Everest Chase

There were no chilled sparkling waters in the car. He didn’t like the song playing on the radio. His collar was too tight. For a moment, he was tempted to open the door and roll out into the oncoming traffic. When he looked down at his hand, his fingers were already curled around the handle.

He took his phone out of his jacket and re-read the text from Kristen saying he would be running about twenty minutes late. Although he hated to give the impression he needed a chaperone, he knew these things were always easier with Kristen. Even Pyotr’s presence as his security detail for the evening unnerved him more than usual. He put his phone away and wiped his face, squinting through the rivulets of rain on the tinted windows at the blackening outline of Central Park.

Everest could not go near the park these days, but he was briefly reminded of the afternoons he spent there in the winter as a child, when the nanny got to talking with a friend and she would let them play pretend for an extra hour as the sky turned black and the grass turned blue. When the nanny finally realised just how dark it had gotten, she would start calling out for them frantically and he and Edison would hide behind separate trees while she ran about looking for them. Edison was always the first to be discovered because she couldn’t suppress her laughter when the nanny’s tone switched from panic to anger. He, on the other hand, would go unnoticed for thirty minutes to an hour, at which point either Edison ratted him out or else he would get bored and give himself up. He was strangely reassured by the knowledge that he could slip away so effortlessly, that if he waited long enough, they might forget about him altogether and he would be free to roam the park by himself. There was not an ounce of fear in him back then, no concept of danger, only the strong proclivity towards chaos and liberty that is inherent in all children.

Edison’s Tribeca apartment was a 2,000 square foot industrial loft conversion trying desperately to be a 400 square foot studio in Brooklyn, where all her most fashionable friends were situated. Though not an especially gifted programmer herself, Edison had co-founded a software start-up with one of her former college peers — a ‘rain man type’, to use her words, who was now living in the apartment with her entirely rent-free. Kristen strongly suspected the two were an item but Everest had his doubts, although he also had no interest in meeting the man to find out one way or the other.

The usual flock of vultures had stationed themselves up along the steps to the front entrance, the lenses of their black DSLRs glinting under the yellow lamplight. Crouched there waiting for his father, no doubt. Though why so many, he wondered, and for such a small affair? Perhaps there had been some minor scandal in D.C. he would be expected to comment on. They would have to wait for his father to arrive, in that case, because he could not bear to read up on it right there and now. One unpleasant chore at a time, he promised himself. First, the party and all its subsequent horrors, then whatever crisis had beset his father’s professional sphere this week.

The elevator opened directly into the foyer — which was also the living room and the kitchen and the dining room, although it was impossible to draw a distinction between them all on account of the sprawling crowd of sharply-dressed guests. His chest squeezed as he registered the sheer number of people inside, and it was a minute before he could bring himself to step out of the elevator. When he finally did, he nodded at Pyotr to indicate he could go back down and wait for him in the lobby.

He couldn’t bear the thought having to share a space like this with anyone. When he and Kristen fought, which happened infrequently but often enough that it bore thinking about, they could at least quarantine themselves to separate rooms until the dust settled. A spiral staircase stood nakedly at the centre of the room, indicating a second floor — which he suspected was also ‘open-plan’, perhaps with the exception of a restroom. He couldn’t see one on this level, which raised the horrifying notion that Edison’s guests would have to walk upstairs and thus into her bedroom to go to the toilet.

The first person to accost him was a server in a black flapper dress couriering a platter of hors d'oeuvres. ‘Iberico ham and moose cheese on rye?’ she offered.

He took one silently and began to inspect it as she walked away. Although the kitchen in Kristen’s apartment was insufficiently large, Everest spent the better part of his days in there. When it had become evident he would not be returning to Yale after taking his leave of absence, he knew he would have to find some way to keep his mind stimulated lest he die of boredom. He had spent several small fortunes on a series of different hobbies he ultimately abandoned. Among these endeavours were painting, wine collecting, and a number of different musical instruments — all of which he was so dismally poor at, he had them disposed of so they wouldn’t sit there collecting dust as reminders of his defeat. He had dabbled briefly in baking but found it nowhere near invigorating enough. There was no room for experimentation; the recipes had to be followed to the letter to achieve the desired result. He had subsequently moved onto gourmet cooking, and it was in this pastime he found the most challenge and intrigue. Most recently, he had been experimenting with an array of Asian delicacies from across the continent — although, with only Kristen’s palate to rely on for feedback, he couldn’t always be certain he was striking the right balance with the flavours.

