Trulululululu~
My phone's cutesy ringtone causes me to stir from my mental breakdown. I peek down at the glowing screen and shudder.
Call From: Papa.
I nervously tap the accept button, selecting speaker mode.
"You didn't answer my text!" His deep voice bellows.
"Sorry, I was busy."
"You aren't sulking again, are you? Man up, Vinny! We have dinner at 18:00 and I want you lookin' like a right lady this time!"
I rub my head further into my knees.
"Papa, I'm really busy," I insist.
"That's good! Keep it that way and you'll end up like me," he deflects my attempt to get out of this. "Pearl Lounge, same as usual, dress nice, seeya." Click.
I grab my phone and consider breaking it for a moment. However, replacing a phone is far more tedious than replacing a heel or shoe. I stand up and peer over the edge, attempting to spot where the victim of my earlier tantrum had landed. It's gone. I'm positive a public servant has disposed of it, or a desperate scavenger scooped it up. It doesn't matter anyways, as going to pick it up would just draw strange attention.
"Still couldn't quite reach us!" A mocking voice calls out.
I look up, startled to see a figure looming over the railing of the WHITEOUT building. I can barely register what I'm seeing before an object is thrown at me and I narrowly avoid colliding with it.
My shoe, completely with the heel that has been crudely duct-taped back on. My confusion must be apparent, as the voice is already back to shouting down at me.
"Can't hear me from down there?" He laughs in a forced, exaggerated manner. It's not the kind of laugh that comes naturally, but rather one that was clearly made to be heard from across the street. "I guess that's just the gap between us!"
I stare up at the figure, feeling nostalgic now for the days when playground bullying was lighthearted. He's silhouetted by the vibrant signage behind him, but I know who it is. Few other people in this pit were so bored and miserable as to go through the hassle of repairing a shoe just to throw at someone. Though I can't see his expression, I know my silence irks him.
"... Whatever! Looking forward to our date tonight!" He forces out another loud laugh.
I grab the shoe and attempt to throw it back at him, my rage giving me the strength to hit him square in the head with it this time. It's quite the accomplishment, given his building is a few feet taller than our own. Now I just have to pray my hatred was enough to render him brain dead.
"God– Godammit! Bitch!" He rubs at his head, then throws the shoe back. Though it does land on the roof beside me, his throw is weak and sloppy. Just like his company!
Satisfied with this ending to our spat, I return back to prepare for tonight. White and Papa meet once every few months for friendly conversation. Or, rather, friendly gossip. Despite hating each other deeply, the two would play nice and gossip like school girls. Papa would then share the recording amongst his closest employees, including myself, and react to everything as if he was hearing it for the first time. I suppose you don't work in show business if you're not a little dramatic.
My home is an apartment on the second-highest floor, alongside several other units for other close companions of my father. Some of which I would greatly prefer to not share a floor with. The cozy brown carpet stained with cigarette smell and the crudely painted red doors are the image of home. When I tap my keycard on a shiny lock, the dull brassy door knob clicks and a sense of urgency sets in.
It's already 4 PM and dinner is at 6 PM. It takes half an hour to walk to the Pearl Lounge, or 15 minutes to drive. If I drive I'll have to spend 5-10 minutes finding parking and then exiting the parking garage. Add on 5 minutes for getting up to the 18th floor, Papa's favorite spot to host company dinners. Panic sets in and toss off my other shoe, making for my closest with haste.
I have a standard go-to look for professional outings, and so prep time won't take long. As I throw on a sleek red dress, the company's signature color, I catch sight of myself in the mirror. My hair has gotten too long, now falling down past my hips. Long black silky strands, carefully groomed with a bright white underlayer. The signature white ovals on the top front of my head are proof of my lineage, a trait so coveted by Papa that he joked he wouldn't allow me to wear a veil on my wedding day.
I stumble into a new pair of black heels that are tall enough to bridge the gap between Killer Media and WHITEOUT. My choice of purse is the only one I own, a coin-purse style clutch made of velvet. A white mink coat will hide my figure from prying eyes on the street and stifle the winter chill.
I'm out the door and in my car, deciding it was best to have an excuse to leave early. "Sorry I can't stay to drink, I drove here." I'm not interested in sticking around to gossip, no matter how juicy the drama.
Well, probably, anyways…