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“Vices”
A businessman, of sorts, walked through the busy streets of the city, a briefcase in one hand, the other inside its respective pocket. The briefcase was an imported classic, made from 75% calfskin, the other 25% being a strong microfiber. The suit was an imported Battistoni by Castangia, plaid, and seamed with 100% Italian black alpaca fleece. The man’s feet were not neglected their share of fine apparel, for they had donned on a pair of black Roberto Guerrinnis. Yes, the businessman had made quite a living, and everyone that saw him knew it.
But, there was a question that lingered in the minds of the less fortunate that had the luck of seeing this businessman, and it was always the same, no matter how or where they saw him. Whether they looked upon the ground, and saw his reflection off of the toes of his newly-polished shoes. Even, if they had simply taken a momentary glance while biting into a submarine after a hard day of work, this question materialized in the thoughts of the men, women, and children of the city. This question, however simple, made an impact on everyone who dare ask it.
What’s his problem?
Everyone has their vices. Shopaholics, sex offenders, spouse abusers, drug addicts, politicians, racists, and everyone else have their vices. Some are subtle, like a few hundred dollar bills “suddenly” appearing in a lawyer’s bank account after going missing from his firm, or a bruise hidden underneath a mask of eyeliner, blush, and lipstick. Others are widely blown out of proportion, such as a woman seen playing with her child just a little too much, or perhaps, a man just doing his job to protect his country from a second 9/11 by making sure his local airport is as secure as possible. This businessman’s vice was of the subtle variety.
Suddenly, as the businessman walked around the corner of 5th Avenue and 33rd Street, a scantily clad figure approached him. The woman wore a tight, ruby-shaded brassiere to conceal her luscious breasts. Following the brassiere, meshed cloth wrapped around her abdomen and led past her navel and to her equally extravagant mini-skirt. The skirt stopped almost as suddenly as it began, leading to more mesh, in the form of stockings. The woman was indeed tempting; her body had been designed to be. But, the businessman had other arrangements. But, the woman, a businesswoman in her own right, did not give up so easily, craving her next meal, like a lioness in the Sahara. She beseeched the man, just a few twenties and the woman promised a good time. He kindly declined, and instead queried, “My dear, you are so beautiful, yet you ruin your body with such a filthy profession, why is this so?”
“Because there ain’t nothin’ in this world for free, sugar”, the businesswoman replied coolly, “Gotta feed ma babies somehow, right?”
The man sighed, and reached into his left pocket, pulling out his wallet, “How much do you usually cost?”
“Fifty dollars, sugar”
The businessman pulled out a crisp one-hundred dollar bill, and handed it to the young woman. She gazed at the bill, lost for words, ”But I-“, she began to protest, but the man was already crossing the street.
An hour later, the businessman is close to his destination, and is about to hail a taxi, when suddenly, a shadowy figure grasped him from behind, and pulled him into a dark alleyway. The gentleman felt the cold tingling of a gun being pushed against his head, and heard the voice of a man, a man who was out of luck.
“Now look here, sonny”, the stranger spoke in a heavy southern accent, “Aye just want yo’ money, not yo’ life, gettit?” he added.
The businessman sighed, “Well before I hand you my wallet, good sir, please explain to me, why are you so desperate that you would rob a man at gun point?”
The man took a moment to think, then spoke with a voice full of deep regret, “Well, boy, aye guess aye jus’ made too many ’stakes in my life, did too much of dat dope, y’see”. And so, the businessman learned of his robber’s past, how the stranger had become addicted to methamphetamines, losing his family and career as a salesman in the process.