He placed the canapé into his mouth and chewed. The ham was of excellent quality, albeit overpowered somewhat by the moose cheese — the latter revealing itself to be of the blue variety. It was edible, but if the ham-to-cheese ratio were adjusted slightly it could be almost decadent—

‘It’s Everest, right?’

He swallowed and half-choked. A man in an eggshell white three-piece suit had materialised at his side, entirely too close and staring at him with wide, permeating eyes.

It took him a second to recognise the man as a former classmate from Yale. They had never spoken directly but had attended the same Urban Policy class, where they sat on opposite sides of the room. He had often looked over at his classmate throughout the period, imagining they were sitting in Congress and he was Senator of New York and his classmate was California, and they were in strong disagreement over a new bill. Despite their opposition, they would get coffee together after the meeting and confide in one another their contempt for the Presiding Officer.

‘You’re Governor Chase’s kid?’ the man asked.

He nodded, pretending still to be chewing the canapé already uncomfortably sliding down his throat.

‘My father worked with him in D.C, during the Cortez administration?’ The man extended a hand. ‘John Mercer. My father was John Mercer Sr.? I’m sure you recognise the name.’

He did not, but he had enough of his wits about him not to offend one of Edison’s guests. He shook John’s hand gingerly and raised his eyebrows the way others did when they heard the name ‘Chase’.

‘We had a class together, at Yale, didn’t we?’

His mouth instantly dried up. He nodded in response.

‘I think we did,’ said John. ‘Yeah, I think I remember seeing you in a couple classes.’ John put a hand on his shoulder. He tried not to recoil too obviously. ‘You don’t look too good,’ John said. ‘Did you have one of the canapés? Looked like there was mould on the cheese, or something.’

There was only so long he could go without talking before seeming either disrespectful or slow, so he pretended to swallow before saying quietly, ‘Supposed to.’

‘Huh?’

‘It’s blue cheese. It’s supposed to have mould.’

John stared blankly at him. ‘Right.’

He cast his eyes down to the floor and began to move away. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, ‘I need to wish my sister a happy birthday.’

‘Oh, sure, yeah, of course,’ said John, stepping aside. ‘Wish her one from me. And you can tell your dad he’s got my vote.’

He stopped and stared back at him. ‘What?’

‘I saw the news on Fox this evening,’ John said. ‘It’s about time he ran for president.’

He stared at John blankly for a moment before pulling out his phone. Two missed calls from Kristen – he would deal with him later – and then, at the top of his notification wall, an alert from the News app. It read:

New York Governor Richard Chase to run for Republican nomination in upcoming Presidential election.

This information had made its way to Fox News — and to John Mercer Jr., apparently — before it had reached him. He stared at the headline as though his eyes might eventually refocus and reveal all of it to be an optical illusion.

‘I heard he might be giving a speech tonight,’ said John. His voice seemed more distant, now. ‘Think he’s got any more surprises up his sleeve?’

Everest cleared his throat and forced his gaze up to meet John’s. ‘I don’t — um—’

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a woman with mousy hair pinned back in a low bun making her way through the crowd toward them. What fresh hell was this? She was wearing a short white cocktail dress with fringe along the hem that fanned out as she walked.

John followed Everest’s gaze, staring at her long, nude-stockinged legs as she approached them. ‘Good evening,’ he said to her, extending a hand. ‘John Mercer. I’m with the New Yorker.’

The woman smiled falsely at him before fixing her gaze on Everest. ‘Hey. Are you good to do the speech at seven?’

He stared at her. ‘Oh — no, no, my father’s supposed to— ‘

‘Yeah, so, unfortunately, he can’t make it,’ she said, bringing her smartphone up to her face and tapping something in. ‘Your husband’s been trying to call you.’

‘Right,’ he said. He shut his eyes in exasperation. ‘Well — he can do it. He’s going to be here in—’

‘Yeah, no.’ The woman made a face sort of like pity. ‘He said he’s gonna be another hour. Something came up.’

The moose cheese threatened to make a reappearance.

John, who had been looking at the woman’s legs, glanced up at him and smiled. ‘Look forward to seeing you up there.’ He turned to the woman. ‘Are you the birthday girl?’

She looked at him through narrowed eyes. ‘No. I’m the event manager. Are you on the approved press list?’

‘I’m gonna get a drink,’ John announced to the room. He looked at Everest. ‘You thirsty, bud?’

