This Crazy Rich Boy

He could have called. He should have just called. Why would he even do that?

Claire fumes as she stands in the elevator. She presses the buŧŧon for ground floor, and like in all luxury hotels that seem to have come from the 19th century, the elevator descends at its leisure. She couldn't understand what really is on Gabriel Tan's mind. One moment, you're his fake fiancée, sending you to live in this posh tower; the next moment, he's sending you to that Chinese laundromat again to fetch his clean clothes. Worst, he could have just called up the hotel to tell her that. Why must he appear at the wrongest moment? Why?

Claire grinds her teeth. She's embarrassed that Gabriel saw her dancing like an idiot in her bathrobe, munching on a turkey leg like some primitive savage. It didn't help that the music was really dance-y in the first place. The image of her in that most ridiculous moment must have been burned on Gabriel's mind. The other half of her mind says, "So what?" He's not "anything" to you, is he? It's not like you have a reputation to uphold. If you were, you wouldn't even agree to this set-up, these terms of employment, this game of charades.

But the other half couldn't move on. The elevator doors ding open, and in her mind's eye the scene replays: Claire dancing to Blondie's music, in her bathrobe, swaying her hɨps, using the turkey leg like some improvised mic. Ugh!

Good thing, a limousine is bringing her to Leed's. Which only adds to her overall confusion—Gabriel can just send his butler, Lopez, to get his clothes, right? Why send her over there, in a limousine, of all modes of transport? What is this insanity?

Inside the limo, the driver offers her a selection of miniature drinks to calm her nerves. "No, thank you," Claire says; she's done for champagne and all sorts of alcohol for the day. She's not touching any of that shit for now.

The limousine stops right in front of Leed's. The driver even opens the door for her. And she's thinking, this is getting more and more ridiculous by the minute. Here I am, stepping out of a limo to get my boss's clean clothes. "I'm a glorified girl Friday, but a girl Friday still," she mutters to herself.

Mr. Wong greets him as she enters. He's wearing the same thing, yet this time, he recognizes her and is instantly reverential.

"Good afternoon, Miss Claire," Mr. Wong says in careful diction. "You've come for Mr. Tan's clothes, I presume?"

At that, Mr. Wong's face shatters into a thousand pieces. He freezes in mid-action as he's about to open a cabinet. "Oh my God, Miss Claire," he begins sobbing. "I am an utter failure. I deserved to be castrated. My own tėstɨċŀės deserve to be torn right out of my scrotum and tossed to a pack of hungry donkeys to be eaten. I am a failure! I cannot do this job, anymore! I should die!"

"Whoa! Hold your horses, Mr. Wong! What do you even mean?"

"I can't, Miss Claire, I just can't!" Mr. Wong sniffles. "Mr. Gabriel Tan's perfect silken boxers! I could not resurrect it!"

"How do you mean?" Claire asks, but she already knows the answer.

Mr. Wong whimpers as he disappears into a back room. Minutes pass by. Claire looks at the wall clock and wonders if she's still expected to be at Gabriel's office at this hour. Maybe he needs this particular set of clothes, but she doubts it. She has an inkling Gabriel is making her do these things just for shits and giggles.

When Mr. Wong returns, he's delicately holding aloft something in a vacuum-sealed plastic bag: it's Gabriel's pair of boxers. "I can't remove the stain," Mr. Wong mutters in desperation, pointing at the faint remnants of the ink stain from the other day. "It's there. It's forever! Mr. Tan's much-storied silken undėrwėȧr, which had embraced the hallowed crotches of generations of men in his family, is gone forever! Oh, my God!"

Claire is unsure whether she should burst out laughing or cringe at Mr. Wong's theatrics. She doesn't know how to respond to this. "You mean, you can't make it white?"

Instead of answering, Mr. Wong sobs even louder. "I can't! Oh my God, I just can't!"

"Then so be it," Claire simply says. "I will bring this back to Mr. Tan and explain to him the impossibility of resurrecting—err, I mean, completely removing this ink stain. Don't worry, Mr. Wong, I'm sure you can still make a white."

Claire smiles empathetically. "I doubt it. Mr. Tan trusts you so much, he'll understand this little incident."

Mr. Wong stares at her for a moment, then wraps his arms around her in a desperate embrace. He sobs even more. Claire wonders what in hell is happening—are all people working for Gabriel Tan love him to the point of insanity?

"It's okay, Mr. Wong. It's okay," she whispers.

"Thank you," the old man simply says. "I look forward to seeing you once again, Miss Claire. And I promise I won't disappoint you."

"I'm sure you won't," she says.

On her way to the TXCI tower, Claire remembers Gabriel's coffee. She makes a quick stop at Starbucks to get it. While waiting, she tries to think of an explanation that would not put her in such a bad light about the ruined boxers. Truly, it was all her fault. But still. Who gets tossed with a pair of soiled boxers straight out of your boss's crotch right on their first day of work?

Finally, at the office, she finds Gabriel Tan brooding by the floor-to-ceiling glass wall, staring at the city's skyline.

"Good afternoon, Gabriel."

He turns to her. "Oh, you're here." His shoulder-length hair seems to have been recently treated; it's shinier and looks even better than Claire's own hair, for crying out loud! But when she tries to show him the clothes, as she's ready to begin a lengthy explanation about how the stain came about and why, Gabriel simply tosses the clothes aside and asks the more important question: "Have you brought me coffee? Because we're about to have a marathon discussion about your job."

And for her, too: brewed black coffee, without sugar or creamer--to ready herself for any of Gabriel's bullshit should he make the mistake of serving it.