Page 3 of Boyfriend Maintenance

“Well, no rush. I’ll just pour us a little nightcap.” I don't mention it's only four in the afternoon. “Will two fingers do, Jake? I’ve always preferred two.” She waggles her eyebrows.

I divert my eyes. The sexual reference catches me off guard and I feel my face heat.

Clearing my throat, I shake my head. “I’m sorry, Dorthy, but no drinking on the job.” I pull out my step ladder so I can reach the smoke detector.

“You’re such a good boy, darling. I admire that. I’ll just have a nip and enjoy the show.”

Just like she normally does. Unfortunately, she isn’t the only 425 Madison resident to watch me while I do my job. I’ve worked in this building for nearly three years now. Growing up, I never had dreams of becoming a maintenance man, but I’ve always been good with my hands. I was the man of the house, that somehow led me down a path of being the neighborhood handyman. Not having enough money for college, I found a job for a hotel working on their maintenance team. A few years ago, I snagged this job. The pay is a hell of a lot better. Since the building offers 24-hour maintenance, when I’m on call, I stay in a swanky one-bedroom unit on the third floor. It beats the hell out of my janky-ass studio apartment in Queens.

But I have to admit, I love my job. I like fixing things. I enjoy that every day is different. And there are a lot worse places that I could be stuck fixing up. The only downfall is that I get a front-row seat to the high-society life I’ll never have. One I never want. I’ve always had to work for the money to pay for a roof over my head, the food I eat. Half of the people living in 425 don’t even work. At least if they do, they don’t work normal nine-to-fives.

Working here has allowed me to finally be in a good place financially, but I’m barely what you’d consider middle class. These residents though? They might not be the one-percenters, but they are clearly in the top fifteen. I’m not bitter. I just know my place. I’m content down here in the lower middle.

After unscrewing the faceplate, I twist off the cap of the detector. Sure enough, the battery is missing. As expected. It turns out the wires have also been cut. I shouldn’t be surprised. Like I said, I’m up here on the twentieth floor visiting Mrs. Jenkins at least once a week. Ninety percent of the time it’s not a true maintenance issue. In the past I’ve removed a complete roll of toilet paper from the back of the tank. There was that time I pulled out a purple dish towel from the garbage disposal. Then there was that time she jammed her bedroom window so it wouldn’t close. I had to stand in her room, with her conveniently scattered old lady undergarments strewn all about and realign her window slides. It never ends with this woman.

“Well, Dorthy, it looks like the battery died. I’m going to have to replace it and a few other key parts. I’ve brought some with me, so I can take care of them now. I’m guessing the other two have the same issue.” I climb down from the ladder and walk over to my bag. Squatting down, I try not to make eye contact with the woman who’s spread out across her chaise watching me like a hawk ready to dive in for the kill.

“Oh, dear. Those darn batteries.”

Yeah, those darn batteries and wiring will end up costing about a hundred and fifty to fix.

Fifteen minutes later I’m packing up my stuff. Thank god, I’m done here. This was my last job for the night and now I’ve got a nice two-day weekend. With a rare two days off I’ll be visiting my mom over on the island and catching a Mets game with my brother, Kevin.

“Well, all done here, Dorthy. Hopefully, those new batteries work better for you. I’d hate for something to happen to them and us not be able to get up as quickly as I was able to today. When smoke detectors aren’t working, it's a safety risk.”

“Oh, Jakey-pooh, you’re just too good to me. Always on top of things. Just the way a young buck like you should be.” She reaches over and pats my ass as I walk past her out the door.

“Mrs. Jenkins, we’ve talked about this. You need to keep your hands to yourself.” She just pouts and I know my gentle warning has fallen on deaf ears. “Have a good day, ma’am.” And I close the door quickly, finally putting some much-needed space between me and the spinster.

I take my first relaxing sigh once the elevator door closes behind me and I’m safely headed back down to the maintenance office. My phone vibrates in my pocket. Pulling it out I see I have a notification for the hookup app I use.