‘I’m good,’ he said quietly. John peeled away into the crowd.

His eyes scanned the room for Edison. She hadn’t come to torture him yet, which meant she was hiding from him. Did she know about the campaign? Although he had always spent more time with their father when they were children, she spent the most time with him nowadays. Whenever she got bored of the city, she would visit him at the place up in Westchester. Everest and Kristen only went there for the holidays, although Kristen had been up a few times by himself to network at some of his father’s dinner parties. In any case, after having spent so much time with him, she must have figured it out even if their father hadn’t told her outright.

Finally, he spotted her leaning against the far wall in a jade green crushed velvet dress that faintly resembled a curtain, her white-gold tresses pinned up into a bun with a peacock feather hairpin. She was holding a flute of pink champagne she pretended to sip now and then, looking in every direction but Everest’s. So she had seen him. Next to her was a tall, wiry man with a goatee wearing a black hoodie and jeans, whose face was illuminated by the ghostly-white glare of his smartphone. Her ‘rain man’, presumably. They were surrounded by a gaggle of men all in neutral suits and dress shirts, having evidently deemed themselves above a costume party. Damn yuppies, his father would say.

‘So, you’re good to do the speech?’ asked the event manager. Her finger hovered over her phone expectantly. ‘Or should we announce that it’s not happening?’

‘No,’ he said quickly, letting out the breath he’d been holding. He glanced at her furtively, then back at Edison on the other side of the room. ‘I’ll do it. Did — by any chance, do you have my father’s notes?’

‘Let’s see here.’ She flicked her index finger up and down again, in such quick succession he had to wonder what she was supposed to be scrolling through. She looked back up at him with her head tilted apologetically to one side. ‘Nope. Sorry.’

She turned and walked away, leaving him standing by himself at the edge of the crowd.

It would have made sense for him to start planning his speech in that moment, but any coherent thought he might have had in this vein was drowned out by the cocktail of noise and discomfort surrounding him. The tightness of his collar, increasingly like a noose around his neck. All the bodies bumping into each other like pinballs. Fabric grazing fabric, fibres scraping against different fibres like tin foil on teeth. If he was forced to spend so much as one more second around these people, he would surely scream.

But he liked to stay one step ahead of his own dysfunction. So, he got back in the elevator and went down to the lobby, where he asked Pyotr to find him a discreet exit.

Disappearing entirely would not go over well with his father — nor the guests at the party hoping for a speech about their host, for that matter — so he could not stay out there in the alleyway for long. The night air provided little relief; it was that time of year when the heat stung your eyes and rose up from the asphalt in waves. The sky had matured to an inky violet hue, its sparse clouds catching stray threads of gold from the office lights in the distance until they resembled one continuous stretch of diaphanous cloth.

Once the worst of his distress had worn off, he took a couple of minutes to think of some words and repeat them in his head a few times before ducking back inside through the superintendent’s entrance.

The party was exactly as he had left it — nauseating. But not nearly as unbearable as before. It didn’t take him long to pick out Edison in her showy green dress from the sea of black and white. She was perched midway down the spiral staircase, eyes scanning over the crowd as her head turned sharply from one side of the room to the other. The movement reminded him of the pigeons that sometimes came and sat on the balcony with him while he was reading. One of them had flown right onto the table one morning while he was eating his breakfast and pecked up the crumbs on his plate. He had thought about shooing it away but either compassion or (more likely) apathy had kicked in in time to stop him doing so.

Edison meerkatted in the direction of the elevator as another string of guests arrived, meeting his gaze at last and making a beckoning motion at him. He breathed in deeply, then out again in a rush before entering the throng.

The event manager with the mousy hair guided him up onto the first step of the spiral staircase so he was raised above the crowd and handed him a flute of champagne. She started stroking his chest aggressively, which caught him off guard before he realised she was smoothing down the creases in his shirt where he had been bent over in the alleyway earlier, heaving with dread.

Before he could so much as clear his throat, the room had already fallen quiet and people had begun to mill around the staircase.

Words came out of his mouth. Not all of them connected to one another. He made eye contact with Edison in the hopes that this might help ground him but found it rendered the whole thing uncomfortably intimate and had to look away. He settled on staring at the floor, the ceiling, the pocket square on a nearby guest’s jacket. At some point, he stopped hearing himself speak and could only hear the phantom voices of his audience. Looks just like his father. Can’t command a room like him, though. Is he drunk? If not drunk, then stupid. Didn’t he go to Yale? Don’t think so. Where’s the father?

