This is something that you’ve thought twice over, not for the price, but specifically for the product itself. Ceramic, reinforced over here, specially designed to prevent leakage, fine plastic at the top with smooth feel,” he went on as he looked the thermos all over and felt it with his fingertips, delicately. “And as for the contents,” he continued as he slid the thermos lid open, took a whiff of steaming coffee, and had a light sip. “Oh, I like you. Spanish brew, Alicante’s ground coffee; an aficionado’s choice.”
     “Well spotted. So you insist that I am a coffee connoisseur?”
     “Connoisseur? Please, give me some credit. Even an average person could tell that no connoisseur would ever let their lips near a thermos.”
     “But you’re not average, then, are you, Mr. Crown?”
     He smiled, took another sip, and said “Certainly not.”
     “That look in your eye tells me you’ve determined something conclusive.”
     “And indeed I have. You’re a barista.”
     “Nicely done, though I would prefer coffee sommelier. It’s more fitting, wouldn’t you think?”
     “I would agree in terms of intellect in regards to preparation of coffee, but you’re far too attractive to be just a sommelier.”
     And for the first time, she blushed in the slightest of degrees with a sly smile. I guess I’m not the only one with ‘heightened perceptions.’
     “But do tell me, Tommy. How, besides the coffee and thermos did you determine—”
     “—that you were a barista? You notice the finest of details of every individual you come across, a habit that would only be put into effect if you serve beverages all day or work for a secret intelligence agency.”
     She laughed, and went on to say, “So what makes you think I do not have a Luger or any silenced armament that would splatter the contents of your brain all across that seat?”
     “Because you wouldn’t have room for any kind of weapon on that scant figure of yours. Besides, you wouldn’t be capable of pulling such a stint. It’s a total faux pas.”
     She laughed yet again. “You try too hard once more, Tommy. Are you trying to outdo yourself?”
     “No, but that does remind me of an incident back in my schooling days where I wrote this story for the Headmaster, and when he asked me to write another, I went through some tedious effort to ensure that it was of equal level or greater. As I like to say, I do not think of a man who is not much wiser than he was yesterday.”
     “And have your ‘schooling days’ taught you anything significant?”
     He smiled, took a short pause, and said, “Who I want to be tomorrow.”
     “And are you that man today?”
     “Why don’t you tell me?”
     “I would, if I but knew you.”
     “And I’d like to know you as well. Have lunch with me.”
     “Lunch? Surely you jest, Tommy. Lunch is for wimps.”
     “Gordon Gekko,” he replied as he smiled.
     “But really now, two strangers on a train can only go so far, Tommy.”
     “I’d beg to differ, but you’d point that out as an overused cliché.”
     “Naturally.”
     He was so involved in their conversation that he didn’t realise that the train had slowly come to a halt, which led her to stand up and take her things.
     “Goodbye, Mr. Crown.”
     “Wait, you’re going to leave just like that, without so much as a hint as to who you are?”
     “Now, Tommy, what fun would it be if I did all the guesswork and you had it so easy, even with your put options?”
     “But must it always be that a man should chase after a woman?”
     “Who said you were chasing?”
     And, for the first time in his life, he was left at a loss for words. She had him beaten. She smiled, paused for a moment, and said, “Oh, and that money in your pocket isn’t the only bulge I see.”
     She tapped his chest where his heart was, and as he looked down, he came to a solid realization that completely shook his world.
     His heart was thumping wildly to no end. No woman amongst the hundreds he’d met ever had that sort of capability. The shock froze him, his eyes widened, people brushed past him to get out of the train, and when awareness of the world streamed back into him, he looked up again.
     She was gone.
     As the implications of what that meant came to prove themselves to be more and more drastic, he rushed out the train to look for a trace of beige, but to no avail. She was nowhere to be found.
     He clutched his forehead and the world continued to spin around him, faster and faster, more of a blur with every passing moment. He’d just lost something that he could never get back. No skill of any measure in business of any sort could ever get her back. He’d just lost her forever.
     Solidarity leaves, and I am left yearning, driven to desire.
     He clambered back into the train with significant difficulty in getting his bearings, flopped down on his seat again, and thoughts continued to plague him, making minutes seem like seconds until he got to his own destination in what he swore could’ve only been a few seconds.
     Plaguing thoughts held control of him to no end until consciousness finally reclaimed its auspicious throne, at which point he found himself standing at some deserted, elevated station. Not a soul was around, the train had left, no company except for a newspaper flying by in the wind, the view of the city ahead and the skies above, which had by now turned almost entirely a rather vague bluish gray.
     It’s going to rain.
     No sooner than he had thought that, drops from the sky started in the smallest of measures, then almost suddenly went on to the greatest of downpours, leaving no inch dry, as if the clouds were crying, mourning for his loss, sending down tears for him because he never had the need for any, up until this point.
     But, no. He smiled at first, at the irony of it all, and then wondered if there was any irony in the first place, but then asked himself; does it really matter?
     And no, it didn’t. Incapable of crying, he did the complete opposite to express his disheartened state.
     He laughed.
     He laughed, and laughed, and laughed like there was no tomorrow. How cruel for the world to have stripped him of an emotion which he thought was weak.
     And so he laughed some more, like a madman in the rain. Anyone who saw him at that point would’ve certainly thought so, but it still wouldn’t matter to him, he’d only continue laughing. And so he did, to the extent that he’d doubled over in laughter, at which point something fell out of his jacket pocket.
     Fruitlessly trying to silence his last bouts of laughter, he picked up what was apparently a business card of a travel agency. Odd, I’ve never met these people before. Could be a client, but why would I carry their card around?
     He needed to get his mind off things. He took out his cell phone, dialled the number, and got an automated message.
     “You’ve reached European Excursions, but no one is in the office right now. To book one of our exquisite packages to Auvergne, Corsica, Côte d'Azur, Grenoble, Monte Carlo, Normandie, Pyrénées, Schwarzwald…”
     I don’t recall these people in the slightest. Maybe there’s a note on the other side…
     He flipped the card, and much to his surprise, it read:

     A.H.
     1618 Chilogne Avenue
     Make accommodations for two. Take your pick.

     And he laughed greater than before, except with an entirely different feeling behind it.
     Checkmate, lass. You got me.