Look, I work a lot. Five days a week, ten-hour shifts. If I don’t work a full week onsite, I’m at least on call. I fill up my downtime from work watching baseball. I’m a born and bred Mets fan. I visit my mom over on Staten Island a few times a month and I have a few good friends that I hang out with when I can. I meet them for drinks at our favorite bar. I don’t have a lot of free time outside of all that, so I don’t have time to date. Mostly, I don’t have time to meet women interested in sharing me with 200 other people and all their handyman needs. So instead, I just use the Match Me app for hookups. Occasionally, I’ll meet up with the same woman twice, but most end up wanting more.

Opening the app, I see that I have five new matches for the day. I don’t check the app regularly. Just when I need to get some.

What? Don’t judge. I’m a hot-blooded twenty-nine-year-old living in the Big Apple. I’ve got needs. I swipe left on the first three, dismissing the matches. The fourth match is a woman in this building. I’ve seen her around. She carries around one of those small dogs, it’s ugly as sin. Ah, unit 315. It’s sad that I identify them by their unit numbers rather than their names. I refuse to bang any chick who lives in the building, but out of curiosity, I check out her profile since I can’t, for the life of me, remember her name. Eliza Donovan. Ah, that’s right. Sexy, dark hair, and short. I swipe left to get my fifth match.

A pretty blonde chick looking away from the camera. She’s outside somewhere and her hair is blowing across her face. I can’t tell if she looks familiar or if she’s just got one of those faces. I read that her name is Sara and we’re the same age. What the heck, I need to get laid. So, I swipe right. A few hours later, after several text exchanges through the app, we’ve set up a date to meet tomorrow night. It will be a spectacular weekend for sure.

Chapter 3

Emmy

After a few hoursof brushing up on our Skee-Ball skills, we finally go to dinner. We love this little place called Ivy’s. While it's open during the day for lunch through dinner, it’s the perfect spot for late-night eats after a long day of work. It’s got great bar food with a twist of upscale delight. It reminds me of college, when I was still living off my father’s dime. Now that I’m living on my own and not the life I was born into, I try not to hang out in high-society haunts where I might run into people I grew up with.

The only person I still see and interact with from my childhood is Becca. We went to prep school together and have been joined at the hip ever since. She’s the only person in my life who doesn’t give me a hard time about not using my trust fund.

My father, he’s confused, as well as annoyed, that I’m not living up to my potential as a King. My stepmother is just plain embarrassed. I have zero in common with my stepsister, Ashley, so I honestly don’t know how she feels about me. I can’t remember the last time we even had a conversation. Then there’s my older brother. Levi is one of my favorite people. But even he doesn’t understand why I won’t live the King way.

My great-grandfather started King Cosmetics from the ground up more than a hundred years ago. The company has been passed down and now belongs to my father. It has always been the plan that Levi, being my father’s only son, would take over for him someday. Levi has followed my father’s plan, just as they have told him to. I don't know if it’s something he truly wants for himself.

The plan for me was a lot simpler. I was to grow up to be a rich man’s arm candy. Having my stepmother, Kitty, as my example of the perfect trophy wife, I quickly decided that wasn’t the life for me. No, I wanted more than that. I wanted the world.

I didn’t go to Harvard like my father had planned. I went to Cornell instead, for a degree in business and marketing. Good ol’ Dad didn’t love that decision, but he realized that, with a business degree, he’d be able to add another King to the company’s board of directors someday. Little did he know, I never planned on working for him.

I knew I wouldn’t have been able to pay for Cornell on my own, so I let my father pay for just one more thing. Upon graduation, I promptly cut myself off from my family-funded bank accounts and got a job with Envirogal. It’s a smaller cosmetic company. It’s 100% earth-friendly, non-animal testing, naturally beautiful makeup. I love the company and what they stand for. The owners and management are wonderful to work with. I know they hired me because of my name, but they quickly learned that they got way more than just the King name. While I might feed my dad the “I’m just gaining experience in my career” line, Envirogal and I both know that I will never work for King Cosmetics, and that I have no plans of leaving.

The day I cut myself off from the family money was both the scariest and most empowering day of my life. There was no more money. Only the money I had in the bank from my college paid internship. When I turned twenty-five and my trust fund became available to me, everyone thought for sure I would change my mind and join the dark side again. Nope. What came along with cutting ties to all that money were all the family expectations looming over me. My path was now clear, and I had every intention of following the Yellow Brick Road all the way to Oz. On my own time, in my own way.

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