He tried not to mention his father running for president. Or the fact he honestly didn’t know that much about Edison’s life these days, what she did for work or whether she even liked having these parties every year. Or that he only went to them to make his father happy. He said something about computers, how she had always liked them, and wished her luck in her future endeavours, in a manner that sounded rather more like he was saying farewell to a colleague than wishing happy birthday to his sister. He might have gone on longer after this, but Edison put him out of his misery by applauding, albeit with obvious irony, which elicited sporadic claps from the baffled crowd.

As he stepped off the staircase, he looked over at his sister again. If not for reassurance, then commiseration. Edison had her face buried in the fabric of her rain man’s hoodie, her shoulders moving up and down as if from sobs or laughter. Definitely the latter, he thought. Perhaps Kristen was right, after all. What exactly she saw in the man defied imagination; he couldn’t even dress himself properly. And, worse still — Californian. But then that was probably what drew her to him in the first place. Strange and brilliant and totally unsuitable according to their father’s standards. So predictable.

His humiliation proved to be oddly freeing, as he couldn’t possibly make a worse impression after bombing so severely. He downed his champagne with a grimace then went and stood by the refreshments table to pick at the canapés, deconstructing and eating them one ingredient at a time to make them last a little bit longer, as he waited for Kristen to arrive.

#

The night waged on as he took advantage of the fact no one wanted to approach him to take proper inventory of the other guests. There had been a lot riding on his father being there, it seemed — he estimated at least half the people there were journalists, some of whom he could give the benefit of the doubt and assume were also friends or friends-of-friends of Edison’s. He could tell who the journalists were by the disappointment on their faces. The whole evening had been a washout for them as well as him. At least he wasn’t alone in that respect.

It was forty-five minutes before he received another text from Kristen:

Outside. No paps. Don’t feel like being interviewed tonight.

This arrangement suited him just fine. He could do without his husband drawing a crowd.

The car was parked a short way down the street from the front entrance, positioned between two street lamps so it was almost entirely shrouded in darkness — save for the little streaks of light reflecting off the smooth black body of the car.

Pyotr opened the door to the backseat for him, the book he had been reading in the lobby folded up and stuffed inside his coat pocket. A little unkempt, he thought. He would make sure the next one had more decorum.

Kristen was sitting in the backseat on the far side, still in the midnight blue suit he had worn into work that morning. His pale grey eyes were softened with tiredness, the even beige colour of his skin broken up by the little dark circles under them.

‘I’m so sorry,’ were the first words out of Kristen’s mouth as Everest climbed into the car.

‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ he replied. As they pulled away down the street, his eyes wandered down to Kristen’s bag, which was positioned between them on the floor. A rolled-up newspaper with what looked like the left side of his own face peeking around the fold had been stuffed inside the side pocket.

‘What’s that?’ he asked.

Kristen glanced down at his bag, attempting to conceal the magazine with his foot.

‘Show me.’

Reluctantly, Kristen leant down, pulled the paper out and handed it to him. Everest took it and smoothed out the page to reveal a spread in the Post featuring a candid photo of him walking into a building, captioned:

Everest Chase spotted outside Ritz-Carlton hotel, August 30th.

He stared at Kristen. ‘Why do you have this?’

‘You don’t like being photographed,’ said Kristen. ‘These are the only pictures I can get of you.’

His eyes scanned down the small bubble of text next to his picture:

Everest Chase, son of Governor Richard Chase and spouse of LindCo CEO Kristen Lind, made a rare public appearance on his way to enjoy some of the RC’s many offerings — which include five-star dining, immersive experiences, breath-taking views from luxury suites…

He bristled under the weight of Kristen’s gaze as he folded the magazine back up and dropped it onto the seat between them.

‘I was pleased to see you leaving the apartment,’ said Kristen. ‘I think it’s good that you’re treating yourself.’

‘I wasn’t.’

‘Alright.’ There was a pause. ‘What were you doing?’

He glared at him.

‘You know what? Forget I said anything,’ said Kristen, affecting an air of boredom.

They were silent after that, Everest staring resolutely out of the window although all he could see through the black tint was his own sour reflection. Occasionally, the glare from traffic lights or other cars shone through and provided glimpses of the city as it passed them by, framed within the contours of his face and hair so it appeared as if the buildings and people in the distance were emerging from him.

James Michael Morgan is a writer, composer and playwright based in East Anglia. He also releases music under the stage name Pastniche.